La Figlia Che Piange

The damndest things stick in your mind like a bur and make the past seem like a chasm or ravine down which you could tumble, weeping or laughing as the case demanded.

I was friends in high school (and beyond) with a very complicated lad who was raised as a Scientologist, godalmighty help us, and whose almost-too-loyal friendship was sabotaged by his fixation on Hubbardian truth. In the end I really couldn’t take it any more; the disconnect between behavior and assertion of “Total Freedom” (soi-disant) was just too much.

But he was both bright and crudely funny, and I can’t remember who it was that we remarked ought to feature in a play called “Death Of An Asshole” (we all know someone), and he struck a pose,  as if bending to survey a corpse in situ, and said in a light French accent that invoked Hercule Poirot or perhaps Maigret: “He was smothered in Nupercainal.”

I laughed till I cried them — beer probably helped — and when I think of it I still do.

Sometimes these cogitations still amaze
The troubled midnight and the noon’s repose.

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