I think I ate a radioactive apple last night around 11:00pm. It was the most delicious apple I had eaten in so long, but when I got halfway through it I noticed a brown spot inside. Uh-oh, I thought. But the apple was so perfect, I figured, that's gotta be a fluke, some strange bruise or something. Munch, munch, mu-AUUUGH!!! I bite off a big bite and underneath was this huge jelly-like brown bruise death pocket. I literally said, "Guuwaaaaaaaahl...!" and dropped the, thankfully un-chewed, bite from my teeth. I rolled down the window and with a bit of remorse, but mostly feelings of betrayal, I threw my poison apple into the bushes.
Not long after, I noticed an unusual awake feeling that lasted all night, culminating in an uncontrollable vacuuming fit this morning when I got home. Our carpet has been thoroughly abused.
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Taming of the Shrew
I think I'm gaining some supernatural ability to gain the trust of animals. It has resulted in tragedy. Last night Isabel, the cleaning lady came to me with a teensy-tiny little baby rat she had caught. I assume it was a baby rat, though it may have been a full-grown shrew. In fact, I just Google image searched "shrew" and yep, that's what it was. Well, at least I'm not a baby killer. Anyhow Isabel came to me with it and I was like, aaaaw, it's so little, and it was funny, it crawled onto my hand and up my arm and around my back, not really fast or anything, almost friendly-like, but then it wanted to escape into my sleeves, that's where I drew the line. So I took it outside and I couldn't let it go because it would just come back in the building the same way it got in in the first place, so I figured I'd walk a ways and let it go, but nowhere seemed far enough, and I couldn't risk afflicting my innocent, sleeping senior citizens with a Shrew in their garage. All this time I kept the little Shrew busy by switching hands as he ran across one to the other to the other. He seemed to catch on that my hands were a little more clever than he, and soon he settled into a squished little squat in one palm, undoubtedly contemplating how to get back to the bread-crumbed heaven he once knew.
Well, things were looking grim. I imagined all the ways to kill a shrew in the most painless manner. He was going to have to die, you can't just let pests like that go, they just come back. But I just didn't have the heart. Not after he'd shown me his humanity. I can't even step on an ant if I watch it stumbling around in circles too long. So I turned around and unlocked my Mini-van. Inside I found an empty Kirkland Choice water bottle. Perfect. I opened the bottle with one hand, the shrew sitting obediently in my left palm, and slipped him inside. He didn't really know how he felt about that, and made a few feeble attempts to scale the sides of the bottle. But the slippery slopes of Mt. Plastic kept him at the bottom. I brought the bottle inside to the main office to look for something to poke holes in the top of the lid with. I passed David, Isabel's brother, I told him, "They can kill him in the morning if they want, I didn't have the guts to do it." He shrugged and kept vacuuming. In the office I poked a couple holes in the lid with a big pair of scissors and for good measure slipped in a Kleenex. I figured he could make a bed, or eat it or something. I really don't know much about Shrews.
Back at my desk I wrote on an index card to leave at the front desk for whoever came in in the morning, "Isabel (the cleaning lady) caught a little friend, I have him/her in an empty water bottle. It's a shrew, or a baby rat or a very, very small black bear. I've decided to name him 'Andre the Giant.' -Safety Patrol Bill." Andre scurried around in circles in his new home while I finished a flipbook. He came with me on my next patrol, I hung his bottle from the rearview mirror with an old air freshener elastic. He would gnaw on the tissue and then try to jump to the top of the bottle. I thought maybe the tissue was his normal food source and he was energizing himself. I thought about the novelty of a pet shrew, and the likelihood of taming it. I figured there probably wasn't a lower maintenance pet in Washington. Just drop a square of Charmin in his cage once a day and he does the rest.
