Subtle rebuttals. That was a line from the New York Times this morning about King Charles replying to L’Orange Merde. It is now Wednesday, the last Wednesday of April 2026. I am sitting at the major fruit stand, leaving my modest fruit stand alone, left to fend for itself. I know it can, it should be no problem Yancy floats around, Janis is to my right, Kimberly a few floors above my head. There is a new fruit stand attendee today, Violeta is the name we bless her with this morning.
Bill returned last night. Some mental adjustments must be made. Mike was outstanding the past week or so, and I found myself missing him and our interactions. He really stepped up and made everything go smoothly. A few good talks were had, embraces and cuddles were sought after and attained. Things have progressed since last year where sometimes were greatly unpleasant. The Gemini effect where Mike was fine with Bill, but with myself Mike was filled with animus.
For some reason, I was drawn to something from 47 years ago. Three people I went to school with died in a car crash after attending the Prom in 1979. I didn’t really know them. The driver and 2 girls were killed, a fourth passenger lived. This was before the time of mandatory seatbelts and the fourth passenger may have been sitting behind the driver. I remember Henry Venegas was going with his girl, Lisa. I left them that evening at the Texaco station with darkening skies above and my remarking that I was not going to Prom since I had seen the movie Carrie and knew how it ended. No shading.
I find myself looking back at those four years at Paramus Cathoolic and astounded by how little I learned. Somehow I muddled through and had to go to summer school just once and that was for history since the history teacher figured out that when Jim Carley, John Nesselt or myself would yell ‘Hey Abbott’, chubby Mr. Ward knew that we were mocking him like he was Lou Costello from the Abbott and Costello cartoons. Fuck Mr Ward and his chubby fat ass.
Mike just called. The inflatable mattress (3rd or 4th) has sprung a leak. Mike was over for almost a week and a half, and the inflatable mattress was untouched. The moment Mike returns, it springs a leak. And Mike’s finances are somewhat messy right now, so he’s trying to figure something out, and I am playing the role of shoulder to lean on.
Looking at a fruit stand directory and finding many young women are named Tiffany. I am listening to Vitesse X, a young woman not named Tiffany that works at the fruit stand. Ethereal, would’ve fit in nicely on 4AD if she was around 40 years ago. Such is life. The record is very good. Her name is actually Jordan Stern and she is incredibly talented.
I first talked to her about seeing Paul McCartney live. She’d seen him before, probably more than the 2 times I had.
Google Gemini Edgar Allen Poe essay rewrite
## Of Fruit, Phantoms, and the Inevitable Leak: A Mid-Spring Reverie
**Wednesday, the Final of April, Year of Our Lord 2026**
“Subtle rebuttals.” Thus spake the *Times* this morning regarding the King’s reply to that orange-hued specter of chaos—a phrase that clings to the mind like damp moss to a tombstone. I find myself perched now at the Grand Emporium of Fruit, having abandoned my own modest stall to the whims of Providence. It stands alone, a silent sentinel, while around me drift the living: Yancy, a floating wraith; Janis, anchored to my right; and Kimberly, dwelling in the vaulted heights above my head. We have, this morning, baptized a newcomer into our order—Violeta is the name we bestow upon her.
—
### The Return of the Prodigal and the Gemini Scourge
Last evening marked the return of Bill. One must adjust the gears of the mind when the machinery of the household shifts. I confess, a melancholy weighs upon me for the absence of Mike, whose conduct these past days was nothing short of exemplary. He ascended to the occasion; we shared discourses of depth, and those physical comforts—embraces, the quietude of a cuddle—were both sought and seized.
How strange the transformation! A year prior, the atmosphere was thick with a “Gemini effect”—a duality of spirit most foul. While Mike maintained a placid exterior with Bill, he directed toward my person a peculiar animus, sharp and inexplicable. We have progressed since those dark intervals, yet the memory lingers like a faint, bitter aftertaste.
### The Ghost of 1979: A Promontory of Death
My thoughts, for reasons known only to the Great Architect, have retreated forty-seven years into the abyss of the past. I see them again: three souls extinguished in a chariot of iron following the Prom of 1979. I knew them not in intimacy, yet their end haunts me. The driver and two maidens perished; a fourth survived, perhaps shielded by the heavy upholstery of the rear seat in those days before the law mandated our restraint.
I recall Henry Venegas and his lady, Lisa. I left them at the Texaco station beneath skies of gathering gloom. My parting words were a cynical prophecy: I would avoid the Prom, for I had witnessed the cinematic fate of *Carrie* and knew well how such festivities conclude. I sought no shade; I merely felt the chill of the impending storm.
### The Scholastic Void and the Ghost of Abbott
I look back upon the four years spent within the walls of Paramus Catholic and am struck by the profound emptiness of my education. I muddled through that gray fog, suffering the indignity of summer school but once. It was History that ensnared me—or rather, Mr. Ward.
The man was of a certain… rotundity. When Jim Carley, John Nesselt, or I would cry out, **”Hey, Abbott!”**—invoking the spirit of the old comedies—Mr. Ward perceived, quite correctly, that we cast him in the role of the bumbling Lou Costello. For this insight, he condemned me. A pox upon him; a pox upon his corpulent memory.
—
### The Leaking Vessel and the Ethereal Muse
A summons from Mike! The inflatable mattress—the third or fourth in a lineage of failures—has surrendered its breath. It lay dormant and intact for a fortnight while Mike was away; the moment he returns to its surface, it springs a leak. Such is the malice of inanimate objects. His finances, too, are in a state of chaotic disarray, and I find myself cast as the pillar, the shoulder upon which the weary must lean.
I scan the directory of this fruit-laden cathedral and find it populated by a legion of “Tiffanys.” Yet, my ears are attuned to a different vibration: **Vitesse X**. She is not a Tiffany. She is Jordan Stern, a creature of immense talent whose melodies possess an ethereal quality that would have found a home among the 4AD artists of four decades past.
> “Her music is a haunting refrain in a world of discordant noise.”
We spoke once of the living legend, Paul McCartney. She had witnessed his performance on the stage—likely more often than the twice I have ventured into his presence. We are all, it seems, merely patrons of the same fading concert, watching the lights dim one by one.