Wallograph # 56
by Orest Talpash
chair, Professor Hyndman. Look, David, Im
recommending a leave of absence for you. Take
some time off, sort things out and come see me in
a couple of months. Thats what she
said. Her exact words. The bitch. Head of the
English Dept? Grande dame of belles-lettres?
Department head? She couldnt organize two
dogs in heat to copulate.
Oh, yeah, a
leave from students. Is that going to be on
the exam? You wonder which sustained more
damage, the crap in that kids laptop I
threw out the window, or the rocks on which it
landed. Who would believe someone could discover
momentous significancewould merit a post-grad
degreefor counting specific verbs in some
obscure Amazons rant. Ive seen more
signs of human intelligence in pictograms.
The bitch and
Marg are tight. They discuss me.
Hyndmans issues. And Marg has
moved out. No farewell, no note, no shit. Now my
head is clearer, less hassle from her. Sometimes.
And sometimes I cant get her out of my mind.
Her provocative questions keep spinning about.
Shall I order in a pizza or some Chinese?
Go fuck yourself, was my studied,
carefully articulated response. I am resolved to
live on nothing but bread and water. I shall
never, ever clutter up my cerebrum with her
And what a
cerebrum it is! Why, Im now sure they gave
me a doctorate ten years ago expressly because
they just didnt understand my dissertation:
anything so beyond their thinking must be worthy.
But all this creative cogitation and computation
does strain the circuits. I often hear sparking
as charges flow across the frontal lobe synapses.
The free-radicals of the neurotransmitters
swarming through my brain have actually induced
static on the radio. Ive unplugged my
television and turned it to the wall.
Im running out of walls I must finish
writing these notes on the door. Someday they
will discover these writings. Like those Lascaux
cave paintings. Or Hopi petroglyphs. Oh yes. Marg
will be astonished to see photographs of