Gordon Lish - Collected Fictions

Or take a turbercle, take a papule, take a wheal.

You ever hear of a wheal?

One hears there's even bullas.

(That's a plural, buddy.)

These things can come drifting down out from up in the illeum and thereupon succeed in getting themselves lodged in some teensy crevice cleaving to the weft of your paper. Ask the writer who's been, life-wise, dependency-wise, bound up in the theory of health-giving irrigations. I refer your attention to the American enema, only him, silly case, the dope comes home with the rigamarole of the opposing gender. Yet his voice seems to call — print confects a beckoning — from across a vastation of postulated un-inkings — hey, back here, it says, out back here, I am back out here, it says, can you hear me from out back here, it says, because I sure could do with a hand back here back in the toilet back here — except, whoa, except don't come by way of the room with the sock rug in it, keep clear of the room with the sock rug in it, come instead through the room which has got like this carpet in it, only be a pal, please, and please take off your shoes.

Hypothesized reader comes as counseled.

Gets off footwear off, comes across floor covering, comes to backroom facility wherein writer — pocket-sized, battery-powered, brand-named radio gripped in thumb and fingers that also grip flow cock through which rubber tube makes its way from raging red bulging red douche bag (hooked, not for a lot longer, it looks to him who looks, onto, you choose, towel rack or towel bar) that makes its raging way down to plastic nozzle — has composed himself — writer, that is; would-be hi-colonicist, that absolutely is — in the usual really ridick-looking posture.

Did you look any of them up yet?

Clavus and so forth?

Reader says, "Uh, anything left out — another mass, another form of abnormal growth?"

Writer says, "Hey, jeez, thanks, jeez — pretty white of you coming all of the way back to me here in the back."

As for the flimsy doodad by force of which the douche bag is for the moment momentarily suspended, would doohicky have done the better denoting? Well, twisted, twisting, it is anyhow about to go altogether kerflooey, this in the manner of the polymer modeled not to crack but to give.

Lookit, what we've been thus far doing is we have, you and me, been interrogating together the mindedness of things — not to mention the ditto of prepositions and of mindedness itself. Further, there is the further matter of UV fatigue, pro and con, true or false. Finally, imagine a game of unimaginable finality — misnamed (what else?) on all counts.

Brrr.

Possible to ask you a personal question?

Okay that you be asked a personal question?

Bit just entered so impetuously into the text, so how come is it it is expected to communicate source of its utterance is complaining of being cold?

I am cold.

Writer says, "I am cold."

Trembling.

Metaphorically-speaking.

Reader says, "We get us this toilet thing all set for itself all back to rights for you again, there any chance the two of us can maybe go light out for the room with the sock rug in it and go play us a round of, you know, of From The Carpet To The Wood?"

(This sound bats to you?)

(Like just between you, me, and the lamppost, conferring as far as one confederale conferring with another — so what do you say — too bats, too batty, too kookoo?)

His mother made it.

The sock rug.

But not out of socks but out of stockings.

You take the stockings and knot them.

Then, from discardable mops, make fringe.

Writer says, "Okay, the General Electric. So you want to know so how come the General Electric? So you think it's for company, the General Electric? Because nothing could be wronger, that anything of mine is anywhere here for company. I have to laugh when I hear anything in this household is in it for anything like company. Makes me crazy, everybody accusing me of making provisions for having company. But so you want to know so how come the General Electric? I answer you — it is not for fucking company! As in visitors!"

Reader says, "One thing about things — hook or not, bag or not, pandemonium or not — they definitely do look as if they have one, don't they? Starting with, what do you call them, pronouns?"

Writer says, "Smart-ass. Since when it is you who's, hey, the genius? Fucking interjective prick!"

You say clamp, you say clasp? — jimjum which gets itself engaged and disengaged for writer to regulate flux of the influx? On the other hand, even if we were to accept suggestion radio is save for naught save news of onsetting snow, look how fellow's got nevertheless to manage — hand that hangs onto clasp, hand that hangs onto clamp, being also hand that has to keep nozzle from popping back out of his pease porridge hot, whereas further — further! — be hand that has to be on hand to keep hampling the thing into periodic rotation as far as compensation for driftibility in the directionality of, golly, of a specific station's signalation.

Forget it. They either see it, what somebody is up against, or they don't — built-in aerials built in spitefully into things, hegemony of frequencies, broadcast and otherwise. Suffice it to say what is being said when suffice it to say is said and suffices. Tell you what — keep turning to keep tuning in word of the weather on the weather station which keeps swerving away in this.

Writer says, "This getting to look to you like I am some type of a psycho or something?"

Reader says, "Personal measures being enacted with respect to UV fatigue are personally as follows — handling books with the windowshade down."

Writer says, "Try it without the definite article — plus, that's a measure, not a plural."

Reader says, "There are these people, they act as if UV fatigue is like some type of a joke-type thing to them as far as, you know, table-talk or something. You want my advice? Take my advice. This is what they keep putting windowshades up everywhere for. People don't think. You know what's wrong with people? Go find even just one of them thinking even just the first thought. All I can say is this Congoleum-Naire of yours, there are a lot of things somebody could huddle with you in your bathroom with you and probably say about it to you, but one thing they could not do is look at the wreck of it that has ever been wreaked of it by any freaking UV ever getting anywhere in through any window anywhere in its freaking vicinity."

Writer says, "Language, language."

But who says cyst, says bleb, says polyp?

Sorry, not thinking — God's bones, the reek in there, the reek in this! Brainless of me for me to've been so thoughtless about this when where was it anybody else who thought up this whole thing up? This is what happens. You see what happens? It's disgusto, isn't it disgusto, what happens?

Reader says, "Check me on these two fingers here."

Writer says, "Those there?"

Anybody ever say it seems to be shuddering — the falling snow, the snow as it falls?

A) Power-stretcher.

B) Knee-kicker.

Tools used to lay the wall-to-wall — or is it lay it with?

It's not, at all events, his customary smell.

Which is what like consternates the reader.

Not to mention the writer himself.

The effect of something up there in him, animal-wise, flourishing, vituperative, alive.

Fine, fine — what do you care?

So here — so here his secret is.

Two fingers made to stand up on their feet.

Hop hop hop, skip skip skip.

"Oh but who but you but would have come to me! You think anybody but you would have even tarried for me? Them, they would have called back to the back What what ? Or, more malignant still, Him again, him ?"

Listen, forget the douche bag!