(20090122)<br /><strong>Morris Bobetter notes </strong><br />…was the one note stretching and stretched until it was taut and any sonorousness was thin and flimsy, snapping like his patience. But he kept his mouth shut. She was kind enough after all not to bother him about kids. <br />One day, a year after her passing, a year spent doing exactly what he’d done before her passing, opening his shipment of broken medican supplies every Monday and returning them every Friday fixed, ten hours a day at his workbench in between with breaks only to fix himself Spartan meals, to read the latest journals [backstory about time, read in the paper?], and to sleep, Morris found himself pacing his hallway wondering where the delivery man was with this week’s shipment. He paced and paced as the hour hand lapped and looped and eight turned to eleven. He paced and paced, his hands tucked into his armpits, under his suspenders. [she liked that he…he liked that she…and with not a moment to waste, sometimes that was all that was needed for 20 years to pass by] He paced and paced over the already worn tile, trying to ignore the cold stare of his wife’s three foot tall bassoon sitting propped as she’d left it on the bookshelf [as she’s always left it, always to fall, no matter how many times…]. As the hour swung past noon, a doorbell finally came, but it was muffled and old, and either his mind was playing ventriloquism tricks on him, or the ring wasn’t coming from his front door at all, but the back, the door to his wife’s music studio [history of them moving in together…] from where her students came and left. What an idiot, thought Morris, or a new guy, mustering his courage to enter and cross a room in this house that had stayed shut for a year [since her death…]. <br />“We found this when the house was renovated,” said Heavy Jane, the kid at the door whose features looked painted on by a brush too big. “I’ve been meaning to bring it by for ages. It survived the fire of the previous owners, in this case, in a closet beneath a pile of wool sweaters. Can you fix it? Can you make it work?” He told her the music shop was closed, that his wife had passed and he didn’t waste his time with music, that couldn’t she see the room was full, and abandoned, that he had real work to do, though he knew he did not as he glanced to either side beyond her and saw no delivery truck in sight and his foot was tapping on the doorjamb. He snatched the case and slammed the door and uttered only “tomorrow.” <br />It took the rest of the day, a day with no delivery, for Morris to disassemble, clean,…
01:38 PM
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Tags: notes, moleskin, book of ideas, swapmeet
(20090123)<br /><strong>Morris... →
← sl---morris-bobetter-notes2.doc
(20090122)<br /><strong>Morris Bobetter notes </strong><br />…was the one note stretching and stretched until it was taut and any sonorousness was thin and flimsy, snapping like his patience. But he kept his mouth shut. She was kind enough after all not to bother him about kids. <br />One day, a year after her passing, a year spent doing exactly what he’d done before her passing, opening his shipment of broken medican supplies every Monday and returning them every Friday fixed, ten hours a day at his workbench in between with breaks only to fix himself Spartan meals, to read the latest journals [backstory about time, read in the paper?], and to sleep, Morris found himself pacing his hallway wondering where the delivery man was with this week’s shipment. He paced and paced as the hour hand lapped and looped and eight turned to eleven. He paced and paced, his hands tucked into his armpits, under his suspenders. [she liked that he…he liked that she…and with not a moment to waste, sometimes that was all that was needed for 20 years to pass by] He paced and paced over the already worn tile, trying to ignore the cold stare of his wife’s three foot tall bassoon sitting propped as she’d left it on the bookshelf [as she’s always left it, always to fall, no matter how many times…]. As the hour swung past noon, a doorbell finally came, but it was muffled and old, and either his mind was playing ventriloquism tricks on him, or the ring wasn’t coming from his front door at all, but the back, the door to his wife’s music studio [history of them moving in together…] from where her students came and left. What an idiot, thought Morris, or a new guy, mustering his courage to enter and cross a room in this house that had stayed shut for a year [since her death…]. <br />“We found this when the house was renovated,” said Heavy Jane, the kid at the door whose features looked painted on by a brush too big. “I’ve been meaning to bring it by for ages. It survived the fire of the previous owners, in this case, in a closet beneath a pile of wool sweaters. Can you fix it? Can you make it work?” He told her the music shop was closed, that his wife had passed and he didn’t waste his time with music, that couldn’t she see the room was full, and abandoned, that he had real work to do, though he knew he did not as he glanced to either side beyond her and saw no delivery truck in sight and his foot was tapping on the doorjamb. He snatched the case and slammed the door and uttered only “tomorrow.” <br />It took the rest of the day, a day with no delivery, for Morris to disassemble, clean,…
01:38 PM
|
0 Comments
|
Tags: notes, moleskin, book of ideas, swapmeet
(20090122)<br /><strong>Morris Bobetter notes </strong><br />…was the one note stretching and stretched until it was taut and any sonorousness was thin and flimsy, snapping like his patience. But he kept his mouth shut. She was kind enough after all not to bother him about kids. <br />One day, a year after her passing, a year spent doing exactly what he’d done before her passing, opening his shipment of broken medican supplies every Monday and returning them every Friday fixed, ten hours a day at his workbench in between with breaks only to fix himself Spartan meals, to read the latest journals [backstory about time, read in the paper?], and to sleep, Morris found himself pacing his hallway wondering where the delivery man was with this week’s shipment. He paced and paced as the hour hand lapped and looped and eight turned to eleven. He paced and paced, his hands tucked into his armpits, under his suspenders. [she liked that he…he liked that she…and with not a moment to waste, sometimes that was all that was needed for 20 years to pass by] He paced and paced over the already worn tile, trying to ignore the cold stare of his wife’s three foot tall bassoon sitting propped as she’d left it on the bookshelf [as she’s always left it, always to fall, no matter how many times…]. As the hour swung past noon, a doorbell finally came, but it was muffled and old, and either his mind was playing ventriloquism tricks on him, or the ring wasn’t coming from his front door at all, but the back, the door to his wife’s music studio [history of them moving in together…] from where her students came and left. What an idiot, thought Morris, or a new guy, mustering his courage to enter and cross a room in this house that had stayed shut for a year [since her death…]. <br />“We found this when the house was renovated,” said Heavy Jane, the kid at the door whose features looked painted on by a brush too big. “I’ve been meaning to bring it by for ages. It survived the fire of the previous owners, in this case, in a closet beneath a pile of wool sweaters. Can you fix it? Can you make it work?” He told her the music shop was closed, that his wife had passed and he didn’t waste his time with music, that couldn’t she see the room was full, and abandoned, that he had real work to do, though he knew he did not as he glanced to either side beyond her and saw no delivery truck in sight and his foot was tapping on the doorjamb. He snatched the case and slammed the door and uttered only “tomorrow.” <br />It took the rest of the day, a day with no delivery, for Morris to disassemble, clean,…
01:38 PM
|
0 Comments
|
Tags: notes, moleskin, book of ideas, swapmeet