Whipping Through the Ionosphere / Larry Fagin


Hi folks. I’m here in the Seychelles. Repiblik Sesel. Only a week ago, Duke and Duchess of Cambridge stayed over. Indian Ocean is lukewarm today. The sand is hotel ashtray white. Climate is between 24° and 32° C. forever and always.  My swim trunks are faded blue dolphins cavorting on a orange ground. Feast of the Assumption is coming up, followed by the South East Monsoon Sailfish Tournament. I guess I care. I’m staying at the Berjaya on Beau Vallon Bay. Creole food is so-so. Too much coconut cream. Turtle flesh in dishes is restricted by law. Fuck that. We’re all going to die. I tried a parrot fish steak fried in butter and garlic. Piquant. Like scrambled eggs, you can’t ruin it. I’m alone here so there’s no one to block the enjoyment. Stupidly, I brought along Kilvert’s Diary, which is way too heavy, and a few WWII Penguins, Eric Ambler and such. Oops, now I’m inside my own body, very near these tiny titanium mesh tubes, which neither hinder nor help…

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