Matthew F. Amati

Where Things Matt Writes Are

Me BONES! Me chalk stick puzzle, can walk, can fix blender! Me BONES! Me of hard earth clay, old rock fossil pile, clatter and stump! Hooray for BONES! Drink you milk, eat you Coconut, chew you good gritty Clay. All BONE man BONE woman look same, no fat, no thin, no ugly. What this?

Meat?

Where MEAT come from? Why have MEAT? Meat hang on bones. Meat stink. Meat rot. Meat wag meat flaps, speak hate. Speak different. You meat Black, you meat White, you meat funny.

This sorry state of affairs. BONE man good, but BONE man weighted with Meat, no good. Covet woman meat, want rub meat parts. Want put tiny meat inside other meat, make more meats. Rut, stink, shiver, squirt, spawn, mate, die. Meat root of evil.

Lucky BONE man! Lucky BONE woman! Meat rot away. Meat go. Meat but a passing phase, temporary madness. Meat grow, and shrink, and shrivel. Meat passeth away under the dirt, and become one with all that went before it.

BONES live on. BONES last unto end of world. Meat only temporary. But BONES is forever! Hooray!

The President had gone mad again. What could we do? We locked him in the milking shed, hoping he’d calm down.

“The milking shed? Aren’t you worried he’ll hurt himself?” the Chief of Staff asked. He was angry at himself, because he had been away at the napkin shop when this bout of madness had commenced, and his deputy chief of staff was inexperienced.

“Sorry, Sir. It seemed much the best course of action. There was a long strand of red spittle hanging off the President’s chin and his scrap-iron limb was flailing around something serious, too.”

“All right. You did what you had to.” The Chief convened a meeting of all the people who dealt with the President. He yelled down the stairs for the National Security Director who was getting something out of the refrigerator because it was three o’clock and the National Security Director always got hungry around that time.  The Army’s only Six-Star General was sleeping. They woke him up. The Counterterrorism Czar was running errands in the Subaru and couldn’t be reached.

Googling one’s name can turn up some weird shit.

On Amazon’s India-based website, I’m listed as the co-author of “Amidst the Test: The Lived Experience of Teaching Under No Child Left Behind.”  I’ve never heard of Barbara Agard Woodward, the co-author.

Some other “Matthew F. Amati” perhaps? No! The precis happens to the the synopsis of my dissertation. Which was not about teaching under NCLB.

We had to poke Alaric with fondue spears to get him to speak about his mother. Alaric had been an only child, raised in a cave full of owls. Alaric’s mother had cared for only the owls, and not a fig for Alaric. “There there, Too-Too, and how is my Mr. Friskers today?” Young Alaric had no toys to play with except a clock. He’d move the hands and pretend it was six o’clock, move them again and pretend it was half-past nine. When Alaric was fourteen, Mother had presented him with a scale model of Versailles. Years later, Alaric saw the real Versailles and wept acidly at the sight of gilded columns that were not crusted with owl scat.

“Let’s talk about these warriors of old, they who people the Sagas of Amontonar.”

“What of them?”

“The Sagas tell us they wore clothing made of metal.”

“What on the Terròn would they wear metal clothes for?”

“Right! I mean, that’s awfully heavy clothing.”

“Cold.”

“Stiff. Would poke you in the tender parts.”

“Right in the tender parts.”

“Damp. Would not ‘wick’ away moisture.”

“Then what would be the purpose?”

“Because other warriors are carrying weapons.”

“Describe weapons.”

“Steel. Flat. In the shape of an isoceles triangle. A very long narrow isoceles triangle.””

“Awkward.”

“Has handle. Handle in a cylinder shape, for ease of carrying.

“So you can carry it. But why?”

“So you can find another fellow and poke him with the isoceles triangle. A successful poke = a victory.”

“Difficult to poke successfully. Seeing as his clothes are metal.”

“That’s the reason for the metal clothes. So the isoceles triangle can’t get through.”

“So everyone has metal clothing to prevent puncture by triangles. And everyone has triangles that they may attempt puncture.”

“Yes. You catch on.”

“But here now. It strikes one as awkward. This arrangement of implement of puncture, and garment of puncture prevention. A lot of trouble.”

“That’s the way of human interactions everywhere.”

“But say. What of this? Suppose, instead of a triangle, a warrior simply carried a long paintbrush. Then, instead of metal garb, each warrior could wear, say, a white shift. Instead of a poke, the object is to leave a paint mark on the shift.”

“Easier, I suppose.”

“Less dangerous.”

“More humane.”

“Greater comfort achieved.”

“Aha. But hold on. Suppose, just suppose everyone’s wearing these white shifts. They’re light. Diaphanous. The ultimate in comfort.”

“Ideal, I’d say.”

“Then one clever fellow has an idea. Sets down his paintbrush. Picks up an isoceles triangle. Rides forth among the nightie-clad. He’d carve up a real buffet.”

“A bloodbath.”

“A massacre.

“A decimation.”

“So your idea is total crap. One isoceles triangle shoots it all to hell.”

“My idea runs up against the inexorably clever human urge to subdue.”

The work is a Sword and Sorcery Epic.

This Author read the first page of “A Game of Thrones.” He then read the thirteenth page of “The Lord Of Various Rings” by Junior Token.

He thought to himself. “This looks easy. I can’t do that.”

This Author had recently completed a novel about time travelers that was fairly not good. The only problems with this work were: plot, characters, theme. Those were bad. (But it was chockfull of cleverly employed pronouns.)

The new book has none of the bad things. It will only have good things. People who dress in metal and carry things that are sharp. Magical people who sneeze magic out of their nose-holes. Harmless dragons, dangerous stoats.