Bafflegab by Stan Rogal

By Stan Rogal

A postmodern novel that follows a writer's trip via tradition, romantic relationships and literature.

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Sample text

I have cancer. No. No one has told me & I have not been to a doctor to confirm my diagnosis. MY DIAGNOSIS. Notice, I do not say suspicion, for there can be no doubt to my mind: prolonged indigestion, lump in the throat, sore refusing to heal, change in mole, persistent cough, trouble swallowing—they have me & I them. Is it possible to eliminate the obvious final effect in the face of so many causes? Can there indeed be no fire in the presence of so much smoke? I think not & remain resolute. There can be no doubt—I have cancer.

Sure! 'Course I remember you. " & now she's smiling, & the drinks keep coming, & the film keeps rolling without a flutter, without a break. I don't believe it. All I've done this weekend is sit around the apartment with my finger up my ass, watching TV, playing solitaire & basically fucking the dog. But then, it doesn't matter what I do. Whether I do anything or nothing at all. Unlike Space, which leaves me uncomfortable & ill-fitting, Time passes without a care or thought as to my well-being. It brands me with its mark & I am denied the barest glimpse.

I've gotten better able to play the game & think about other things at the same time, without tripping over my feet. This can be a good or bad thing. Uh oh, a gang of spike-leathered clouds are kicking the shit out of my blue sky. Time to circle the wagons & head the hell home. well? Go ahead. Sit. It's waiting. It calls to you as only a chair can: complete chairness & you believe it. The chair is an invitation with your name on it, an invitation to sit & so you will. Never a thought that this chair may actually be a paid assassin in disguise or that it is haunted by the blood-stained ghost of Lizzie Borden's axe or that a moment ago it was a lowly cockroach & an 44 hour from now it will transform itself into a majestic winged serpent & swoop out the door.

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