Henry David is thinking about Mrs. Emerson and playing with himself as he surveys his beans. He wants to sojourn into and out of and into and out of Lidian in an act of carnal transcendence but he has beans to tend, ants to watch, an image to maintain. The Dial is expecting another travelogue chock full of his signature pithy digs at this young nation’s nascent consumerism. The Walden Gift Shop is waiting for his next batch of genuine Thoreau pencils. The taxman is still on his ass about his disobedience and no matter how many hankies he goes through, there’s always a hunk of tubercular phlegm hardening in his beard. The waters of the pond are calm this evening, quiet, desperate. Where is this fucking dawn, he thinks. But the night is long and growing longer, eight weeks long, eightscore, an interminable New England night, and Henry David goes mad in it, madder than usual, his beans withering without the sun, his cock withering without Lidian, his life a-wither. He looks up at the star-pebbled sky and hark! You can hear his hammer dismantling his home, deliberately, for life, in the end, drives him into the corner despite his Spartan sturdiness. His home comes undone too easily. The dawn comes with it. Lidian, O Lidian, O have you seen Lidian! Around the pond he walks, the path to the civilized world clear now thanks to the morning star. He enters the gift shop, confronting walls of hats and tee shirts and onesies and mugs stamped with his aphorisms and maybe this is an enterprise he should beware of but according to the cashier, yes, they’re hiring, and he’s tired of this incredible dullness, tired, so tired, of being alone.
Jon Doughboy doesn’t hail or reside. He’s from Tehrangeles and lives in Port Townsend where he builds custom wooden sailboats for tech moguls who want to prove their manliness by drowning in the Puget Sound. Find the design for his latest sloop @doughboywrites.
The Disappointed Housewife 