On my next patrol I left him on my desk, convinced now that he was unable to chew through the bottle, or somehow roll it to freedom. But I got anxious halfway through my tour, and stopped at the Club house again to check on him. He hadn't escaped. I had turned off the lights and he decided it was night time so he'd curled up in the tissue bed. Ha! I knew he'd like that. So I finished my patrol and came back. I put some finishing touches on my flipbook around 3:40am. I tried to work quietly so I wouldn't wake up Andre. It occurred to me that Shrews must be pretty light sleepers in general, but Andre was zonked out, no doubt the result of a valiant struggle to reach the top of his 20oz Townhome. Or was he? I turned the bottle a little. He didn't wake up. My stomach sank. Oh, no. I turned the bottle sideways and my little friend Andre rolled stiffly out of his Kleenex bed and plunked against the side. I sighed. This is why I can't have nice things.
I took back the index card and wrote on a new one, "Isabel (the cleaning lady) caught a little friend. It was a shrew, or a baby rat, or a very, very small black bear. I've decided to name him 'Andre the Giant.' May he rest in peace." I left the note card sticking up in the front desk keyboard like a little college-ruled tombstone, and gave Andre a brief funeral service outside by the waste basket. As near as I can figure it, I didn't make the holes big enough and Andre just fell asleep, only to wake up in that great, big, bread-crumbed main office in the sky.
I have to say, I was a little disappointed in myself. After all, Shrews are about the lowest maintenance pets in Washington, and I'd killed mine in less than four hours. But I think it was an answer to a prayer—actually, I really do. Because I didn't want to kill it in some gruesome way, and I knew I couldn't keep it (see: gross). So, it simply fell asleep, to dream of dreams eternal.
Well, things were looking grim. I imagined all the ways to kill a shrew in the most painless manner. He was going to have to die, you can't just let pests like that go, they just come back. But I just didn't have the heart. Not after he'd shown me his humanity. I can't even step on an ant if I watch it stumbling around in circles too long. So I turned around and unlocked my Mini-van. Inside I found an empty Kirkland Choice water bottle. Perfect. I opened the bottle with one hand, the shrew sitting obediently in my left palm, and slipped him inside. He didn't really know how he felt about that, and made a few feeble attempts to scale the sides of the bottle. But the slippery slopes of Mt. Plastic kept him at the bottom. I brought the bottle inside to the main office to look for something to poke holes in the top of the lid with. I passed David, Isabel's brother, I told him, "They can kill him in the morning if they want, I didn't have the guts to do it." He shrugged and kept vacuuming. In the office I poked a couple holes in the lid with a big pair of scissors and for good measure slipped in a Kleenex. I figured he could make a bed, or eat it or something. I really don't know much about Shrews.
Back at my desk I wrote on an index card to leave at the front desk for whoever came in in the morning, "Isabel (the cleaning lady) caught a little friend, I have him/her in an empty water bottle. It's a shrew, or a baby rat or a very, very small black bear. I've decided to name him 'Andre the Giant.' -Safety Patrol Bill." Andre scurried around in circles in his new home while I finished a flipbook. He came with me on my next patrol, I hung his bottle from the rearview mirror with an old air freshener elastic. He would gnaw on the tissue and then try to jump to the top of the bottle. I thought maybe the tissue was his normal food source and he was energizing himself. I thought about the novelty of a pet shrew, and the likelihood of taming it. I figured there probably wasn't a lower maintenance pet in Washington. Just drop a square of Charmin in his cage once a day and he does the rest.
On my next patrol I left him on my desk, convinced now that he was unable to chew through the bottle, or somehow roll it to freedom. But I got anxious halfway through my tour, and stopped at the Club house again to check on him. He hadn't escaped. I had turned off the lights and he decided it was night time so he'd curled up in the tissue bed. Ha! I knew he'd like that. So I finished my patrol and came back. I put some finishing touches on my flipbook around 3:40am. I tried to work quietly so I wouldn't wake up Andre. It occurred to me that Shrews must be pretty light sleepers in general, but Andre was zonked out, no doubt the result of a valiant struggle to reach the top of his 20oz Townhome. Or was he? I turned the bottle a little. He didn't wake up. My stomach sank. Oh, no. I turned the bottle sideways and my little friend Andre rolled stiffly out of his Kleenex bed and plunked against the side. I sighed. This is why I can't have nice things.
