We Should See Other Blogs

Ice pellets began pelting down last night; my bed is closest to the window, and they kept waking me up. So, weather, you have done your worst. And your worst is that I need an extra tankard of coffee today. Suck on that!

Driving to work, I found the roads icy, but not too bad. I survived, I didn’t fishtail, and I’m at work in the safety of my comfortable chair. (Watch it kill me for saying that!) This morning I really pity the people that have for whatever reason decided to live an hour away. I just don’t get that. All those house killed just driving and driving and driving, which happens to be the most dangerous thing you do on (probably) a daily basis. I’d rather cramp my lifestyle overall, live closer to work, and have that extra time to earn money (wonderful money) or spend at home (she’s a wonderful wife) with Laura.

Different-Tempered Oscar the Alternate-Accommodation Person peeked over the lid of his recycling bin to see his friend, Size-Challenged Avian-American, strolling down across the park. Oscar couldn’t help remembering the dangerous street he had once lived beside, relief flooding him as he looked over his gentle green park.

“How’s it going, Size-Challenged Avian-American?” asked Oscar.
“Well, thank you, Different-Tempered Oscar,” Size-Challenged Avian-American replied. “Have you seen the Carrot Stick monster around?”
Oscar was shocked. “You know it’s offensive to call him a monster, don’t you?”
“Oh, right,” Size-Challenged Avian-American sighed, obviously embarrassed by his lack of consideration. “Have you seen the Carrot Stick Non-Standard-Body-Type Person?”
“No,” Oscar replied. “Maybe you should ask Count von Unconventional-Liquid-Diet von Count when you see him next.”

Just then an enraged man with a bazooka over his shoulder and an AK-47 in one burst onto the scene. “I’m sick of this idiotic trip you’re feeding my children!” he shouted, shooting Oscar in the head. “You’re Oscar the Grouch! And that’s okay! You live in a garbage can! And that’s okay too!”

He turned to Size-Challenged Avian-American, who stood looking stupidly down the barrel of the AK-47. “You’re a big bird! You’re fat! That’s fine! You’re a bird! There’s nothing wrong with that!” BOOM. Big Bird disappeared in a ball of fire and charred feathers.

Looking down the street, the man spotted the Carrot Stick Non-Standard-Body-Type person. “You’re a monster!” He shouted. “You know why? Because you look like a monster! You eat cookies because cookies taste good and every sane person like cookies!” Cookie Monster slumped against the wall, a hail of bullets perforating his hide. Stuffing began to leak out.

“One, two, three bullets,” the Count said, emerging from behind a tree. “Four, five, six bullets.”
“You know what your unconventional liquid diet is, Count?” the man asked.
“I don’t know, I don’t care,” said the Count. “Why are you shooting people with seven, eight, nine bullets?”
“I’m the repressed man underneath all this pablum and bullshit!”
“That’s a naughty word,” the count said, wagging his finger.
“You drink blood. Did you know that? And that’s the only reason I’m leaving you alive. You haven’t had your fangs removed yet.”
“One, two fangs,” the count said, idiotically. “One, two fangs.”

Are we not all vapours? Dissipation and not a trace
remaining, Scent and recent absence enjambed
for these half-forgotten senses.

Final verses, unrehearsed. Pursed lips stumble
and the key tumbles to the floor.

Are we not all vapours? Boiled and condensed
and returning, burning to the spawning ground.
Phoenixed life that cannot be recalled.

Final hearses, unreversed. Motionless earth,
frozen heart, still beating.

Are we not all vapours? These few moments flickering
by in saccades, and not a face remaining,
a sieve-saw memory, and a blind spot
where the angels hid themselves away.

In the seven years preceding,
the anticipation was sparking stones,
sparks extinguished
behind the dam.

The first night, sweeping aside the veil,
I am a horrible torrent.

Each night after, elsewhere in dreams,
you are wildfire.

Eventually you get used to the crickets. They’re everywhere, invisible, but everywhere. You wake up to the sound of crickets, you go to sleep to the sound of crickets, you work all day to the sound of cricket, and when you finally get home, the sound of crickets bounces off every wall. I hate the word “cricket”. I hate the sound. Even though I barely notice them these days, sometimes they drive me crazy.

The little man in the mirror can talk to the crickets. He tells me what they’re thinking. I often think this is rather strange, but the little man in the mirror is a strange fellow. He can do things I can’t. Maybe I’m too big or something. He only appears on that side of the mirror, never this side. He tells me its too cold over here. But he still talks to me through the mirror, keeps me company when I’m shaving.

“Have you thought of a name for me yet?” he asks as I am cleaning stubble out of the sink. / “No,” I reply, as if this is obvious. “Why do you need a name?” / The little man shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says. “They say I need one.” / They. “Who are they?” / He frowns. “I told you yesterday-” / “I didn’t see you yesterday,” I interrupt. “You were gone.” / “The day before yesterday,” he tells me. “I told you the day before yesterday.” / “I don’t remember. Tell me again.” / “You have a very bad memory.” I don’t, of course. I just want to hear him say it again; sometimes I lie to see if he’ll say the same thing twice. I’m not entirely sure I can trust the little man in the mirror. / “The crickets,” he replies, sighing, as if telling me these things again is a great burden he must bear. “The crickets tell me that I need a name. They tell me that you’ll give me one.” / I think about this for a moment, while putting away my razor. “What will happen if I don’t?” / The little man in the mirror shrugs again. “Do you want to find out?” / “I suppose not,” I reply. “It’s not a big thing, giving you a name.” / “It is to me,” he says, shortly. Then he walks off to the side of the mirror. I wait for a few seconds, but he doesn’t come back.

