Saturday, November 13, 2010

The Book of Sarah

I am quite aware that Baylah wants to share more of her melodramatic life. But what  do I care? I am the disembodied spirit, the universal narrator. I break in whenever I want to and  the hell with everyone else. If they don't appreciate my commentary and clarification then take this show to video. But no, I stand corrected. For even those supposedly desperate house fraus make with a lot of voice-overs. So get used to it. I'm no different than that voice at the supermarket that tells you when  tomatoes are on sale or they need some part-time kid to mop up toddler piss on aisle six. You get it?.... Good, because little do you know what I'm whispering in other people's ears about you!......Now, back to the real world. Annie still languishes in her mummy closet prison. She's developed a lot of strength in her wrists from unscrewing all those Snapple bottles. See? Even something as tragic as this has a bright side. And due to the contimuous stream of quiet, mumbled conversations between she and the dessicated Egyptians, her knowledge of ancient Coptic has increased exponentially. She even calls one of the grotesque corpses 'mom-mom.' But look, someone is fiddling with the lock. Someone is trying to open the door. Annie garps. She puts down her tough as shoe leather dollar menu burger and waits. Even the mummies stop their barely audible jibber jabber. The door finally opens. It's the Shaky Hand Man. He gestures with his palsied mitt and says - Come. Annie slowly uncurls her cramped, stiff body and struggles to stand up. Oh, jeez! She bumped the slop bucket. Look at her little legs. I can't take it anymore. She steadies herself and exits this chamber of horrors. Her former 'roomies' whisper heartfelt good-byes and best wishes. The ancient Kemeti (true name for ancient Egyptians) had such fine manners. She looks up into the face of her puppet master. It is hard to see the details in a dark and shadowy basement passage. But she knows what he's like. She's seen him before. He rests his hand on the back of her frail and vulnerable neck and guides her along.  She asks - Are we going out? He answers - Yes. They progress through the low, weak somber illumination of a museum at rest, weaving their way through the pagan treasures and gruesome idols of long gone (we hope) murderous dieties. As they come to the large and formal entrance hall, the heavy bronze portals leading out to freedom slowly open. They step out into the cold, nighttime air. She takes a clean,pure breath and exhales a nimbus of warm, moist vapor. They descend  the granite steps and proceed along the deserted thoroughfare.  A huge black hound trots out of an alley and approaches, carrying  a warm coat clenched tightly in its iron jaws. Annie takes the coat. She says - Thank you. She puts it on. It feels good to be warm. She finds gloves and a scarf in the pockets. She puts them on too. And she and the hound and the puppet master continue on their way. But  if you were following them and watching this progression, your eyes would detect  only Annie and the hound for the puppet master is nowhere to be seen.

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