Castle Katy and the Flying Buttresses

Better and better, then worse and worse. That is the way that it went. Maybe the way it always goes, I don’t know.

But still, everything, better and better, for years. I built the spiral staircase – finished it! –  I spun it right up through where my childhood bedroom had been. It blossomed up onto a landing above the old living room. I put a garden in up there. A trellis with trumpet vines. A telescope so I could look out across the harbor. Across the sky.

And of course by that time, the entire west end of the house was different. New and improved. Expanded. Remodeled. Remade in accordance with my dreams.

It was my life’s work, this house.

I mean, flying buttresses. I was going to have flying-fucking-buttresses! They were on back order, but I was going to have them. Soon. Flying buttresses and an indoor swimming pool. And a bowling alley. And a watch tower. And a mill tower. And a private theater for movies and something called an “upper bailey,” though I did not have a clue what an upper bailey even was.

The Suicide Diaries

The clown was dead. On this, we all agreed.

We stood around. We stared at all the pieces – his remains. We stared, but with each other we did not make eye contact.

This clown, he had tried to cut his wrists at first. He’d used a pocket knife. He’d failed. Fumbled it.

Then he’d moved on to a belt. He’d wrapped his clown-belt around his clown-neck. He’d closed the ends of the belt in the closet door. Over the top. This proved to be more effective than the pocket knife. He’d succeeded, and now the clown was dead.