Those Subtle Weeds - Jo Ann Lordahl - Bog

What a tangle Jay and Frazier and I have created. In my mind I see us writhing, frozen in some crazy Greek marble statue that's so real I could reach out and touch it. Twisted and contorted and intertwined it exists as a solid square lump with bits and pieces of each of us, fashioned clear and recognizable as they dart outward. It's there in my mind as true as any actual memory. I suspect it will remain with me until I die, like that first glimpse of Live Oak shining white and pure through the moss-shrouded oaks. Frazier's face is hard straight lines, all-haunting eyes and aesthetic hollow cheeks. Jay's superbly muscled right arm and shoulder has his fist threateningly clenched. There's my slim back with a narrow waist and my head pointing straight ahead turned towards neither of the men.