I took back the index card and wrote on a new one, "Isabel (the cleaning lady) caught a little friend. It was a shrew, or a baby rat, or a very, very small black bear. I've decided to name him 'Andre the Giant.' May he rest in peace." I left the note card sticking up in the front desk keyboard like a little college-ruled tombstone, and gave Andre a brief funeral service outside by the waste basket. As near as I can figure it, I didn't make the holes big enough and Andre just fell asleep, only to wake up in that great, big, bread-crumbed main office in the sky.
I have to say, I was a little disappointed in myself. After all, Shrews are about the lowest maintenance pets in Washington, and I'd killed mine in less than four hours. But I think it was an answer to a prayer—actually, I really do. Because I didn't want to kill it in some gruesome way, and I knew I couldn't keep it (see: gross). So, it simply fell asleep, to dream of dreams eternal.
Scenes from a Doctor's Visit
Shot of a Doctors office, it’s winter, everything is frozen but the snow hasn’t fallen yet. Parking lot is mostly full. Afternoon but not dark yet. Pan close up across one side of the office from the outside. Each room is empty until we stop on a window where Carrie sits up on a bench in normal clothes, staring at a corner of the room. Stares for a time. The door beside her begins to open and she startles, recovers, cut scene.
Close up shot through rear window of a brand new Volkswagen Golf parked outside Doctors office. Carrie is visible hunched in her seat, head hung over the steering wheel. We see her lean back on her head rest, obviously sighing. Distant shot from high above (across the street from) Doctors office. VW Golf is the only car in the parking lot, tail lights turn on, engine starts. Cut scene.
Inside a warm apartment, noise of kids playing, TV on.
Close up shot through rear window of a brand new Volkswagen Golf parked outside Doctors office. Carrie is visible hunched in her seat, head hung over the steering wheel. We see her lean back on her head rest, obviously sighing. Distant shot from high above (across the street from) Doctors office. VW Golf is the only car in the parking lot, tail lights turn on, engine starts. Cut scene.
Inside a warm apartment, noise of kids playing, TV on.
Self Esteem
There are all kinds of hints I pick up, mostly when I’m alone or have a quiet moment to contemplate my own strange psyche, that allude to a struggle with self esteem, or self worth, confidence, whatever you may call it. Be it the music I buy to temporarily fill a hole, or the social anxiety I create within me, and the struggle to remain on top of mounting work. Sometimes I point with absurd objectivity at my own self-destructive apathy towards due dates, projects, opportunities. I give myself ownership of this apathy, but in fact, it’s not mine in the sense of a characteristic. It’s a thing I create off and on, and in my most epiphanistic moments, I realize it for the scapegoat it is. With apathy comes lack of progress, depression, and when one is depressed, you’ve got a new problem to worry about so you don’t have to deal with the problems you’re really trying to avoid.
To illustrate my point allow me to tell you of a dream I had not long ago. It was a short dream (though I remember it clearly), more of a preview filling the space between two other dreams of feature length –neither of which I recall. At the time of this dream, in the real world, I liked a girl who by some strange effort of fate I had not been able to get to know yet. That is a story with a payoff not worth the length of the narrative, so I skip ahead; rest assured, I liked this girl. In the dream I was opening a can of tuna fish (solid white albacore tuna, in fact), presumably to make a sandwich, when the girl found me, finally. She was happy to see me so she gave me a hug and promised we’d meet up again soon. As I wrapped my arms around her it occurred to me how embarrassing it was that I was holding an open can of tuna fish.
In real life a similar experience had driven my passion for tuna into exile, when I climbed into the back seat of a friends car after having finished a delicious tuna fish sandwich just moments prior. Ten minutes into the journey the girl sitting next to me (an ex-special someone recently reconciled) asked the car in general if anybody had eaten fish. I mumbled some self-defense I can’t remember now and swore the next time I would brush my teeth and sing the ABCs four times as I washed my hands.
