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Authors: Zillah Bethell
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Godâs run out of sparklers. What are we all but little animals in his great big black magicianâs hat, pretending to appear, pretending to disappear.
Elizabeth
Westerns
Dear Elizabeth,
Boy am I sore. Iâve taken up football in rec. I mostly play on the line doing the dirty work â blocking, rushing the passes, that sort of thing. The side to side movements have my ankles and knees sore as heck. You know Iâve got the heart of an eighteen-year-old, but my body tells me Iâm forty. Think Iâll ever learn? Ha ha. These young guys that think theyâre hot, the old man surprised them some. Itâs fun to try to prove them wrong.
My cellie Buckwheat got a stay of execution while they wait on a case in West Virginia. It sounds good at first, but they can take a stay and go on and execute you. A stay is not completely safe. But Iâm happy for him. I fully expected him to go. He honestly said I canât see myself growing old here and living the rest of my life here. Maybe itâll be for the best. He has a dream where he has ninety candles on his cake and he wakes up just before he can blow them out. Youâd love Buckwheat. Heâs a no-nonsense, very honest, speaks from the heart guy. We watch westerns together. Heâs the guy who gallops up to the corral in a cloud of dust. Iâm the guy laid back on the grass with a hat over my face, maybe chewing on a stick of gum. Kind of lazy. Kind of indolent.
Cardinals are kicking butt. A seven-and-a-half game lead. They stay real consistent and that helps. Seems like theyâre coming together at the right time. Our pitching staff is getting healthy again as well. That, my friend, is where the games are won and lost. Cardinals are probably one of the better defensive teams going. Defending and pitching are the two main ingredients of a championship team.
I had some words with the prison chaplain the other day. He said Moses was a basket case too, and then he parted the Red Sea. Makes you wonder what heâs got in mind for me. As a great catcher from the 1950s team of the New York Yankees, Yogi Berra, said, âIt ainât over till itâs over.â
Iâm sending two pictures to you and you can keep them. These are my wonderful kids whom I love so much. I got them from Mary, my ex-wife. My daughter is wearing some make-up and a little lipstick â my babyâs growing up!
God, I wish Minnie would visit.
Gwen
Preparing the Canvas
I prime canvases endlessly, try not to wait for you. Warm rabbit glue in a copper pan, add a little chalk, stir the mixture gently with a wooden spoon. Sometimes I let the liquid boil so that it fills with air bubbles that will leave little sinkholes in the linen. Apply to the canvas with a wide brush or cloth. Wipe clean. Repeat. Behold â a perfect canvas, an undulating skin ready to be coloured in.
Idaâs Death
Augustus writes that Ida has died giving birth to their fifth son. I send violets. She has gone to a cave where the air is light and she can breathe, he says. Another cave, nonetheless. What has she done since Slade? Have babies, cure freckles, share my brotherâs bed with Dorelia. What has she drawn? Absolutely nothing. Her head was too full of babiesâ cries. There was not enough space for her own voice. She toasted love at the end in Vichy water. I suppose itâs all she had. I bite my hands. We go to heaven in single file, one by one, not with our lovers, our babies. They do not erect monuments to people who have lovers and babies. They erect monuments to people who paint something. Something good. Poor sweet Ida.
Elizabeth
Colonising Mars
Time hovers in the Blue Room like a dragonfly over the meniscus. We are the algae, the meniscus, everything teeming beneath, within, seemingly stagnant on top. Sometimes it darts at us, merciful, quick, carries one of us off in its hinged mandibles.
âAnd shall we colonise Mars?â the visitor asks, an
Elizabeth
Westerns
Dear Elizabeth,
Boy am I sore. Iâve taken up football in rec. I mostly play on the line doing the dirty work â blocking, rushing the passes, that sort of thing. The side to side movements have my ankles and knees sore as heck. You know Iâve got the heart of an eighteen-year-old, but my body tells me Iâm forty. Think Iâll ever learn? Ha ha. These young guys that think theyâre hot, the old man surprised them some. Itâs fun to try to prove them wrong.
My cellie Buckwheat got a stay of execution while they wait on a case in West Virginia. It sounds good at first, but they can take a stay and go on and execute you. A stay is not completely safe. But Iâm happy for him. I fully expected him to go. He honestly said I canât see myself growing old here and living the rest of my life here. Maybe itâll be for the best. He has a dream where he has ninety candles on his cake and he wakes up just before he can blow them out. Youâd love Buckwheat. Heâs a no-nonsense, very honest, speaks from the heart guy. We watch westerns together. Heâs the guy who gallops up to the corral in a cloud of dust. Iâm the guy laid back on the grass with a hat over my face, maybe chewing on a stick of gum. Kind of lazy. Kind of indolent.
Cardinals are kicking butt. A seven-and-a-half game lead. They stay real consistent and that helps. Seems like theyâre coming together at the right time. Our pitching staff is getting healthy again as well. That, my friend, is where the games are won and lost. Cardinals are probably one of the better defensive teams going. Defending and pitching are the two main ingredients of a championship team.
I had some words with the prison chaplain the other day. He said Moses was a basket case too, and then he parted the Red Sea. Makes you wonder what heâs got in mind for me. As a great catcher from the 1950s team of the New York Yankees, Yogi Berra, said, âIt ainât over till itâs over.â
Iâm sending two pictures to you and you can keep them. These are my wonderful kids whom I love so much. I got them from Mary, my ex-wife. My daughter is wearing some make-up and a little lipstick â my babyâs growing up!
God, I wish Minnie would visit.
Gwen
Preparing the Canvas
I prime canvases endlessly, try not to wait for you. Warm rabbit glue in a copper pan, add a little chalk, stir the mixture gently with a wooden spoon. Sometimes I let the liquid boil so that it fills with air bubbles that will leave little sinkholes in the linen. Apply to the canvas with a wide brush or cloth. Wipe clean. Repeat. Behold â a perfect canvas, an undulating skin ready to be coloured in.
Idaâs Death
Augustus writes that Ida has died giving birth to their fifth son. I send violets. She has gone to a cave where the air is light and she can breathe, he says. Another cave, nonetheless. What has she done since Slade? Have babies, cure freckles, share my brotherâs bed with Dorelia. What has she drawn? Absolutely nothing. Her head was too full of babiesâ cries. There was not enough space for her own voice. She toasted love at the end in Vichy water. I suppose itâs all she had. I bite my hands. We go to heaven in single file, one by one, not with our lovers, our babies. They do not erect monuments to people who have lovers and babies. They erect monuments to people who paint something. Something good. Poor sweet Ida.
Elizabeth
Colonising Mars
Time hovers in the Blue Room like a dragonfly over the meniscus. We are the algae, the meniscus, everything teeming beneath, within, seemingly stagnant on top. Sometimes it darts at us, merciful, quick, carries one of us off in its hinged mandibles.
âAnd shall we colonise Mars?â the visitor asks, an
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