A Symphony unto Oneself

A Symphony unto Oneself

Chapter 1

     The Story The Authors
Thinking about uncle Ralph quickly cut short the life of his problem below the edge of the counter. Jake got up to use the facilities. He was actually getting somewhere and he began to feel confident that when the time came he'd be prepared. Perhaps he should take a walk down Bancroft and pick up another cup of coffee and a brownie at the cafe.

The feeling of warm coffee against the back of his throat was something he enojoyed very much. Walking had helped to get his circulation going and the fresh air had revived his senses. As he crossed sproul plaza he recognized the form of a woman coming towards him. She had shoulder length brown hair that was almost straight but curled slightly as it fell about. It was Joyce from his days at Piggle, Wiggle and Barney. He hadn't seen her since she left to go callabanting around in Alaska. When she saw him a big smile crossed her face and she extended her arms in a warm embrace.

Here you are, you dirty old man. I never thought to see you again. Do you know I selled your house and the yellow car you admired more than me? I'm now living with a nice and good looking horsedriver near Washington. Vanessa
His name is Richard. Don't insinuate phallus before him. His third time that would happen. And, you know, you don't want any bardolaters on your posterior, hon. Oft times he quotes the bard... Example, this morning he woke up, fed the horses, went out back to the chicken coup... and had to slaughter one... well, one in the figurative sense... the chicken atrocities are no laughing matter.. anyway, he came in, covered in sanguine juice... well, you know, blood... Jesus. You'd think I was an overembellisher or some such... don't answer that... smartass...Anyway, he came in and said, "So far in blood that sin will pluck on sin: Tear-falling pity dwells not in this eye." I'm not sure if he meant, "I need to get the blood off me... and I'm crying for your help... I'm not sure... He's an odd sort of guy. Regular trinity of self. Never hits the pavement even. Sort of slips along the edge of the earth, sitting in his hansom cab, and moving with the heartbeat of Gaia... well, this isn't true, but it sure sounds believable. Just hook in the headphones... You'll hear it... oh my, Johnny Belinda resides here... tis a shame... well, my word... Gren24L
What kinda of crazy-ass newfangled designer drugs is she on, thought Jake, for the language centers of her brain to be tickled and discombobulated in such a nonsensical manner...? Why, look at her pupils -- mere pinpoints! She looks like Grace Slick circa Volunteers -- beautiful and a complete fucking loon. Sad. Whether from bad chemicals or bad men, all the best women go to seed. It fills me with despair
Much of the world filled him with despair and he often had these sorts of conversations with himself as he ambled down the street. A familiar face with strike off a reverie which would then so completely command all of his attentions that he'd often forget to say goodbye to the person he was talking to, as he had just done now, staggering off into the heart of the shopping center with his eyes fixed on some star so distant only he could see it.
He had been this way since a very young boy. His parents, teachers and peers attributed this side of his character to Jake's having wandered off one too many times among the mustard and poppy fields of the outlying Dijon countryside, and only Frere Fernand, the sharp-eyed parish priest, correctly identified it as a sign of that pernicious moral lassitude which comes from too much of the sin of onanism, self-stimulation, the Devil's worst habit, the legacy of Gomorrah. For the adolescent Jake had, and sometimes to as many as a dozen times in a single afternoon, "spilled his seed upon the ground," so to speak, and his mind became as watery as his soul. Philip
Now in the hivelike quiet of the library, the idea of self-stimulation was like a thought-disruptor ray. No matter how hard he concentrated, diagrams, equations and explanatory paragraphs spun and whirled into and out of each other on the page in front of him, never quite in focus, and the circumference of every circle contained the mammalian radii emanating outwards from the tender buds of Pamela's nipples.
He looked at the clock -- Damnit! Only seven hours left, I'll never... He shut the book. He heaved a long sigh, almost depraved in the degree of its weariness. If they only wrote these things in English, not gobbledeegook. Applied Principles of Iron Sausage Engineering and Design. Sounds easy enough, if you're of a certain mechanical bent; but try and get your mind to wriggle through the vagaries of this piece of... Chinese Algebra...
But he had no choice. He had to.

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