the_fish_jumps_out_of_the_tank raze marty feldman died for somebody's sins, but not mine. when she wasn't threatening to stab herself through the breastbone with a steak knife and he wasn't trying to swallow the beginning of an ulcer, they were the keepers of an aquarium. before i was holding neon tetras in water-filled plastic bags and staring at their brilliant bodies, hoping to love them long enough to give them names when they were only going to eat each other alive if they didn't choose to leave the safety of an improvised ocean to die on a clean kitchen floor, the two of them had a black molly they named after an actor who smoked five packs of cigarettes a day. a man with bulging eyes who called himself the world's worst trumpet player. she called him at work one day. crying. "what's wrong?" he asked her. "marty feldman died," she said. he didn't think she was enough of a fan of marty's work to be that bothered by his death. it took him a minute to work out what she was talking about. it's taken me almost forty years to understand i'm just another fish jumping out of the tank. the difference is, i'm not leaping into certain death. i'm running toward what's going to save me. 220222 what's it to you? who go blather from