Darling Clementine Read Online Free PDF Page A

always joke that the Clementines made their fortune in gold mines, but the fact is the money is so old no one can remember where it came from and it is just attributed to some form of vague plunder which occurred back in the days when plunder was something simply everyone was doing. Now, I am Samantha Clementine, living off their riches, and about fifteen dollars a month for my poems. From plunder to poetry, that is the way of the world.
    Today, February 22nd, there is a big headline on the front page of the Times , which either means something very important has happened, or they didn’t have enough stories to fill up the page and so had to stretch one. The headline reads: “Soviets Accuse U.S. of Mining Nicaraguan Ports.” And under that: “Sec. of State Flies to Geneva.” At first, I think the Sec. of State is running away, dumping the whole mess in the lap of the President, who has already absconded to Camp David for another vacation. Wouldn’t it be funny if the whole thing fell to the White House janitor: “I got ten thousand square feet of rug to vacuum. When am I mining harbors, in my sleep?” Anyway, the Sec. is really going to meet with the Soviet Ambassador, so it is all under control and I draw the veil on their tender reunion in order to move on to this far more interesting piece: “Scientists Say Ten Percent Of The Universe Is Missing.” Now, this could be serious, although it’ll probably turn up when they clean. Without this ten percent, apparently, the universe will just keep expanding and expanding until everything turns to ashes and dies. This is too much for these scientists to bear and they are desperately inventing theories as to where this ten percent could be. With the added weight, the universe will expand to a certain point, and then come together again into a sort of primordial spaulding which will explode and start the whole process over again. This the scientists can live with, though I personally recommend short-term investments. All this just goes to prove that science is no more than the search for reassurance from the perceived world that our a priori intimations are valid. Once we understand that perceptions and intimations are one, the scientists can go home and, even as things stand, it seems to me, the Secretary of State should relax and try to get in a little skating.
    Don’t get me wrong: it’s not that I mind being a housewife. We only have a two-bedroom apartment to begin with, and a maid comes in once a week to clean. (Arthur calls her “a woman,” as if that were a job description: she is a maid, which, now I think of it, means the same thing.) In fact, it is this that worries me: there is not really that much for me to do. I write poetry every morning after Arthur goes to work, but I am done by about one, and then no matter how much I linger over the Times and my carrot salad, by two-thirty I am beginning to feel like a scientist contemplating a universe with ten percent missing. I mean, I am beginning to feel as if maybe I am not a very important person.
    Last night, Arthur comes home, and we have a conversation that brings this to light. I have seen him getting out of the cab (we live on Fifth Avenue and 81st, doncha know) and so when he comes through the door, I am draped naked over an armchair that has been in the family for centuries, with my legs spread and my open cunt just at the right level for him to make a beeline into ecstasy.
    Instead, he comes over, kisses me lightly on the pudenda, and says, “Hi, honey, I’m home. Boy, you need a shave.”
    At first, I think he is proposing something really interesting, but when this is followed by silence, I lift my head and see him standing over me, still dressed, his handsome face drawn and weary.
    â€œWould you like to make a drink first how about?” he says with a little apologetic smile.
    Now he is sitting on the sofa, which has been in the Clementine