A few months ago in my little cottage in the college town that I now live in, I had turned on the radio to catch the early afternoon broadcast from the Metropolitan Opera, as I was making some coffee and toasting toast for my raw onion and avocado on toast thing that I eat for breakfast, most mornings.
And, the preceding radio show was on, with some historic recording of Schubert's ninth symphony, and as it ended, the host was saying something about the unusual tempo in that recording, and how usually the work lasts fifty to fifty-five minutes, and, just as he was saying that, I not only popped a bit of avocado into my mouth and was chewing it, but I also suddenly somehow needed to sneeze, only, I was afraid to sneeze and not hear how many minutes this unusual recording was, so I tried to do like a half sneeze while I held the avocado in my cheeks, but, as soon as I sneezed and tried to choke the force of the sneeze down in order to decrease its volume, the repressed and tightly-channeled airstream somehow created in my mouth like funneled bits of avocado out through my mouth and out through my teeth and like flecks of avocado bits rained down all over onto the sink-edge and stove, like a big burst of little green lines here and there, all going in the same direction.
. . .
(The unusual recording was an hour and five minutes.)
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