"Rudy Rucker - Guadalupe and Hieronymus Bosch" - читать интересную книгу автора (Rucker Rudy)

Capri pants with a Lycra tummy panel and a pink baby-doll blouse that's loose at the bottom. Truth be
told, I do a certain amount of my shopping in the maternity section at Target.

In the kitchen I offer Jerome some Oreos and microwave two cups of instant coffee. Buzz! The
microwave is built into the wall so we delinquent renters can't hock it. Jerome overlooks the futuristic
aspects of my kitchen because he's busy holding one of the cookies up to the light, studying the
embossed writing and curlicues.
"They're food," I tell him. I rotate one in two and give him the better half. He scarfs it down—and I'm
secretly glad, thinking that we've broken bread together now. Jerome takes another Oreo and eats the
whole thing. They're gettin' good to him.

Meanwhile I touch up my black lipstick and lip liner. All the time I'm watching him. Even though he's from
a long time ago, he's not old. Maybe twenty-five. He would have still been at the start of his career. No
reason he can't have as good a career here in San Jose with me.

Jerome watches me right back. His gaze is warm and alive, as if there's an extra brain inside each eyeball.
After a bit he fixates on my mug of colored pencils, looking at them the way I wish he was looking at my
boobs.

"Want to draw?" I ask him. "You can decorate my walls." There's two smooth blank walls in my living
room, a short wall across from the hall door and a big one across from the window.

"A mural?" says Jerome, examining a couple of the pencils.

"Bingo."

He starts in on the smaller wall. And me, I sit down with pen and paper at my round table on the one
chair I've got. I want to try and start documenting some of this unfurling madness. For sure there's a
reality TV show in this. All my friends say I should be on TV, and who am I to disagree. I recite a prayer
to give me courage to write.

"Hail Glenda, full of grace, an alien paramecium was with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and
blessed is the fruit of your brain, Glenda And Jerome."

I lean over my spiral notebook, pen in hand.

To whom it may concern:

It may interest you to know that…

Is it Hie or Hei? Love has made me dyslexic.

I look around, trying to find the book that turned Harna on to Jerome, but I can't see it just now.
Thinking about the book, I have to grin, thinking how incredible it is to have the artist himself here with
me.

"Hey, Jerome. I'm writing about you."

"Not yet," he says and taps his thumb with his finger. Like that's the Lowlands chill-it gesture. He's
holding a purple pencil in his other hand. Getting started on marking up my little wall. Holding the pencil