Who else out there lives in a house where just as the teakettle lets out its maniacal scream, the mistress is backing her car out of the driveway so one of the princes can depart for adventure, and the princess stirs in her sleep, perhaps seizing and prompting the other prince to wake and shout, "What is going on?"
What is going on?
Think renaissance. Think elegy. Think nineteen and ministers who write poetry.
Today is April 18, 2016 and I am off to my eighteenth and final annual Individualized Educational Plan meeting. I am contemplating a mimosa or Bloody Mary in a flask but will probably only bring donuts and a bit of extra resin so as to impress the crowd below with my dogged prowess. Teakettle, seizures, a drab table, a box of donuts, an array of pawns. Eighteen times.