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| Part 2 | Day Three |
| Also, in retrospect, I would've felt much better if their first reaction
was to call me names, slap my face, spit on me and walk away. Alas, they
opted for a silent treatment. They avoided me whenever possible, and in situations when they couldn't ignore me, they gave me those looks. You know. How could you look. You know what you did look. We thought we knew you look. It lasted three days. But when we were getting ready to celebrate Ezra Pound's birthday. | |
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EB himself came to me and stuck his sharp elbow between
my ribs:
"It's a good thing you printed your work on a recycled paper", he said. "Don't feel bad", he continued and pointed towards the rest of the group: they wore thin the pages before they shredded them. Than his voice turn to whisper: "I had to make a few copies of that floppy disk, just to be on the safe side". |
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Yes, I said, but what can be done to re-establish myself as an equal
member of our group again?
See, they look at me as if I am solely responsible that our world is in such sorry circumstances today. Remember that play by David Mammett, EB said, when the guy goes: "It's not me, it's my wife!" | |
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The same is happening here, it's not them, it's their
egos.
Don't worry, by tomorrow night, which happens to be Halloween, remember, by tomorrow night everything's going to be fine.
Tell you what we'll do. |
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