As a treat at our pizza party, I offered the class the showing of a film that is touted by one of my dear, loving friends as the epitome of live action cute. Wanting to get away from animation and show them something different, the cat-and-dog-together script seemed like a great idea, promoting animal awareness is right up front in the elementary pantheon. The film was a five dollar deal at the local box store, and the promo photo was of an orange kitten and pug: Milo and Otis, narrated by Dudley Moore, stamped with approval by some capitalized entity.
I did some research, and found this from the Washington Post: "They don't come any cuter than "The Adventures of Milo and Otis," a heartwarming, tail-thumping story about a curious kitten and his pug-nosed puppy pal. It's totally awwwwww-some. Enthusiastically narrated by Dudley Moore, this cuddlesome take on Old MacDonald's place follows the best buddies from their bucolic barnyard home to the scary forests adjoining the farm. Already a box office hit in Japan, the live-action film features an all-animal cast under the direction of Japanese author and zoologist Masanori Hata, who urged his stars to act instinctively." Instinctively?
So after cheese and pepperoni were dispensed, children instructed to chew with their mouths closed, and napkins passed, the movie began. La la la, cat gets in trouble, dog saves; cat falls in water, dog tosses in a branch for the cat to climb out on; cat visits chickens, cat visits baby pigs, cat sleeps with baby pigs, the piglets waken and begin to nurse from immense, technicolor mama sow. EWWWWW. The kitten appears and begins to nurse from mama; EEEEEWWWW WHAT'S HE DOING??? I skipped ahead a few frames and read the back of the dvd box; the filming was done in Japan, 1986. What else could happen on a farm in a children's film? Watch this, says the zoologist director.
Actually, other than the cat eating a dead muskrat that a fox had buried, not much until Milo the orange troublemaker is separated from Otis the dog and in their journey each find respectively, a girl cat and a girl dog. Another pug. Out in the wild. Winter sets in, heavy with snow, but each pair of animals survives; the cats end up on a farm, and the dogs end up in a cave and boy dog hunts in snow up to his neck for mice. Mid-winter, the girl cat, Joyce, whispers to Milo that she thinks it's time. Time for what, the first grade teacher wondered. This is a kid's video. Can't be. Not possible. No. NO.
A quick close up of cat butt, and ploop!! A small, wet, placental bag of kitten is born. WHAT'S THAT, WHAT'S HAPPENING? I stop the movie.
"I'm skipping ahead. We don't have to see this part, it's kittens being born."
"WE WANT TO SEEEEEEE," Nope, nope, nope. Skip ahead to the dog part, no more cats at the moment, fine, until the girl dog whispers to the boy dog that she thinks it's time. WHAM, I hit the pause button.
"NOOOO, WE WANT TO SEE THE BAAAAABIESSSSSS."
Who would like more pizzaaaaa? Raise your hands. Happy teacher.
I jumped to the last two frames of the story, with the two families getting back together after the hunting pug found frozen fish hanging on lines outside of Milo's adopted farm. Warm and cozy, said the narrator, just as friends should be.
We cleaned up, I gave away leftover pizza as foil-wrapped prizes and have four days left in the school year; marks have closed, I will get report cards completed this Monday. It will all be review work from here on out. Perhaps I will have my new car by then, perhaps I will have begun a new painting; I would like not to think of school for at least three days before starting to get ready for the next year, and have to assign goals to work towards over the few weeks of summer lay-off. If there are any more movies within this four day period, I'm sticking with Pixar.
Have a busy productive day, plan ahead as to how it will end; endings are important. The last of spring has hours before tumbling into summer solstice, beginning at 12:38 p.m. this June 21st, tomorrow. Then the sun will leave us minute by minute quicker, shortening daylight and lengthening the dark, till we ache from the gray mid-life of winter and it returns again. Go see the leaves, listen to birds, walk near water sloshing on the sand. Watch the summer sky at night, stand out in the yard and count stars, lucky you.
Saturday, June 20, 2015
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
Last Drive
I dislike the classification of sentimentalist, it seems mawkish and tawdry, illuminated by a mercury vapor lamp into an orange-grey world. Keep away from me, Hallmark; your platitudes and assurances bring an odor of yesterday's socks. I also loathe certain words; whimsy, unless it means nosegay; "delish," unless nothing. No redemptive echo there. But to anthropomorphize inanimate, unconscious objects? I'm in the front row.
