A Misshapen Pearl.

I’m watching a documentary on the ABC about the baroque period, with a friend. I’m helping him with an essay so I can’t write long.

I did, however, care to share with my humble audience a little something I devoured while standing in a queue today at Centrelink.

It goes a little something like this.

I knelt beside a stream which was manifesting on a polished wooden floor in an apartment above Central Park. A feathered shield was fastened to my left forearm. A feathered helmet was lowered on my head. I was invested with a duty to protect the orphan and the widow. This made me feel so good I climbed on Alexandra’s double bed and wept in a general way for the fate of men. Then I followed her into the bathroom. She appeared to turn to gold. She stood before me as huge as the guardian of a harbour. How had I ever thought of mastering her? With a hand of chrome and an immense Gauloise cigarette she suggested that I give up and worship her, which I did for ten years. Thus began the obscene silence of my career as a lady’s man.

Page 11. Death of A Lady’s Man. By Leonard Cohen.


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