[Gnu-search-hackers] how was grey gardens?

[Darin Houston]

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At the bottom a few pills and capsules, different colors, rolled around loose. ""Paul, no! Page two was a birth announcement: Paul Emery Wilkes, born in Bakersfield Receiving Hospital, May 12th, 1939. Paul flicked it and saw a neat shed addition which ran the length of the house on its windward side. It's sort of hard to go bar-hopping when you've got a couple of broken legs, Annie. It didn't jibe with his self-image as a Serious Writer who was only churning out these shitty romances in order to subsidize his (flourish of trumpets, please! He suddenly realized that Annie was doing exactly what he could not: she was playing Can You?The puddles of champagne had put out most of the individual pages. Only shadows. "All right, Paul 1 He found he couldn't move to ease the ache.

Behind it was a narrow space empty save for dust and a plentiful scattering of mouse-turds. He rolled clumsily onto his stomach burrowed one arm deep under the mattress, and brought out one of the Novril sample cards. He wrote undisturbed for the next four hours — until the points on all three of the pencils she had sharpened for him were written flat — and then he rolled himself back to the bed, got in, and went easily off to sleep. He thought, I heard that same sound as a small, unhurt boy, and for a moment he nearly wept. Hollering "lien»at someone who has missed on quarterly property-tax payment is pretty weird. If so, then he was faced with an idiocy that was utterly colossal: he owed his survival to the fact that he wanted to finish the piece of shit Annie had coerced him into writing. This might have caused her no harm at all, but it might have hurt her quite badly. There are lots of guys out there who write a better prose line than I do and who have a better understanding of what people are really like and what humanity is supposed to mean — hell I know that. Fortunately or unfortunately, he did not have the crutch of mental illness to fall back on. "He muttered something that meant nothing — something that meant only get out of here, dream voice, get gone. I'll say I pulled over to take a nap because I was afraid I might fall asleep behind the wheel. Bourka bee-woman work powful mojo-magic, Bwana, fill in all dese hoodaddy n's an»all be well again. And by the way, toots, the baby's name started out to be Sean, in case you're interested; I changed it because I decided that was just too fucking many n's to fill in. In the process of getting out of the chair and into bed, one of his hands slipped and he came within an ace of falling. He was twisting a cheap cloth cap restlessly in his hands, and in the light cast by the lamp Geoffrey held up, his face looked lined and yellow and terribly worried — frightened, even. But sometimes the sounds — like the pain — faded, and then there was only the haze. He rolled forward, swung the wheelchair slightly to the right so he could lean over and grab the knob, and pulled the door half-closed. The truth, should you insist, was that the increasing dismissal of his work in the critical press as that of a "popular writer»(which was, as he understood it, one step — a small one — above that of a "hack") had hurt him quite badly. Under clouds that still raced east to west, blacker shapes against a black sky, and a moon that was now settling toward the horizon, the pony-trap sped toward the churchyard. He heard the thud of first one knee from behind him, then the other, then the first again. not that I would have gotten very far in the mudbath out there even if your doors had been wide open. but life was so fucking untidy — what could you say for an existence where some of the most crucial conversations of your life took place when you needed to take a shit, or something?