Through a series of paperwork somersaults, I am in process of acquiring a different car from a private owner, and by gum, the things I'm learning about the layers of who shot John regarding loans, titles, insurance, and no we won'ts, particularly from the apartment complex who said they would not allow me a day to have an unlicense-plated car in the lot. One. Day. The old management would have said okey-dokey since the workers would come into my apartment and use my hot sauce on their fast food sandwiches. Evidence? Diminishing levels within the bottle, and on occasion, a crumpled sandwich wrapper that missed the garbage can. That's another story, though.
This story concerns conversations I have had with my 2001 Chevy Cavalier that I would keep forever except that it is accelerating in falling apart, and leaves a red trail of rusted metal wherever I park. The trunk lock no longer works and the lid is now tied down with yellow nylon and it bounces. I tried all the suggested remedies, but nothing doing. The right window is permanently shut, the mechanic put something in the door to keep it up so the car would pass inspection. The spend money check engine light says hello. The rear defroster signed off three years back. Brake fluid disappears with each severe change in outdoor temperature. The body is rusting. One good tire. The driver's side door was replaced and is black, but by golly, it has a crank window knob. The left front strut is gone, the right rear strut is soon to follow; this past fall I was helped by one mechanic and had my head danced upon by another to the total tune of $3,000 in repairs. I wish the dancer a wolverine up his leg someday. That's another story.
But this red car was the nicest thing I had ever bought myself. Again, the salesman told me no no no never in an accident till he opened the guts of the driver's side door one day to fix the window and lo, the inside was blue with red spray paint coming to the edges. The dash has since developed cracks, showing the earthquake effect of a t-bone accident. But it was a neat little car, a bit sporty, and had a sunroof. The logistics of payment fit, and I Had A Car. It got me out of any snowbank, held ground in the worst weather; it only didn't start twice in it's life, once being because I left the lights on. Any empty college parking lot at night was the better for it, as then the door lock remote worked and the engine always turned over. The engine is now tired and doesn't accelerate as quickly, but it still gets me to work over one of the worst, bombed-out roads in the city.
So, can an unliving thing care? Are there agreements and understandings between car and driver? I love to drive, and miss the long trips I would take mid-State to Corning and beyond. They will come again via the car that's coming in, who's owner said he would store it until I got the Cavalier settled, thus avoiding the temporary plate business and the unhelpful apartment management. By "unhelpful" I mean something else, but being a good person (mostly), those sorts of words should not be said except in a wind tunnel; I wish them wolverines as well.
There will be soon, a Last Drive of my old friend who got me out of many places, and took me all the way to Boston, Massachusetts once. How will I find this new car in a lot? It's black, which I don't mind, but the red stood out, especially red with one black door. This thing is a clever box of a car, but it reminds me of a hearse for refrigerators. A paddy wagon owned by Lurch. A dairy truck which delivers Stygian milk from contented black widows. It will not be my formerly zippy red Chevy; comfortable, reliable, friendly as a pony. I usually pat the car after it gets me home and say 'thank you' because to me, the service seems real, a gift; I guess because a car moves and responds as you wish it to. My couch is nice, but it isn't my friend (maybe). I will cry after the last drive. I know it. Me. The anti-sentimentalist.
The line of plastic frogs that live under the front passenger seat facing the door will be moved to the newer digs. Don't ask, I don't know. One dropped down there--I teach kids, I give away earth science prizes--and soon a row of toy frogs gradually appeared as they came into my life. There is a large dead bug jammed between the upholstery and the rear window; he's been there for the twelve years I have had the car. The wings were a glossy green and looked great so I left him there; he's faded to a dull tan, bereft of former glory, but we all can use some kindness at that stage.
The trunk needs unloading, picture frames need to be brought in, a good vacuuming wouldn't hurt. Years ago, I learned that everything is transient, nothing ever stays the same; letting go is a healthy exercise in self-preservation. In truth, the Chevy is dangerous in spite of new brakes and fuel lines; this black box opportunity was pointed out by a friend's car-smart husband, and it makes sense. Especially since, as when I got out of my car the other day, a thing was hanging on the lot fence; an earring? Nope. A key tag for the type of car I am buying. Toyota Scion, right where I pulled in. A sign, says I. Good enough for me.
