“Very superstitious, writings on the wall Very superstitious, ladders bout to fall…” Stevie Wonder The moon is dancing below the shadow of the pines and you spilled salt at the dinner table earlier, but all things considered, I think I know my way around the house, even at 4 a.m. Suddenly, a blinding explosion of exquisite pain wrenches me from semi-somnambulistic reverie to shrieking reality. The dogs bolt under the bed; my Beloved grabs a magazine, ready to swat whatever Visigoth is invading our inner sanctum. But there is no hulking medieval menace filling the doorway; only this bug-eyed moron hopping across the room, baggy boxer shorts and Beetlejuice hair flapping in all directions as bizarre incantations stream, Tourette’s-like, from snarling foaming lips.
LEE OBSERVER 5 20 20