Indigestion

It is peculiar that I finished my Thanksgiving post referencing the Proustian contours of Pamuk’s Museum of Innocence. The holiday proceeded in what passes for benevolence in my rocky familial state. Just as we were leaving my parents gave me a parcel they found in the attic. It was my adopted child’s first scrapbook. It might as well have contained some gelatin explosive for the stress inflicted on my psyche. Deeper past photographs and holiday cards from people I can’t begin to recognize were the tattered remains of junior high yearbooks. This strata wasn’t near as painful to peruse and I pause only to consider the photo of Joel in 8th grad orchestra, wild in eye and unkept in hair like some Rimbaud with a viola. I am curious about that haunting vision as Lord knows I am no Verlaine