#100

Babble on. The 100th entry. Amidst situps and comic books, grocery stores and history books. Mostly noise and dross all this, but a story underneath that grows. And I waver, and I turn: from Stephen to Square and back again. Joyce and Jenkinson, my Scylla and Charybdis.

At the gym, Pete comes to where I strain with seated curls, says, "Keep your shoulders down," and pushes gently. Afterwards, it's the post office, then a phone call to my dentist. It's spring break - but not yet spring. The sun masquerades in hasty smears of yellow, and my students are strewn on beaches or beds afar. I read a play, or reorganize the filing cabinet. I flip through a magazine, masturbate while lying on the couch.

Time passes. The stereo plays. Right now it's OMD: "Of All the Things We've Made." I write, and my voice here hovers in the declarative, the personal pose. An illusion of nakedness. Be wary. I think of Will, pressing his body against Jean. Or Luke, in tanktop, asking Erica out to dance. David's a mirror. Adrian's a mirror too. This story, The Work of Art, a labyrinth of reflecting glass. And the minotaur at it's center, love.