I almost drowned once. I didn't know how to swim and I was too embarrassed to scream for help, so I sank to the bottom of the river without struggling, resigned that I was going to die that day. Maybe I prayed when I reached the sandy bottom, I'm not sure. I was 11. The water was probably no more than ten feet deep but it was murky. All I could see of the surface when I looked up was a dim liquid sky languidly crisscrossed by a swimmer or two. 

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                I used to work with a surfer in another lab. This was a long time ago, very much Before. One day we were horsing around as we were wont to do on slow days, when out of the blue he said to me, "You're obsessed with death, aren't you." It was very odd. I suppose he had meant to say something else. 

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                In Thomas Harris' novel "Hannibal," Lecter and his new friend feast on the lightly sautéed pre-frontal lobe of a victim who was still alive. I must confess that for days after reading that passage I found myself idly wondering about what that must taste like. 

                Not like chicken I imagine.                                               next 
                  
                  
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