The cackle of five men- kitting nets- was a pitch just under top notch. As though each of them had the exact right tone or enough variation to produce a strange coherence. A harmonious weave. It was delightful to witness, yet the event was over before it had begun. Finding oneself staring into the place where the sound concoction had given birth, mind left resonating with memory. Just as the night before had done. Brushing teeth in the bathroom, to find oneself face to face with the laundry trough. Initial shock, whereby the porcelain turned stainless steel surface had given way for the usual spit ritual.
It wasn’t even that special. The cackle of the five men.
Just writing about, it, because, it, was the most striking event that happened in the last couple of hours. Most things either which side the window of presence- give or take an hour or two- will start to erode. Corroding limp hues, breaking up with sound partners. Why even bother thinking about the future? Say bike helmet for no reason. Why? Because you saw a picture of a bike helmet, on the pin up board. It makes no sense in this bunch of words, but in the knit, the everything knit, it, sure does. Cackle.
The above photograph was captured by my dad, Marty Martinovic. His real name is Milovan. Some people call him Milo, which has always reminded me of the malted barley chocolate drink. The one I used to eat spoonfuls from, straight from the tin. It never failed to choke me, giving away my hidden stance in the pantry. The featured man’s head hair, looks like the clouds.