We all have one last times, even if we don't recognize them amid vows of return to favorite beaches, restaurants, and especially, friends. If I knew it would have been the one last time, I would not have been so blithe in my so longs. Every goodbye shouldn't be dramatic stage-chewing, but there are folks that you say goodbye to knowing it is the last time, and others that, well, life gets in the way, as it should. Travelers, we are, accomplished beings following an internal compass along paths that occasionally cross, or that are lit by the nodding lanterns held by those who see your journey in their own memories. Good night, then, and sleep in quiet calm, your heart beating softly steady as you visit places unknown, through the deepest levels of somnolence. Thank you, old friend.
Through a series of paperwork somersaults, I am in process of acquiring a different car from a private owner, and by gum, the things I'm learning about the layers of who shot John regarding loans, titles, insurance, and no we won'ts, particularly from the apartment complex who said they would not allow me a day to have an unlicense-plated car in the lot. One. Day. The old management would have said okey-dokey since the workers would come into my apartment and use my hot sauce on their fast food sandwiches. Evidence? Diminishing levels within the bottle, and on occasion, a crumpled sandwich wrapper that missed the garbage can. That's another story, though.
This story concerns conversations I have had with my 2001 Chevy Cavalier that I would keep forever except that it is accelerating in falling apart, and leaves a red trail of rusted metal wherever I park. The trunk lock no longer works and the lid is now tied down with yellow nylon and it bounces. I tried all the suggested remedies, but nothing doing. The right window is permanently shut, the mechanic put something in the door to keep it up so the car would pass inspection. The spend money check engine light says hello. The rear defroster signed off three years back. Brake fluid disappears with each severe change in outdoor temperature. The body is rusting. One good tire. The driver's side door was replaced and is black, but by golly, it has a crank window knob. The left front strut is gone, the right rear strut is soon to follow; this past fall I was helped by one mechanic and had my head danced upon by another to the total tune of $3,000 in repairs. I wish the dancer a wolverine up his leg someday. That's another story.
But this red car was the nicest thing I had ever bought myself. Again, the salesman told me no no no never in an accident till he opened the guts of the driver's side door one day to fix the window and lo, the inside was blue with red spray paint coming to the edges. The dash has since developed cracks, showing the earthquake effect of a t-bone accident. But it was a neat little car, a bit sporty, and had a sunroof. The logistics of payment fit, and I Had A Car. It got me out of any snowbank, held ground in the worst weather; it only didn't start twice in it's life, once being because I left the lights on. Any empty college parking lot at night was the better for it, as then the door lock remote worked and the engine always turned over. The engine is now tired and doesn't accelerate as quickly, but it still gets me to work over one of the worst, bombed-out roads in the city.
So, can an unliving thing care? Are there agreements and understandings between car and driver? I love to drive, and miss the long trips I would take mid-State to Corning and beyond. They will come again via the car that's coming in, who's owner said he would store it until I got the Cavalier settled, thus avoiding the temporary plate business and the unhelpful apartment management. By "unhelpful" I mean something else, but being a good person (mostly), those sorts of words should not be said except in a wind tunnel; I wish them wolverines as well.
There will be soon, a Last Drive of my old friend who got me out of many places, and took me all the way to Boston, Massachusetts once. How will I find this new car in a lot? It's black, which I don't mind, but the red stood out, especially red with one black door. This thing is a clever box of a car, but it reminds me of a hearse for refrigerators. A paddy wagon owned by Lurch. A dairy truck which delivers Stygian milk from contented black widows. It will not be my formerly zippy red Chevy; comfortable, reliable, friendly as a pony. I usually pat the car after it gets me home and say 'thank you' because to me, the service seems real, a gift; I guess because a car moves and responds as you wish it to. My couch is nice, but it isn't my friend (maybe). I will cry after the last drive. I know it. Me. The anti-sentimentalist.
