Tender

Tuesday, Apr. 8, 2003 -
Ap�sl�min ida corbalanyrtne 'ls�o rohl'daathi�m v� nen�a iroyss�rd.

I've been inundated with yellow. (No, I'm not referring to that yellow devil, georg, who paid each of us a visit last week. Many interesting and well-done visits.)

I am awash in daffodils. Fourteen dollars worth of daffodils, ninety-nine cents for a bunch of eight. You do the math.

The Fiend did not forget.

No See's candy, but who cares? The Fiend slipped out of the house Sunday morning while I was doing paperwork, telling me he needed to get sandpaper or linseed oil or a squirrel-proof quail-feeder, or some such thing. I said, Uh-huh, wouldja pick up some milk too? And light bulbs? I was crouched over my invoices, a beast growling over paper meat and ink blood, not ferocious, but I didn't want to be disturbed, or at least, no more disturbed than I was already. Jer wasn't home, he had stayed overnight at a friend's house, the girl he's going to college with, the girl who is not Faustina, the girl who is part of this great saga I have yet to tell you, the Saga of Jer, son of Geernon, son of Erik from Valdalesc, son of Arval Gristlebeard, son of Harken, who killed Bjortguaard in Sochnadale in Norway over Cudreed, daughter of Thorkel Long, the son of Kettle-Trout, the half son of Harviyoun Half-troll, father of Ingbare the Brave, etcetera. Which is a tale I'm not going to recount at this time because, well, um...I just don't want to.

This is the story of a crowd, a host, of golden daffodils.

After about an hour, I heard the Fiend return, by the kitchen door, accompanied by the rustle of grocery bags. (I was in the dining room, a year's worth of labor invoked in paper spread over my grandmother's cherrywood table. It's that time of year again, when my accountant and I conspire to make me a poor man in the eyes of the federal government. And I do not want to hear from those punctual individuals who have already received their tax returns. The rest of us have real lives. Some of us march, or saunter, to the rhythm of unruly moons.) I was feeling peckish, so I was thinking I'd mosey into the kitchen to investigate any newly-arrived comestibles, when the Fiend came waltzing into the dining room with one of Trader Joe's brown paper sacks in his arms. Bursting from the top was a mass of budding daffodils, most of the flowers still sheathed in nature's first green that is gold. (If you have done your math, you know that the mass was constituent of twelve more than a hundred blooms.)

Sigh. What a guy I have.

I feel sorry, I really do, for straight men in American society. They can't give each other flowers without seeming fey. (Except at the Olympics, but then again, the Olympics are rife with feyness, aren't they?) Straight men miss out on so much because of their fear of faggotry. Of course, that's me speaking stereotypically. I should like all straight men who lavish flowers on each other to fill my guestbook with words that give me the lie.

There was more in the bag than flowers. Two pints of oh-so-luscious gelato, one dark chocolate, the other passionfruit. Trust me, luvs, you haven't lived until you've tasted passionfruit gelato. Two books: Stones For Ibarra by Harriet Doerr (the Fiend knew my copy had finally fallen to pieces after years of faithful service) and a sparkling edition (crisp gilt-edged pages with blood-red accents) of the Tales of Edgar Allan Poe* with Beardsley-like illustrations by Harry Clarke from the "rare collector's edition of Edgar Allan Poe's Tales of Mystery and Imagination, published in London by George C. Harrap and Company Ltd., copyright 1919." And a tub, a smallish tub, of Trader Joe's Way More Chocolate Chip Cookies. A name which is truly truth in advertising; these cookies have wa-a-a-y more chocolate chips than your average Joe Cookie. Even more that our own chocolate chip cookie, Practically The Best Chocolate Chip Cookie In The Universe, but that's only because we believe in balance and harmony and the Golden Section, while Way More cookies are definitely unbalanced.

As you can imagine, I've been a little porky the last few days. Got porked, too. But not by the Fiend.

By Jer.

And it was his first time.

But that's a tale I'll save for another day--the Saga of Jer, son of Frothgar, brother of Hangnor, etcetera. Right now, I gotta go skate my ass off before the chocolate chips turn into porkfat. Because I'm still too tender for the bike.

Oh, Jer.

~

* "Our vessel was a beautiful ship of about four hundred tons, copper-fastened, and built at Bombay of Malabar teak. She was freighted with cotton-wool and oil, from the Lachadive islands. We had also on board coir, jaggeree, ghee, cocoa-nuts, and a few cases of opium. The stowage was clumsily done, and the vessel consequently crank." From "MS. Found in a Bottle"

~

'Zaziel writes:
The Fiend is standing here with a warm drink for me. I think it's a cup of cocoa. Yep, it's cocoa. He sez it's time for me to turn off the computer and get into my jammies. I love it when he puts me in my jammies, because first he has to take me out of my clothes. I sooooo love it when he makes me naked.
(Saturday, April 06, 2002 at 19:32:48 (PST))

'Zaziel writes:
I think I love this Fiend. Yep, I do.
(Saturday, April 06, 2002 at 19:33:56 (PST))

<~>
Ap�sl�min ida corbalan� 'lse nesgla ugar�-cham sa cru ogrulho bat�oltha al�mv�sde.

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