Bouteille à la mer

Hello again, Dollfaceless, it’s been a while. No, I have not been silent so as to make room for Egyptian facebookers, nor have I been struck by involuntary dumbness brought on by teaparty adherence.

No, my prosaic attentions were lavished elsewhere, and the bittersweet moment arrived this morning: I hit Send, and my constant companion in these two years from bottle to throttle zoomed up into the clouds of copyeditors, layout departments, illustrators and bookbinders, my swarm of pixelated termites attacking some sacrificial lumber in the ephemeral conquest of the page, my titanic achievement commanding awestruck indifference from all within my zipcode, my dog’s breakfast of inspiration running in viscous rivulets down toward oceanic dissolution, my playful friend dancing in front of me on those long nights spent in the arms of Lady Cabernet, my garage-sale mountain of narrative tricks offering solace and sorrow, my servant, my master, my King Farouk… me fookin’ book.

“How does it feel, and what will you do now?” ask the many kind but totally imaginary friends in my head. Go back into therapy now that you no longer live in the fourteenth century? Dust off your Norwegian for the awards ceremony? Try to get a job at Border’s? Purchase a wooden spoon and beat the first desirable woman you see? Buy a giga-pack of Rolling Rock?

I have decided to make a lamb couscous instead.

I will put Maria Callas on the kitchen stereo, manhandle vegetables and permit myself a pinch of satisfaction to accompany the cumin. To complete this small pleasure, while cooking I will leaf through a magazine bought recently in a French-language bookstore: a glossy history special issue entitled Scandaleuses princesses.

So, yes, I did buy a wooden spoon.