The line of plastic frogs that live under the front passenger seat facing the door will be moved to the newer digs. Don't ask, I don't know. One dropped down there--I teach kids, I give away earth science prizes--and soon a row of toy frogs gradually appeared as they came into my life. There is a large dead bug jammed between the upholstery and the rear window; he's been there for the twelve years I have had the car. The wings were a glossy green and looked great so I left him there; he's faded to a dull tan, bereft of former glory, but we all can use some kindness at that stage.
The trunk needs unloading, picture frames need to be brought in, a good vacuuming wouldn't hurt. Years ago, I learned that everything is transient, nothing ever stays the same; letting go is a healthy exercise in self-preservation. In truth, the Chevy is dangerous in spite of new brakes and fuel lines; this black box opportunity was pointed out by a friend's car-smart husband, and it makes sense. Especially since, as when I got out of my car the other day, a thing was hanging on the lot fence; an earring? Nope. A key tag for the type of car I am buying. Toyota Scion, right where I pulled in. A sign, says I. Good enough for me.
We all have one last times, even if we don't recognize them amid vows of return to favorite beaches, restaurants, and especially, friends. If I knew it would have been the one last time, I would not have been so blithe in my so longs. Every goodbye shouldn't be dramatic stage-chewing, but there are folks that you say goodbye to knowing it is the last time, and others that, well, life gets in the way, as it should. Travelers, we are, accomplished beings following an internal compass along paths that occasionally cross, or that are lit by the nodding lanterns held by those who see your journey in their own memories. Good night, then, and sleep in quiet calm, your heart beating softly steady as you visit places unknown, through the deepest levels of somnolence. Thank you, old friend.
Saturday, June 6, 2015
Internal Archaeology
The energy is stale, confused, and moving in a befuddled way. Time to move big furniture, rearrange the stations of thinking to clear pathways and move on. I would like some illumination in body and soul; I wonder if this is part of the desire to construct new arrangements. Create and finish projects. Doesn't matter, it's an adventure.
The old couch is stuffed with horsehair, and has sproinged springs underneath; it's a camelback with clawed birdish feet, as if it could walk or take flight. The apparatus will be retied, restuffed, and if the gods are good, reupholstered, which is not a job I should undertake without copious amounts of laudanum. I can't sew for beans, fabric makes no sense, swearing and pitched pincushions melt into tears and I plead with inanimate objects.
But on to further discovery. The lovely, vintage 1950's sewing machine is a Morse, which was made with a Honda motor, and is the workhorse of the species. I've decided that I am not tormenting myself with sewing; if I want to be inventive, I will do it by hand. I'll draw a picture of a jacket to pin to my clothing. I don't know if the machine works, I'm scared to plug it in as electricity is second on the list under spiders, and I've shaken hands with Mr. Kilowatt once already. Grace of God, folks. But to get rid of it to a good home means that someone has to try out the circuitry; send me a post card if there's anyone that you think could use a good jolt..
This has been a month of clarified situations, sudden events, and now furniture and what has rolled under it, whether by physics or paw. Time for cleansing, shedding the duller skin to reveal new scales; I am leaving discarded books and gadgets down in the laundry room for tenant perusal, I don't even want to haul anything to the thrift shop. Out. Now. Several have been given to the little birdhouse library near the farmer's market, many already there are titles that I wouldn't give to a pigeon; "Office Feng Shui for Dummies" for example. People tend not to get rid of the good ones, but I did pick up a nice bio of Bette Davis.
Life is about conflict, the key is learning how to resolve it, said a very wise friend. Yet beyond resolution resides the throne of yippee, a paean to the times when everything is fine, the culmination of years flowing into planned success. More simple but no less astounding are the small joys that can get you through a day, a penny found on pavement, a mourning cloak butterfly flittering in and out of the leaves above your head, a bowl of soup, a day of breathing.
I almost walked into the bathroom, but hesitated for the briefest of moments until I flipped the switch to the light, and there before me was an indoor circus of three the size-of-a-Buick spiders, each set up in their own separate trapeze riggings across the ceiling. Perfect!! I am retraining myself not to shudder and hop at the sight of an invader with octo-hairy legs, and this was a great time to practice the Spider In A Box technique I invented that works and makes things come out alright. Conflict and resolve.
