Mood: Enthusiastically perplexed
I hate the waves, and the way one must respond to them. Some arrive with twinkles, god help us! Snack cakes for lunch, and in the afternoon one can’t sit still. The keys are too heavy in the pocket, the chair gets hot. One can’t sleep at night for the noise of other breaths, for the wrinkled sheets scoring the back. At sunrise one gives up and walks on the beach. One sees others jogging or strolling or holding hands, happy to be here. One waves. It serves them right.
I’m not going to write the reviews I promised in a previous post. Sorry about that. I write for fun, and I’ve lost interest in those.
Mood: Lucidly perplexed
I heard my first hummingbird before I saw him, when he hovered briefly at my sunburnt ear. I felt jokingly kissed by Nature, and hung feeders around the house for the next few years. But I work and think indoors, and didn’t keep them cleaned or filled. One might be left at the back of some closet, hosting a brown recluse, and I haven’t met a hummingbird all summer. We don’t frequent the same side of walls. But I have a secret crush on the outdoors. Even on a heavy, hot day like today, I imagine I would find a part of myself if I went to the right burr-bristling, bug-buzzing meadow, smelled the dirt and the crackling weeds, and let the sun finger me down to the bones.
The big questions are the old ones. Why are we here? Where are we going? Are the restrooms there clean? But other mysteries concern me more. For instance, if there’s an afterlife, will I see Elly, my first cat? She won’t be happy without rabbits to kill. Is her Heaven rabbit Hell, and what do they have to do to wind up there? Be celibate? If kitties and bunnies go on to the next world, what about the mosquito I killed this morning? And if there’s no death in the next life, where’s my leather jacket going to come from? That’s going to be one sore cow.
Asylum in Spain, or hike the Scottish Highlands? I can’t go yet, there’s all this kitty litter to clean up in the study. Damn that ghost. But the bedroom’s big and the sun is very yellow. If only the angel had burned their house down when they were kids! Investigate one murder, cause another. TV cameras in the kitchen for competitive soup-making; it looks good, but it’s awful. Those women betrayed me, the stakeout was a sting. I turned down the pot but they had to arrest me anyway. What a relief for them. Now I have to feed the dragons. I have to feed the bears. The dogs. The ceiling’s cracked, no it’s crumbling, it’s down, and the dirty laundry tumbles with it. Do I have time to be questioned?
She walked into my office like a florist walking into a biology lab, one of those university labs that look like overgrown grade school art rooms, with smocks scattered everywhere, stains on the tables that weren’t ever coming out, and unpleasant odors snaking through the air, though in the lab those smells would be formaldehyde rather than fingerpaints or modelling clay, and she wrinkled her nose just like a florist would in that environment, and right there and then I fell hopelessly in love with my fifth grade art teacher, who was probably dead by now or at least post-menopausal.
(Inspiration today from the Bulwer-Lytton Contest.)
Every morning when I was growing up, Mom made bacon and fried eggs for breakfast, basting the eggs in the bacon grease, and when you cut into them the yolks would spread like sunlight across your plate, or sometimes she’d scramble them with soft cheese, and we had toast dripping with butter, and coffee with heavy cream, and often she’d make the same meal for dinner, and when we were done she’d hand Dad his cigarettes, and it wasn’t until his first heart attack twenty years later that I realized she was trying to kill him and offered my help.
I dreamed a better world was possible, and I refuse to wake up, which is just trading dreams. These are no windmills, I’m mad enough tilt at true giants–daring as the mosquitoes who brave my hand, and as little noticed. But at least they get a meal out of it. Ah, Sancho, my faithful, deluded Sancho! I don’t believe he’s ever read a book, and yet he thinks he knows how the world goes. But which of us carries the bruises of experience? If the world’s a game hound, which of us does it worry like a caught hare?