Returning to the dream, I felt strangely confident with the girl in my arms despite the albacore in my hand. She didn’t seem to mind the smell, and at least it wasn’t chunk light tuna in oil; now that would have been embarrassing.
Upon waking, I interpreted the open can of tuna fish to represent my short comings, or my quirks ¬–my little “defects” which set me apart and sometimes seemed to hold me back from becoming a greater version of myself. Something like that, but not exactly. While my can of fish was slightly unattractive, it was something I was comfortable with (albacore tuna vs. chunk light; perhaps forgetting to bring in the milk vs. alcoholism), and the girl I was hugging accepted me even if I might sometimes smell a little fishy.
To illustrate my point allow me to tell you of a dream I had not long ago. It was a short dream (though I remember it clearly), more of a preview filling the space between two other dreams of feature length –neither of which I recall. At the time of this dream, in the real world, I liked a girl who by some strange effort of fate I had not been able to get to know yet. That is a story with a payoff not worth the length of the narrative, so I skip ahead; rest assured, I liked this girl. In the dream I was opening a can of tuna fish (solid white albacore tuna, in fact), presumably to make a sandwich, when the girl found me, finally. She was happy to see me so she gave me a hug and promised we’d meet up again soon. As I wrapped my arms around her it occurred to me how embarrassing it was that I was holding an open can of tuna fish.
In real life a similar experience had driven my passion for tuna into exile, when I climbed into the back seat of a friends car after having finished a delicious tuna fish sandwich just moments prior. Ten minutes into the journey the girl sitting next to me (an ex-special someone recently reconciled) asked the car in general if anybody had eaten fish. I mumbled some self-defense I can’t remember now and swore the next time I would brush my teeth and sing the ABCs four times as I washed my hands.
Returning to the dream, I felt strangely confident with the girl in my arms despite the albacore in my hand. She didn’t seem to mind the smell, and at least it wasn’t chunk light tuna in oil; now that would have been embarrassing.
Upon waking, I interpreted the open can of tuna fish to represent my short comings, or my quirks ¬–my little “defects” which set me apart and sometimes seemed to hold me back from becoming a greater version of myself. Something like that, but not exactly. While my can of fish was slightly unattractive, it was something I was comfortable with (albacore tuna vs. chunk light; perhaps forgetting to bring in the milk vs. alcoholism), and the girl I was hugging accepted me even if I might sometimes smell a little fishy.
Wyatt's First Essay
Nnjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj ., ukkkkk,,c yyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy][80jh9 y8 fcv87i,u u mnb n99775bijn ]o0\kkkkggfgrlooooooooooooo cx f f bbbjf dddd ff k k c 99ij , nnbv zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
999999990oui n 9i mailto: nnnnnnnnnnn llllli’iiiiiiiii xccccccccc ggg o v hunph n nv hbjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj , lhtrui\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\qqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqq
,m .ooooo,
/¿Æ”lv http://www.fafsa.ed.gov/ http://www.fafsa.ed.gov/ l;l
89;l’[kv xxc
999999990oui n 9i mailto: nnnnnnnnnnn llllli’iiiiiiiii xccccccccc ggg o v hunph n nv hbjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjj , lhtrui\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\qqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqqq
,m .ooooo,
/¿Æ”lv http://www.fafsa.ed.gov/ http://www.fafsa.ed.gov/ l;l
89;l’[kv xxc
Houses
Frail houses leaning together
pool the rain
in weary weather.
They spill out down the railroads
in or out of town.
Boys in worn out sandal treads
balance bones
on dirty heads.
They work to wake their fathers,
for their sister’s sake.
Hope boils and weaves
through bamboo walls,
banana leaves;
For tougher feet and longer sleeves
and floors not made of sand.
pool the rain
in weary weather.
They spill out down the railroads
in or out of town.
Boys in worn out sandal treads
balance bones
on dirty heads.
They work to wake their fathers,
for their sister’s sake.
Hope boils and weaves
through bamboo walls,
banana leaves;
For tougher feet and longer sleeves
and floors not made of sand.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
