Thu, 19 May 2005

never (two)
After a close-fought campaign filled with exchanged favors and broken promises my uncle Grant was made Commissioner of Sorrows and pulled down six bills a year gauging the loss and agony of all those who came before his car-wide desk, seeking medals and rememberance portraits to display to family members and other strangers to excuse all the poor manners, all the listless frustration and empty days too sick to get up from the couch. “Look upon my wrist-wounds and jars of tears and despair!” they would say, throats raw from wailing, desperate for a dispensation, a pittance of funds granted by the state to those whose condition precludes gainful employment and compassion for others. It is a profession like any other, with due-paying unions and magazines only available by subscription, techniques for working the crowd, making every witness feel personally responsible for tragedies beyond comprehension. My uncle was born without a heart and had no patience for theatrics, sorrow was a quantifiable sum of distinct elements, there was no fudging the numbers in his court. After thirty years of sifting the suffering from the simply sad Grant took an early retirement and invested his pension in a twentytwo year old trophy wife, only survivor of a family reunion gas explosion, and last I heard the two of them are on some beach in Cancun, bumming out tourists.
(12:25.05.19.2005) [/scrytch] #