A puppy was born today and the world rejoiced. They carried the cute creature across many lands and waters until he arrived at his new home, the Temple of the Rambunctious Cuteness. He opened his eyes that evening and through the haze of newborn confusion and religious fervor saw no teat from which to suckle. Many of the surrounding observers offered their own teats to the puppy (mostly men), but were denied access to His High Puppiness for fear their milk was poison (especially the men).
The ministers of the Temple of the Rambunctious Cuteness knew well the proper diet for the leader of all the Universe's Cuterrians and offered His High Puppiness a small plate of crickets and raw bulgar. When the puppy ate neither offering, the ministers collectively chuckled and explained to the observing masses that the puppy had never tried either one.
"Soon," they said, "His Puppiness' inexperience will be obliterated by an abundance of curiosity. Then His Puppiness will feast on this great Cuterrian feast. Shortly thereafter His Puppiness will offer us advice on how we, too, can be so cute."
Three hours later, His High Puppiness died. While the natural cause of death could be attributed to starvation or malnutrition, the ministers insisted it was the lack of surrounding cute within the Temple.
"But fear not, followers!" the ministers proclaimed, "For His High Deceased Cuteness was one of a litter of seven. Each one cuter than the last."
The recordkeeper of the Temple of Rambunctious Cuteness made a small note on the death certificate about His Puppiness' apparent lack of cuteness with relation to his litter. The note went on for several pages.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Saturday, August 29, 2009
She Talks Sometimes For Days
He understood her better with his eyes closed. She occasionally took to severe rambling which could last all night if the moment -- or many hours of moments -- took her there. He had learned that his eyes told too much and absorbed too little when she went on talking this way. He assured her that she looked just fine, very nice most of the time, but closing his eyes was the only way.
With closed eyes he made images of her words. Instead of her steadily rocking jaw or the pale white wall behind her, he now saw every last lettuce leaf from her lunch. Every patch, paw, and pee of the puppies she came upon. Every single syllable of her sojourns with her mother. He saw still-lifes, faces, moving images, floating words. Years of media inundation had gifted him with the ability to listen to his wife.
This practice went well -- splendidly he thought -- until two problems arose. First, he began falling asleep. It was so much easier to do with closed eyes, so comfortable. So painful when she would discover it and respond with scolding and a kick to the shin. Second, he began improving on her stories in his mind's eye. Embellishments came more easily as he listened with closed eyes. Her tales of walking from work to car became camel caravans across vast Ankharan deserts. She detailed a broken nail and he saw the first exploration of the earth's core. The chats with her mother now included dragons, always dragons. They made him chuckle. She never seemed the wiser of his practice until the chuckles came.
The chuckles were not the only telltale signs. Soon, he began remembering her life in a different order than she lived it. She had met foreign dignitaries and famous athletes, discovered rare birds and new rock forms, leaped across canyons and dimensions. Her conversations were rife with witty banter and (yes) extraordinary repartee. He loved her adventures as seen behind closed eyes. He dreaded the times when she asked him if he remembered such and such or so and so. Occasionally, she did just that. He would nod or feign confusion and lithely evade her inquisitions. Then, he would close his eyes again and make for her a life far better than the one she thought she lived.
With closed eyes he made images of her words. Instead of her steadily rocking jaw or the pale white wall behind her, he now saw every last lettuce leaf from her lunch. Every patch, paw, and pee of the puppies she came upon. Every single syllable of her sojourns with her mother. He saw still-lifes, faces, moving images, floating words. Years of media inundation had gifted him with the ability to listen to his wife.
This practice went well -- splendidly he thought -- until two problems arose. First, he began falling asleep. It was so much easier to do with closed eyes, so comfortable. So painful when she would discover it and respond with scolding and a kick to the shin. Second, he began improving on her stories in his mind's eye. Embellishments came more easily as he listened with closed eyes. Her tales of walking from work to car became camel caravans across vast Ankharan deserts. She detailed a broken nail and he saw the first exploration of the earth's core. The chats with her mother now included dragons, always dragons. They made him chuckle. She never seemed the wiser of his practice until the chuckles came.