You get the flyswatter and a plastic tub, this is genius, don't know why I didn't think of this before, and hold the tub under the leggedy fangy thing, and gently nudge it till it drops from the ceiling and into the
container. The spider tries to climb the slippery sides but can't, so you dump it into another, smaller plastic container and put on the lid. The only caveat is that you need a container for each spider so they don't fight and moreso, if you think I will open a lid to plop another arachnid inside while giving the first or second prisoner time to make a run for it, just turn the car around and go back home.
This saves the spider, who has an important job which entails catching flying insects and being bird food, and it helps my conscience. I let them loose in the grass near the building and wish them luck in climbing up the eight stories back to the bathroom window. But it makes me feel as though I did a good deed in not smooshing one repeatedly with the flyswatter at least twenty times to make sure it's dead. No spider paste or spider legs to wipe up with a wad of tissue while trying not to scream in case one of the legs wiggle. I will pick up a many many things, including snakes, but have no information why even the idea of spiders gives me the willies.
My baby boy was lying on a fuzzy blanket in the grass years ago, when a giant brown nasty scooted onto it, a businessman on the way to catch a train; that spider was booking and heading right towards my son. I yelped, but the rise of You Will Not Get My Child caused me to smash it with MY BARE HAND. Then I did the dance of ick, wiped the remnants off in the grass, and took the both of us into the house. I later set the blanket on fire just in case. Not really, but I whapped that thing against the side of the tree to shake anything else loose before putting it through the heavy load cycle. Those brown ones can be bad news. These days, however, I am saving spiders.
Moving furniture, sorting clutter, both are a great way to begin summer, which will be devoted to art. Art, art. art. I am closing in on a newer car, and have many places that I would like to drive. Corning Glass Factory, Cleveland, Toronto. Whee. But now the buildings of the city have gone from apricot to pink, rose, violet, and finally disappeared, rooftops outlined by twinkling lights. I am turning in early again, for tomorrow is a busy day. Clear the rooms in your head, let go of the clock, some events occurred for a reason, others will never tell their tale; you go on then, take your paddle and ply the waters of the subconscious, their currents ever flowing, ever layered. Sleep, you are innocent; dream, you are divine.
The old couch is stuffed with horsehair, and has sproinged springs underneath; it's a camelback with clawed birdish feet, as if it could walk or take flight. The apparatus will be retied, restuffed, and if the gods are good, reupholstered, which is not a job I should undertake without copious amounts of laudanum. I can't sew for beans, fabric makes no sense, swearing and pitched pincushions melt into tears and I plead with inanimate objects.
But on to further discovery. The lovely, vintage 1950's sewing machine is a Morse, which was made with a Honda motor, and is the workhorse of the species. I've decided that I am not tormenting myself with sewing; if I want to be inventive, I will do it by hand. I'll draw a picture of a jacket to pin to my clothing. I don't know if the machine works, I'm scared to plug it in as electricity is second on the list under spiders, and I've shaken hands with Mr. Kilowatt once already. Grace of God, folks. But to get rid of it to a good home means that someone has to try out the circuitry; send me a post card if there's anyone that you think could use a good jolt..
This has been a month of clarified situations, sudden events, and now furniture and what has rolled under it, whether by physics or paw. Time for cleansing, shedding the duller skin to reveal new scales; I am leaving discarded books and gadgets down in the laundry room for tenant perusal, I don't even want to haul anything to the thrift shop. Out. Now. Several have been given to the little birdhouse library near the farmer's market, many already there are titles that I wouldn't give to a pigeon; "Office Feng Shui for Dummies" for example. People tend not to get rid of the good ones, but I did pick up a nice bio of Bette Davis.
Life is about conflict, the key is learning how to resolve it, said a very wise friend. Yet beyond resolution resides the throne of yippee, a paean to the times when everything is fine, the culmination of years flowing into planned success. More simple but no less astounding are the small joys that can get you through a day, a penny found on pavement, a mourning cloak butterfly flittering in and out of the leaves above your head, a bowl of soup, a day of breathing.
