There have been several nights, now that it has warmed up enough for my thin Florida blood, spent down at the dock comparing the reflection of my city with the city itself. These are nights when the rustle in the bushes knows that I'm there and stays put, nights when the water is so still that the two cities are identical.
These are the times I feel most transparent, most made of glass. That rustle in the bushes could break me to pieces with a look.
In the interest of gloating about the talented people I know, I have to tell you that Onalaska is playing at Chop Suey on August 16th. I'll be in China, but that doesn't mean you shouldn't go. Also of interest is the fact that Dykeboy is back, drawn by the fellow with the large spectacles that some of you have seen hanging on my wall in portrait form. His name is Hay-den.
I have these little round scars on the back of my left knee, the relics of some mysterious malady that appeared suddenly a year or two ago and then, just as mysteriously, went away. No one ever notices these scars, but I tend to touch them when I need to remember that I am not vanishing. They anchor me, and I feel sometimes that if someone were to notice them and touch them, too, I might remember the key to keeping myself attached to the ground.
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