It's real.

Saturday, April 13, 2013

I am going to kill Tommy. I am going to kiss Tommy. I have no idea what I want to do anymore. I know that I want to get the bow home, and find an appropriate home for it. My apartment is in no way secure enough for something so valuable. And he was right. It is valuable. I don’t know how the bow survived this long in this good of condition, and I don’t know how the hell Frasconi (bless him) ended up getting his hands on it. But it did. And he did. And now it’s mine!

I am going to write a book on this bow. I am either going to accepted as a genius or a crackpot, but I don’t care. Oh good lord, I do not care even the tiniest little bit right now. I have my research ahead of me. I will get tenure for sure out of this, even if I am deemed a crackpot. But I’m right. I know I’m right. Every shred of evidence points towards this being the real deal, and I HAVE IT. I don’t think I have ever felt this good in my life.

I should call someone. I want to call someone, or text someone, or e-mail someone. But we don’t have Wi-Fi, there’s no cell service here, and I don’t know what they charge for the phone here.

I actually did tell one person, but I don’t really know her and I don’t think she understood the significance of the bow. She was nice enough, though. We sat together during the auction. She leant me a sweater to cushion the chairs. They were terrible, worse than the pews at church with Dad. She’s in music, I remember. Ethnomusicology, studying Indian music. I assume that she’s Indian. She looks Indian, and her name’s Shivani, so probably.

There was another interesting person at the auction, but I’m not sure about him so much. He was very interested in my work, but then he started talking about what he did. Why, yes, I did know that Icelandic orthography hasn’t changed much in a millennium. You can’t go through any classes that mention the Icelandic sagas without some over-eager linguistics major shoe-horning it into the discussion. I have sat through those classes. I have taught those classes. He was nice enough, though, certainly better than the asshole who ended up punching the guy who drove us here. According to him, I’m not a “real doctor.” According to me, any medical doctors who don’t give their fellow human beings the respect they deserve should be headed off to the cadavers to limit the range of their venom.

Poor guy with the Icelandic stuff. He ended up having to share a paragraph with a total dick. Sorry about that.

Also, I am going to write down that that chicken was like fire. I want to remember that chicken. And it wasn’t just chicken, it was everything. People who had beef were on fire. There was a lady that was having fish. How do you make fish burn like that? It was incredibly strange. There was not enough milk in the world to stop it.

You know what? I’m rambling now. That means I should go to bed.