November 11: The Day After
No, no, I tell you I am not, I am, I am, not responsible. It was not. No. No. I am. This thing of darkness. . . . I have claimed, today, I have claimed that I would not maintain this space. I have not declared that I would mar it, unmake it, scatter its letters like flat irons, racing cars, top hats, white dice, Chance and property cards in a Monopoly game gone bad. Vomit arced across the table, the association soaked in beery excess made egress. Winner cleans. What lurking atavistic force within moved once-nimble fingers over keys and canceled out the words of months and year? . . . Acknowledge mine.
Lost, all of it, the league's opening page, its seasonal standings, its history, its links, gone suddenly, but how? A nurse's sneeze at the moment of the doctor's incision, a nudge as the Mohel executes the bris, a sudden gale as the lonely man on the wire shifts too far left, to the left too far, and gone, gone, off, dropped, deleted, discarded, as irrevocably damaged as the snapped fibula of Mr. Shoelaces. That was the year that was. Never to rise again. And yet. Something must arise in its place, a new accounting of the eight plus years of the SJL. Fables of the reconstruction, the past historicized, history in the balance, a new version which overwrites the old, as clumbsy mitts tore apart the work of years, a look crafted with care tossed aside in the swat of a claw, the click of a mouse. Save and continue editing. Do I dare? Do I dare not? Let us begin.