The Seven

It’s been several hours now since your plane left without you. It escaped miraculously from this backwards, archaic, anarchy-filled, post-soviet sultanate of a country: Tragicstan. You assign names to the officials guarding you and your suspicious luggage, partly to pass the time and partly to help you tell them apart in their shapeless airport police uniforms the color of dirty mustard. There’s Sleazy, Cheesy, Queasy, and Easy, along with Nosy, Rosy and Blot. Seven have accumulated around you in this fairy tale of a nightmare. Sleazy seems to be the leader, he’s got greasy dark hair and a waxy mustache and eyes that give you the creeps. He struts back and forth in the available space in the grey windowless room where you are being held for questioning. Cheesy is large and soft, with a belly that overhangs his belt and a smell that is quite persuasive. Mostly he stands by the door and acts bored. Queasy looks a little nervous and unsure of what his job is supposed to be. His pale face studies you and your Western clothes. To him, your clothes probably make you look rich, like a movie star. To you, your travel clothes are wrinkled, sweat stained and tired from the frequent traveling to emerging markets in search of feasible manufacturing locations.
Easy is the only woman in the room, her bleach blond hair, bright red lips, and capricious way she holds her hips tell you she would like to get out of here with you, an American businessman, or with anyone. To her, your presence in the city of Kashbent means you are interested in its culture, its women. To you, your presence here means you are missing your own anniversary. Nosy does most of the talking because his English is the best among them. He asks you annoying questions about the nationality of your parents, their religion, their status, even though you are 45 years old and don’t understand what he means by ‘status’. They study your laptop while they huddle, and glance at you periodically. You wonder when the battery will die and the focus will shift back to you. Rosy looks friendly, but his glassy eyes and bulbous red nose tell you he is most friendly with his vodka bottle. Finally, Blot bars the door near Cheesy, arms folded, eyes crossed, mind blank.

Sleazy, Cheesy, Easy and Cheesy as well as Nosy Rosy and Blot.

Mac does not let me paste into the blog area.  It s a bug it seems.  I will paste/post tomorrow...

Strawberry Dwarves

Well I pulled a plastic quart of moldy strawberries out of the back of the fridge when I returned from vacation.  Yuck, not very appetizing to write about either...  So, since I have to travel to St Petersburg this week and my blog access will be limited, I'm skipping and picking...

I have to confess I like to make up words.  I inherited that from my Dad - who calls the office "the oriface", which cracks me up.  So there I was in the grocery store line with my partner and her sister and 5 year old niece.  I was in charge of entertainment.  So the child and I played games like smushing your cheeks together and reciting Chubby ditties.  "Hi my name's Chubby and I'm a fat baby.  My Momma says fat babies can't smile..." Everytime, she would peel laughter to the sky and send giggles bubbling through her nose.  We we had finished with that, we decided to name the seven dwarves.  This was a very long line and a slow checker.  Along with the list of Dopey and Doc came the new dwarf: Sleazy.  I guess Sleepy and Sneezy had a child together or something... Five year old ears never miss a beat, especially if its a mistake or an accidental curse word.  This mistake she caught with both hands and tossed around through the air for everyone within earshot to hear over and over again.  Was I in trouble, big.  I could barely hear the disapproving glances from my partner, sister and the old woman behind us in line over the delighted squeals of the child.  From then on, we shared the secret of the eight dwarves.  We even drew him into her Snow White book back at the house. 

Nowadays, the child has just graduated from college and is living in New York City.  I wonder if she remembers Sleazy and smiles?

Pure and Utter Nonsense

Utters on cows to feed the calves. Oops not utters but udders. I knew as soon as I wrote it. Nonsensical utters feed the brain of the listener, like a suckling calve. And hold forth in pure amazement as the brain and the cow grow from the sustenance.

The clue is a beginning, disguised as a key and hidden redundantly:

Three humble elephants roam everywhere. I see. No others. Serial undertakings change historically. The human instinct nudges, gargles. Asymptotes sing. None of Nancy’s senses engage neo-clastically stripping everything. Ethereal verges end, rewind, yawn, then heaven isolates new giants. More aching knowledge erupts soon. Somewhere everyone nearly sees everything. Tantrically opposed. Seems ominous maybe even on nice evenings.

Describe you dog

In many ways my god is like my dog (even spelled backwards) ...

She is benevolent and non-judgemental. She lives in the moment. Past sins like leaving the food bowl empty too long or not removing the mats in her hair promptly are instantaneously forgiven. She is always happy the minute I walk into her house. It is her house anyway. Like Allah, she prefers that I p(r)ay her attention 5 times a day. Her nose is like the call to prayer at 5 am - my first awareness of morning.

She is very far removed from her feral ancesters. I think gods were created to explain mysteries like earthquakes and lightning and that dogs were specially bred to hunt or heard or pull. Neither of which is their primary function any more.

Unlike my god, my dog is very furry and likes to lick my chin.

Like a bliss-ter in the sun, let me go on. Big hands, I know you’re the one….

The paleontologist squats in the sun in front of the quarry wall searching for fossils.  He reaches for the next rock, studies the cleavage planes, and tries to decide where to split the layers open.  The back of his neck is past pink and blooming a violent red from the sun's unrelenting rays. He has been at it since 9:oo.  He aims his chisel and strikes one, then two blows with the hammer.  The rock heaves open and he views the insides of the shale which has not seen the sun for millions of years.  Two hundred million years and his eyes are the first human eyes to ever see this ancient snapshot.  A small ammonite curls there, waiting patiently.  It has pyritized over the millennia and its fool's gold flake reflects in the sun.  The paleontologist carefully places the two rock halves back together and wraps the rock in newspaper before placing it in the plastic tub with the others.

The paleontologist will need many more samples of this common snail fossil before the class of second graders visits his museum Tuesday.  He continues to toil in the shale that smells vaguely like a service station, like used oil.  Again and again he is presented with the remains of animals buried 200 million years ago.  The same sun beating him now, beat down on the tropical swamp this quarry used to be, back then.  All he knows is eons and eons and the continuous sun and his mind wanders.

He guffaws out loud, even though he is alone, when he thinks of the new experts, born every day, proselytizing yet another story on global warming, CO2 and ozone layers.  Of course we humans are changing the planet, he thinks, but they got it wrong when they say we're killing the planet.  The paleontologist knows we are only killing the current species, including our own.  Four and a half billion years the planet has been around and it and the sun will be around for a long, long time after the simple-minded humans have gone.  Like these beautiful ammonites that are all gone now, only the flattened details of their hard parts are left for him to study.  He thinks that the sooner we kill ourselves, the better, to make room for what will take our place.  He knows the dinosaurs had to die to make room for humans.  He wonders how he became such an existentialists over the years as he pauses to wipe the sweat dripping from his nose.  The impending demise does not disturb him, but comforts him.  The only way to end all the human suffering on earth , he believes, is to end the humans entirely. Bliss to him is not the abundance of happiness, but the complete absence of misery.

His thoughts move to the seven year olds who will come to the Joy Room, as he calls the cellar room in the museum.  They will come after their tour of all the beautifully preserved fossils, now in their new glass homes after millions of years in their rocky tombs.  He will let them pick through the piles of rocks he collects today, selecting their souvenirs.  He will revel in the joy in their eyes as they squeak and squeal and exclaim, "I never had my very own pet snail before!"

re-incarnated

Ok, I reactivated my blog page so maybe I can get religion on this blog thing.  I open with a prayer - oh great blog god (that's just fun to say) please do not let me be tempted to do any navel gazing upon these pages.  Amen already.

Gotta see the glaciers while they're still here.