never talk to (well dressed) strangers

He listened to the soothing tones of the man’s voice. The untucked tails of a foreign accent occasionally peaked out from underneath his perfectly arranged and intonated speech.
He was lulled into a meditative peace despite the menace with which the man’s words were now imbued. Unblinking, He starred at the man’s shoulder. He could see the kinks of stray fibres upon his wool coat. He looked at the thin stubble sprouting from the jaw and neck. The tiny speck of a flea crawled along the line of the jaw. Occasionally, it would disappear from sight with a hop reappearing a moment or two later back upon the jaw. Then. Nothing. A gold and electric green flash. Then black. He could feel his body being roughly shifted and searched. A dull kick which would certainly hurt more when he returned to consciousness by the pokes and prods of two policeman taking him for a drunk.

This is beautiful. I would love to have Amanda's rendition of the kidney framed on my wall. I'm a big fan of Basquiat and Dubuffet but there is always a self-consciousness that can't be avoided. Children never seem to have that problem even when reproducing techincal drawings. love it.

Are there cobblers in America? Along the road I live cobblers are sprinkled liberally about. They usually have a secondary trade such as making keys and/or selling cheap gold watches. I have taken their existence for granted. All cities have little old men in cobbler shops. Do they? That is the question that came to my mind yesterday. I have noticed already I am unable to answer the 'How do they say it in America?' questions, and I say things like 'cheers' and 'wee'. I don't purposefully ape british speech and expression. It is just an unconcious human tendency to assimilate. I was in New York in July and asked a secruity gaurd where the 'lift' was! I could only imagine what his opinion was of the pompous twit asking where the life was in his thick american accent. So, now when someone asks me how I would pronounce something or what is the 'american' word for that. I cannot answer as quickly as I once did. It is the same for America in general. I can't remember the everyday details I once took for granted because I grew up in America or because I now see them everyday on my way to work. It is an odd state of mind that brings up even odder questions such as "Are there cobblers in America?"

"I don't believe in reincarnation," the small girl began the conversation as she sat down with our drinks then continued, "but sometimes I think I was once a fuedal lord. A real fat disgusting lump of a man. My hair is balding at the top but is long and wirey with strands a grey running through it. I imagine myself eating whole legs of game. My fingers and beard are wet with grease fat. I imagine my husband is there too but he's a very plain and mousy wench but he has a fantastic set of tits. I'll order him to bring me a drink and when he draws close I put my hands between his cleavage and slap his breasts around like two dangling wine skins. Sometimes, when we are sitting on the couch watching telly. I'll lean over and slap around his imaginary breasts. He hates that." Most of the time I can contribute to the conversation with an anecdote of my own. This time I was caught short.