Going up in the elevator, the key in the slot for the roof, Johnny said to her, “You still can be. Memoirist, painter. You could be a Patti Smith kind of art-octo.”
“How ’bout Joni Mitchell? She’s the whole package, Dad. Paints, writes, sings … Mister Pitzel, I could live in a box of paints!”
The elevator groaned, clanked, like a lumbago-laden complaining alter kacker.
Johnny by this point in his life – twelve books in – was a word-warts-and-all writer. Take me as I am, I have made love on the page for you. Soon, as the seas rise to engulf us, we’ll snorkel the streets for coffee. As we drown we age, and our inner water goes away. Grant me blue water at the end. Grant my mind the blue moisture. For one brief moment, let my hands be made of the sea. Ha. The marriage erodes, and with the
