Thank you dear bloggees for the comments especially my bloodbloggee on level 10, quicktagged Fnn.
Well children today I set off for the abbatoir with our dog Gracie to get the eye of an ox for our Billie who is doing Psych and her psych tutor Kim who has just had a baby axed her to bring next time (all the way to Mt Waverley!) to help her explain sensation or maybe it was perception. Now can I remember the name of the Abbatoir, for the life of me? Found it in the Yellow Pages so I can again, Gathercoles that’s right, out Carrum way borderline Patterson Lakes wetlands woopwoop, 25 kliks from the blogsite. We got there alright, light rain making the scape Dutch to the overeducated eye. Huge bloody place, hangers and hangers of it at the end of a deadend road, Learmonth Rd that got me thinking Russian. Lermontov. Mentioned in John Manifold’s poem The Tomb of John Learmonth A.I.F. (James Hogg & Lermontov were of his kin) A bigtime pan-Slavic Romantic, unhappy as, pulled the plug on himself I think. Or cd have been a duel. Anyway pulled up outside the Boning Room Manager’s door and asked for Andrew. Wrong door. It’s raining. Seems to activate the blood and fear pheromene-smellicules in the air. No sound of slaughter. Make contact. The smell is in the small containershaped office, so’s a young bloke who cd be the teenager Andrew fathered as a teenager, so why’s he not at school? Andrew asks if one eye’s enough so I say 2 wd be good and can I use yr gents which turns out to be the last on the left, off the Lunch Room which has angry sign on the wall:
“The throwing of any item will result in INSTANT DISMISSAL.” Approaching the urinal I notice a small gobbet of flesh on the concrete step. A telltale sign cd this be of meatfights at lunchtime? Killing and boning from 6am cd have that effect on you. I notice my fingers are weirdly yellowstained as by turmeric howcome I dont know. Andrew comes back with the eyeballs in my Tupperware box. Must be fresh out of the sockets, feels warm. Still are when I get home and have a look at them. The feeling of complicity, tremor of guilt and repulsion returns as I write. Bull’s eyes, wide-irised in death with an abstract, glaucous beauty. Perfect for palming as Gloucester’s plucked out in a non naturalistic, Grand Guignol sort of production or as a teaching aid. I wonder about trimming the scraggy bits of fat and regret the lack of optic nerve attachments then put them in the fridge. They’re not needed till next Wednesday, should I put them in the freezer?
Advise me dear bloggees.