(20090123)<br /><strong>Morris Bobetter notes </strong><br />…straighten, polish, and reassemble the girl’s charred but otherwise undamaged flute. Chunks of the charred velvet fabric and melted hardshell case had to be removed and some holes needed refitting, but his medical tools more than sufficed until he tried to tune the thing. He had no idea how to play a clarinet. He would need something to help him tune it to the tones laid out in the book snatched from his wife’s studio, and when Morris needed something, which was not often, he went down the street to the daily fleamarket at the train station [he used to take to work] and rummaged through Sally’s piles, stacks, and bins, a veritable technology swamp. He moved quickly through the masses, dodging the prying eyes of vendors selling worthless junk like windchimes and candy, ignoring the lollygagging couples huddled close about their concealed timepieces. No, Morris dangled his out in the open, just as he always had, unashamed, as he approached the aisle at which Sally’s booth overtook almost half of one of almost thirty aisles. He could already see, behind Bowling Ball Sally’s bowling ball head, exactly the pieces he needed. A funnel and a rubber innertube, each arranged with brethren of someone’s logical family schema, in trays and bins lining the grass and concrete floor, and over a dozen foldable tables. Then, a scuffle, a shout, voices behind Morris and Sally traded the salad dressing he was shaking up for a six shooter pistol pointing straight at Morris. <br />“Get the hell out of the way,” he shouted and Morris was knocked over, tumbling with a body on the blacktop. He can feel the scrapes and bruises aleady forming and wnders how long it’ll take for them to heal. “No,” the man shrieks, Golden Larry, always here, always buying up anything golden, as he’s yanked off of Morris by the son and daughter of Sweet Meat Mary the butcher. <br />“It’s not fair,” he yells as they stand him up and hold his arms tight. <br />“Hold it,” says Sally, pistol moving between the three.
01:39 PM
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Tags: notes, moleskin, book of ideas, swapmeet
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(20090123)<br /><strong>Morris Bobetter notes </strong><br />…straighten, polish, and reassemble the girl’s charred but otherwise undamaged flute. Chunks of the charred velvet fabric and melted hardshell case had to be removed and some holes needed refitting, but his medical tools more than sufficed until he tried to tune the thing. He had no idea how to play a clarinet. He would need something to help him tune it to the tones laid out in the book snatched from his wife’s studio, and when Morris needed something, which was not often, he went down the street to the daily fleamarket at the train station [he used to take to work] and rummaged through Sally’s piles, stacks, and bins, a veritable technology swamp. He moved quickly through the masses, dodging the prying eyes of vendors selling worthless junk like windchimes and candy, ignoring the lollygagging couples huddled close about their concealed timepieces. No, Morris dangled his out in the open, just as he always had, unashamed, as he approached the aisle at which Sally’s booth overtook almost half of one of almost thirty aisles. He could already see, behind Bowling Ball Sally’s bowling ball head, exactly the pieces he needed. A funnel and a rubber innertube, each arranged with brethren of someone’s logical family schema, in trays and bins lining the grass and concrete floor, and over a dozen foldable tables. Then, a scuffle, a shout, voices behind Morris and Sally traded the salad dressing he was shaking up for a six shooter pistol pointing straight at Morris. <br />“Get the hell out of the way,” he shouted and Morris was knocked over, tumbling with a body on the blacktop. He can feel the scrapes and bruises aleady forming and wnders how long it’ll take for them to heal. “No,” the man shrieks, Golden Larry, always here, always buying up anything golden, as he’s yanked off of Morris by the son and daughter of Sweet Meat Mary the butcher. <br />“It’s not fair,” he yells as they stand him up and hold his arms tight. <br />“Hold it,” says Sally, pistol moving between the three.
01:39 PM
|
0 Comments
|
Tags: notes, moleskin, book of ideas, swapmeet
(20090123)<br /><strong>Morris Bobetter notes </strong><br />…straighten, polish, and reassemble the girl’s charred but otherwise undamaged flute. Chunks of the charred velvet fabric and melted hardshell case had to be removed and some holes needed refitting, but his medical tools more than sufficed until he tried to tune the thing. He had no idea how to play a clarinet. He would need something to help him tune it to the tones laid out in the book snatched from his wife’s studio, and when Morris needed something, which was not often, he went down the street to the daily fleamarket at the train station [he used to take to work] and rummaged through Sally’s piles, stacks, and bins, a veritable technology swamp. He moved quickly through the masses, dodging the prying eyes of vendors selling worthless junk like windchimes and candy, ignoring the lollygagging couples huddled close about their concealed timepieces. No, Morris dangled his out in the open, just as he always had, unashamed, as he approached the aisle at which Sally’s booth overtook almost half of one of almost thirty aisles. He could already see, behind Bowling Ball Sally’s bowling ball head, exactly the pieces he needed. A funnel and a rubber innertube, each arranged with brethren of someone’s logical family schema, in trays and bins lining the grass and concrete floor, and over a dozen foldable tables. Then, a scuffle, a shout, voices behind Morris and Sally traded the salad dressing he was shaking up for a six shooter pistol pointing straight at Morris. <br />“Get the hell out of the way,” he shouted and Morris was knocked over, tumbling with a body on the blacktop. He can feel the scrapes and bruises aleady forming and wnders how long it’ll take for them to heal. “No,” the man shrieks, Golden Larry, always here, always buying up anything golden, as he’s yanked off of Morris by the son and daughter of Sweet Meat Mary the butcher. <br />“It’s not fair,” he yells as they stand him up and hold his arms tight. <br />“Hold it,” says Sally, pistol moving between the three.
01:39 PM
|
0 Comments
|
Tags: notes, moleskin, book of ideas, swapmeet