The chuckles were not the only telltale signs. Soon, he began remembering her life in a different order than she lived it. She had met foreign dignitaries and famous athletes, discovered rare birds and new rock forms, leaped across canyons and dimensions. Her conversations were rife with witty banter and (yes) extraordinary repartee. He loved her adventures as seen behind closed eyes. He dreaded the times when she asked him if he remembered such and such or so and so. Occasionally, she did just that. He would nod or feign confusion and lithely evade her inquisitions. Then, he would close his eyes again and make for her a life far better than the one she thought she lived.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
New Eyes
He looked at the world through new eyes; eyes he found at the Salvation Army beneath piles and piles of In Styles. The eyes looked large in his smallish hands, but once placed properly were dwarfed by his lollipop head and low, cro-magnon brow. Dainty eyes, he called them. Eyes to be tender by, or with, or to. With these eyes, he thought, I can begin the day with poetry and end with soft glances across candlelight.
By midday, that first day, the left one fell out and down into a sewer grate. He chased it, but was much too late. Goodbye left tender eye, and with one tender eye left, he went back to the Salvation Army looking for a replacement.
Amid the stacks and stacks of National Geographics he found a proper set, but already having a right he only took the left. Here's hoping it fits, he thought, as he popped it in its slot. Snugly this one fit, almost to popping. And off he went with a tiny tender right eye and bugged out left.
Through his new eyes the world looked soft and insane, lovely and stank, sighing and ow-wooooo-gah. A woman walked by on his right, a lady by all accounts, and smiled at him with his sweet little eye. He turned to look and the hideous left sent her straight into a run. His right eye wanted to cry and his left wanted a doughnut.
One night, as his right eye slept, his left stayed awake singing off-key about bottles of beer taken down from a wall. When the song ended, his left eye slapped the right awake, then pretended to be asleep. The right knew better, but thought better of retaliating.
All through breakfast the left eye smoked cigars and listened to sports news, guffawing at the perpetual biting commentaries. The right eye closed both from fatigue and ignominy. Soon the left eye would fall asleep on the couch and the right eye could listen to Debussy, read some Proust, admire the begonias.
He enjoyed his new eyes enough, despite the frightened looks of children, women, men, dogs, giraffes, and insects all. However, he eventually went back to his old eyes. He returned the new two to the Salvation Army, pretending to read an old SI as he popped out the left and an antiquated copy of the New Yorker as he gently slid out the right. They stayed among the piles and stacks of magazines there at the Salvation Army. Neither eye found its partner, former or new. Nobody ever adopted them as new eyes again because nobody wants an eye unless its part of a pair.
He looked at the world through his old eyes. And everything looked the same.
By midday, that first day, the left one fell out and down into a sewer grate. He chased it, but was much too late. Goodbye left tender eye, and with one tender eye left, he went back to the Salvation Army looking for a replacement.
Amid the stacks and stacks of National Geographics he found a proper set, but already having a right he only took the left. Here's hoping it fits, he thought, as he popped it in its slot. Snugly this one fit, almost to popping. And off he went with a tiny tender right eye and bugged out left.
Through his new eyes the world looked soft and insane, lovely and stank, sighing and ow-wooooo-gah. A woman walked by on his right, a lady by all accounts, and smiled at him with his sweet little eye. He turned to look and the hideous left sent her straight into a run. His right eye wanted to cry and his left wanted a doughnut.
One night, as his right eye slept, his left stayed awake singing off-key about bottles of beer taken down from a wall. When the song ended, his left eye slapped the right awake, then pretended to be asleep. The right knew better, but thought better of retaliating.
All through breakfast the left eye smoked cigars and listened to sports news, guffawing at the perpetual biting commentaries. The right eye closed both from fatigue and ignominy. Soon the left eye would fall asleep on the couch and the right eye could listen to Debussy, read some Proust, admire the begonias.
He enjoyed his new eyes enough, despite the frightened looks of children, women, men, dogs, giraffes, and insects all. However, he eventually went back to his old eyes. He returned the new two to the Salvation Army, pretending to read an old SI as he popped out the left and an antiquated copy of the New Yorker as he gently slid out the right. They stayed among the piles and stacks of magazines there at the Salvation Army. Neither eye found its partner, former or new. Nobody ever adopted them as new eyes again because nobody wants an eye unless its part of a pair.
He looked at the world through his old eyes. And everything looked the same.
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