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barbarism007's journal
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Ilse Søndergaard was walking to the train station when a freestanding picture board advertising artichokes reminded her she had some shopping to do. Two pounds of salami, a case of cognac sausage and three jars of Danish caviar were all it took to fill her satchel and she set off with her purchases to catch the final, departing train. Choo, choo! the railcar called as Ilse ran beside the train wheels screaming to the red-faced conductor ‘Stop den oplære!’ Edvard, the train conductor, yelled to his co-conductors and slowed the screeching engine to a halt. Edvard gave Ilse a sympathetic smile, condoning her naughtiness, and pulled her up inside the car, careful not to scrape the satchel on the rail tracks. Pleased and grateful, Ilse started down the walkway, settled down into a mid-train alcove and watched the flat, passing meadowlands blend into a mass of flax and grain. She was just drifting into sleep when a sharp grinding sound alerted her to the fact that her satchel was missing. She sucked in a breath, hopped to her feet and strode up and down the aisles frantically. By the time the train pulled into Padborg, Ilse was on the verge of tears. She contemplated imploring Edvard, but thought two favors too much to ask. She considered staying longer on the train, but knew her mother would be worried. Bereaved, she turned back down the walkway in the direction of the exit. Just as she descended the stair, a wide russet binding strap—the likes of which she’d only seen on small Danish satchels—fluttered in the periphery of her eyesight. She turned—and saw her bag and groceries in the arms of a wild-eyed tar roofer slouched in a train seat, covered in city soot and heaving with emphysema. Ilse caught his eye just as he caught hers but the rush of disembarking passengers bade her keep moving. She stepped out onto the macadam but didn’t make for home; instead she stared behind at the purloining tar roofer whose face grew smaller and smaller as the train chugged away. Ilse sighed and cursed her luck. Persephone O dark without end I am subject to your scrutiny across your page I am bent, doubled, halved, reformed, reshaped, again I am queen, orphan, child, your eternal other-- what else? you rattle your pen at me-- you fear the unseen
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I’d had a good run as administerial general of Lefferts Manor. Sure, it was only an eight-block rectangle of arguably apocryphal autonomy within the more widely accepted boundaries of Sonnet-Style My love is heaving at the Hojo off The highway, bared and red on roughened sheets, Beneath the cool buzzing of my one-night Rate: beer-breathed blonde, a feral summer sweet. Hot-sauced and salsa-stained, a shard of chip Is scraping at my feet—or is this you? A strip-mall gal, shifting from my half-lights Toward the headlights, which are slanting into Our room. We’re running low on limes, and I Fear our emptied ice bucket like I fear Crickets, swarming through the open window, Borne on the wheeze of the exhaust-filled air Enveloping us. Yet it must be this That keeps us thirsting for our drive-by bliss. |
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Ingredients: Cat Swanson chicken broth Pinch of paprika Kosher salt to taste Stalk of celery Pound of carrot medallions Heaping tablespoon of cherry tomatoes Take your cat and make it fat. Swing it high above a vat. Fold its hind legs in a cup. Let it know its days are up. Put the vegetables in a pot. And then, when it’s boiling hot, add the broth, the salt and seasoning, now the time has come for reasoning. Look your cat straight in the die. Tell it that you long to cry, but sustenance, above all else, gurantees we keep our health. Pussy StewA pussy must be properly prepared to be thoroughly enjoyed. For the purposes of this recipe, we recommend street pussy over store pussy, as we have found that the former contributes a rich feral flavor, whereas brand pussy invariably proves bland to the tongue. You can obtain the street variety easily enough. Wait patiently in a dark alley, let the pussy come to you, and mark our words: soon you will have bagged enough pussy to feed the fourth infantry of the U.S. Army. Instructions Put your stock on to simmer. Declaw the pussy. Lay the pussy on its side and tenderize with a meat mallet. Slather the pussy with warmed oil. Do not neglect the whiskers. Add pussy, whole, to pot. Season with ginger, lemon, and honey. Add vegetables if desired. Stir. Cover pot. Turn the heat down and let simmer. Cook until tender. (This will take one to two hours, all depending on how tough your pussy is.) |
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Origins of the Hairbrush Rebecca thought her hair Jewish. A Semitic tangle of light-brown spirals. Left to itself, it reached past her shoulders. Steamrolled, it might have reached her waist. She last experimented with a hair straightener in Middle School, and by college she had accepted her hair as a beneficent burden, convinced that it conferred upon her the almost talismanic protection of her people. She did not attend temple, nor did she hold the Sabbath. She never had. Except for a few years of Hebrew School and the occasional Seder, her upbringing had been secular, and she did not regret this. Atheistic in belief, her faith was invested in what she considered a tacit covenant. She felt no need to join a Jewish Community Center, or to enter into debates over the future of Israel, because she believed that her heritage, which she wore on her body, had selected her for inclusion within the Jewish community. This is why she hated the Satmar, the bastard Hassids she called them, who lived in South Williamsburg. The Satmar: they who did not keep the covenant. On her first walk down Bedford Avenue, Rebecca had rejoiced to discover herself in a veritable slice of the Old World. She disregarded the cellphones peeking out from behind the jiggling peyes of fast-walking businessmen, and she ignored the gangs of Hispanic construction workers stirring up dust on every other street. What she looked upon were women and girls, contained by modest dresses that fell to the ankle and which in movement revealed hints of the thick taupe-colored stockings that sheathed the legs beneath; and she looked upon full-bearded men and patchy boys, who strode by beneath brimmed black hats, their suits of devotional black leavened at the hip by the white tassels of their tzitzis; and as she looked upon them, in these figures she saw her ancestors, and she felt as though she had washed up on the shore of her history. The Hassids, however, had offered no welcome. She had walked down their street with an expectant face eager to meet in embrace that of its familiars. But not a soul had looked at her, except for a few of the Hispanic construction workers. Though she walked down their street, it was as if the Satmar did not see her. Initially confused by this response, Rebecca had returned, repeatedly, at different times of the day, on different days of the week, walking down different streets, in different directions, and within a short period of time, she had traversed every street of the neighborhood. Each foray ended in defeat. Not a nod, not a wave, not a casual word. Rebecca's confusion quickly ceded to a wounded resentment, which quickly boiled into an intimate hatred. "Can you not see my hair?" Rebecca wanted to shout. "I who conceal nothing!" She dreamed of bursting into a yeshiva with a Star of David painted across her chest. She dreamed of standing in the middle of Bedford Avenue with a shofar at her lips. She dreamed of violence that would strike recognition into those impassive faces. She could not let these arrogant Jews strip her of her birthright. And so it came to pass that Rebecca bought a hairbrush. |
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