Tropic of Ping

I would write more today, but I cannot stop thinking of food and Henry Miller playing ping pong with a naked girl. A wrinkled old man, he could not help being the innocent but lascivious Don Juan-in-a-vest. What was going through his batty, cosmic mind as he raced this nymph to 11? Did he play to win or did he play to make her prance? He was a master of nonsense and the match-point forehand. I imagine there was a poetry and comedic grace to the rapid pock-pock-pocking of his wooden paddle against the plastic sphere. Come Dear, let us bat about an ovum.

I, too, have a table and some skill, but they are both in the basement, collecting a layer of dust. I used to play with Myoki and Helga. Inevitably our matches would erupt into either argument or orgy. Now that they are gone, the sound of pinging balls plays in my mind as an absurd lament. I hear it in hailstorms and at night.

Goodbye for now. My noodles are cooked.