Alec
Amnesia Goes to the Ball
In the avuncular waiting room they begin handing out the handouts. For some reason my name isn't on the list. But I receive my handout anyway--somebody obviously recognized me and knew I should get one. I open it without much enthusiasm. When was it I last received a manual for regular sex? There isn't much distinction in it, nor does it totally lack distinction. I rearrange my orange suit. Modular sex was what it actually says. This starts me off on a new train of ideas, complete with gambling and smoking lounges. I am not to capitalize on this moment. It is already particularized.
So always going down into new things. It's as though the clouds somehow don't matter--yet look at them! Was anything so enormously real ever explained away before? And who is history anyway? Does it have a bum?
I have to finish this or pretend it isn't written. The Sheriff of Heck is coming over and you know what that means. Ocarina blasts building up the fake festive restiveness, yet you and I know what a gardenia is. You even owned one once. After the boring compliments there will be time enough to say what is to be said. Then I'll go home, feeling better if not exactly okay, and probably lie at your side. We'll phone the neighbors and have them in.
--John Ashbery
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