I flip the light switch and the bulb begins to power down, buzzing. It flickers and goes out.

There’s a knock on my apartment door, which of course means the bun lady is here. When I swing the door wide open the crickets let out a burst of noise as if annoyed. It echoes in my head as I say, “Hello,” to the bun lady. / Hello, she replies in her own way. Would you like some buns. / “Of course,” I say, accepting the basket. “Would you like some money?” / For you, she says, smiling, no charge. Her teeth are very sharp; I can see them gleam as she smiles her wide smile. Her mouth seems to go from ear to ear. / “Thank you,” I reply. The bun lady makes the best buns in the world and never charges me. “Would you like to come in?” / No, she says. Perhaps someday, but not now. She is looking at me with that thing in her eyes, that thing I sometimes think is desire. / “Oh.” Sadly. I would very much like to talk to her someday, and make her a meal. / You will make a good one, the bun lady says. I do not know what she means, but she has stopped smiling and is looking down the hall. I must go.

Edith walks past after the bun lady leaves. “Talking to the bun lady?” she asks, looking at me sympathetically. Edith has an odd way about her, always looking at things as if they are to be pitied. / “Yes,” I say, nodding. “She gave me more buns.” / Edith gazes down at my hand holding the basket of buns, and says, “Of course she did, honey, of course she did.” / But I do not like Edith, so I turn and walk back into my apartment. I close the door, and when I look through the tiny telescope, she has moved on.

Later, I eat the buns without butter — where can you get butter these days? — and they are, as always, delicious. I begin to feel drowsy off with the food in my stomach, and I crawl into bed. I doze off to the sound of crickets. In my last moments of consciousness, I know I will wake to them as well.

I dream of a world without sound.

I wish I could tell the world how much I love Laura… but I can’t. I wish there were words to spell it out… but there aren’t.

All I’ve got it approximations: She’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me: She the greatest gift I could have asked for.

Those are just tip-toeing around it. I can try to approach it in writing, in poems, obliquely; but in the end I’m stymied by how badly my tongue and my brain connect.

I’ll leave it there. I love her.

The end.

You know, after last night’s How I Met Your Mother, I can definitively say the show is my favourite sitcom. It’s also my favourite show to watch; you know the one you can’t wait to sit down and watch? The one you gather the family around the couch to view? How I Met Your Mother is that show.

And yet the writers strike will disrupt my joy in the show. This does not make me happy.

Okay, the title of this post was a little misleading.

Ever since the war on Iraq, I’ve wondered if anyone actually believes the Bush administration’s line about “bringing freedom and democracy” to the Middle East and elsewhere. I mean, it’s a tagline for a war that was originally about weapons of mass destruction, which didn’t exist; then it was about Al Qaeda, even though there wasn’t even the most tenuous link between Iraq and Al Qaeda; now it’s about freedom and democracy, after all, who in their right mind doesn’t like freedom and democracy?

Maybe, just maybe, all these changing motivations simple disguise another, hidden motivation. Maybe the war isn’t about freedom. Maybe it’s about something else.

But today I had the pleasure of talking to a man who was ardent in his support of Bush — croneyism, corruption, malice, deception, dirty tricks, and stupidity notwithstanding — and actually believed that Bush wants to bring freedom to the world.

It’s not a debate I want to have, really. I just found it astounding. Besides, if that’s what freedom looks like, I’m pretty sure the word doesn’t want it.

God’s economy is so strange, isn’t it? What should be failure is success. What should be death is life. What should be stupidity is wisdom. His currency is so very different from mine.

Maybe this is why when I expect messiah to be a military leader, he comes and conquers things I didn’t expect, using methods I hadn’t foreseen. Or when I assume Jesus will validate my holiness, he exposes me as an illusionist, as a fraud. Or when I show him my methodology, he tells me that true religion is taking care of widows, feeding orphans, that sort of thing.

Jesus is almost maddeningly different from the world I live in. Sometimes he makes me crazy, because even at the best of times, I’m a Pharisee whitewashing my own grave. He asks my why I call him master, even though I don’t do what he says. He tells me that I am blessed if I hear his words and obey them.

He wants me to become like a child. Or a servant. Or a sacrifice. Naturally, I don’t really want to be any of those things.

There’s so much of the old me to toss in the trash. I am supposed to don humility and slough off pride. I have the Holy Ghost working in me, powering me.

I’ve been a Christian for ten or so years now. Why, then, does this all still feel so strange?

Ringing in the buzzing silence,
a panelled nightmare encroaches.
Your body amalgamated mayflies
in aggregated maggotry.
This dimension disappears with
familiarity. The world
collapses into my
forehead.