This is a bildungsroman fossilized like seashell. Let’s go back to 1971
Seattle. This is a conduct story about setting aside the lyre. Birdbrained
trompe l’oeil. Slit-tailed sea cow, crowned. Taking up some new instrument.

Shall I tell you the secret of old marine books? The seductive mystery
of a fishy seaport pulls you in like a writhing net. Can symbols be sexed,
as in sex symbol? As in screen siren? As in a 16th century Norse woodcut

forcing some corporation to think deeply on the exciting seafaring history
of coffee? Anything can be mined for material. Starbuck from Nantucket
was a realist, though he wouldn’t have minded a little navel. Which was

axed, after my breasts. I was once quite Rubenesque. This is about the splitting
of bodies rearranged. About a third space, a place of a community and a place
of solitude. You are special, deserving of leisure. Pay attention, a lot is riding

on how well you understand this. A lot of brainwork went into this reframing.
Boardrooms of white male execs, word guys above the poverty line: not so much
tail, rewrite, no nipple, friendlier face, colour change, praise, praise, praise.
Luring me into the think tank.