I almost walked into the bathroom, but hesitated for the briefest of moments until I flipped the switch to the light, and there before me was an indoor circus of three the size-of-a-Buick spiders, each set up in their own separate trapeze riggings across the ceiling. Perfect!! I am retraining myself not to shudder and hop at the sight of an invader with octo-hairy legs, and this was a great time to practice the Spider In A Box technique I invented that works and makes things come out alright. Conflict and resolve.
You get the flyswatter and a plastic tub, this is genius, don't know why I didn't think of this before, and hold the tub under the leggedy fangy thing, and gently nudge it till it drops from the ceiling and into the
container. The spider tries to climb the slippery sides but can't, so you dump it into another, smaller plastic container and put on the lid. The only caveat is that you need a container for each spider so they don't fight and moreso, if you think I will open a lid to plop another arachnid inside while giving the first or second prisoner time to make a run for it, just turn the car around and go back home.
This saves the spider, who has an important job which entails catching flying insects and being bird food, and it helps my conscience. I let them loose in the grass near the building and wish them luck in climbing up the eight stories back to the bathroom window. But it makes me feel as though I did a good deed in not smooshing one repeatedly with the flyswatter at least twenty times to make sure it's dead. No spider paste or spider legs to wipe up with a wad of tissue while trying not to scream in case one of the legs wiggle. I will pick up a many many things, including snakes, but have no information why even the idea of spiders gives me the willies.
My baby boy was lying on a fuzzy blanket in the grass years ago, when a giant brown nasty scooted onto it, a businessman on the way to catch a train; that spider was booking and heading right towards my son. I yelped, but the rise of You Will Not Get My Child caused me to smash it with MY BARE HAND. Then I did the dance of ick, wiped the remnants off in the grass, and took the both of us into the house. I later set the blanket on fire just in case. Not really, but I whapped that thing against the side of the tree to shake anything else loose before putting it through the heavy load cycle. Those brown ones can be bad news. These days, however, I am saving spiders.
Moving furniture, sorting clutter, both are a great way to begin summer, which will be devoted to art. Art, art. art. I am closing in on a newer car, and have many places that I would like to drive. Corning Glass Factory, Cleveland, Toronto. Whee. But now the buildings of the city have gone from apricot to pink, rose, violet, and finally disappeared, rooftops outlined by twinkling lights. I am turning in early again, for tomorrow is a busy day. Clear the rooms in your head, let go of the clock, some events occurred for a reason, others will never tell their tale; you go on then, take your paddle and ply the waters of the subconscious, their currents ever flowing, ever layered. Sleep, you are innocent; dream, you are divine.
Wednesday, June 3, 2015
Issky Dat You, Boris?
In my hand I have a bright pink envelope, the color of an Indian Holi festival; you know, the one where everyone is tossing colored powders up in the air and at each other, then they run out and get an elephant and cover that with an auroral blaze till the animal is as groggy and befuzzed as the people. Bunch of people hootin' and hollerin', hepped up on Bhang and water balloons full of color. Like that. Or a Barbie birthday envelope. This envelope is Barbie pink.
The return address is from someone I didn't know, in a place I never go to; there was a Forever stamp of heart-shaped red swirls; sealing the flap was a heart sticker in rainbow shades. Who do I know named Elizabeth and is gay? A rainbow outside is a beautiful thing, a rainbow inside is a beautiful thing as well, but in my world mostly indicates gay. Am I getting hit on for a LGBT donation? This is a very thin envelope, is there anthrax inside? Do I open this? Send me a Barbie pink letter, and I am full of suspicion as this happens every once in a never.
Holding the envelope up to the light does nothing, the return address label is decorated with a pair of flip flops; WHO ARE YOU? I get my sharpest scissors and slice off the end, ready to stab anything that jumps out. Oh. It's an invitation to Brian and Dana's wedding shower, on computer paper edged with balloons. "Gifts of fun and laughter, for their happy ever-after! RSVP to Bette."
This has happened before, a situation that ignites a panther-nervous-nosey anxiety in my brain, and I am ready to swat, claws extended. My son, the aforementioned Bri, went to Russia during high school as an American Field Service exchange student. He was with a family for a short stay in October 1993, the year the tanks were rolling into Moscow amid street brawls and firefights. Thank heavens he was just south of Moscow, but the atmosphere in the country was trepidacious, which it usually is anyway; these doings, however, were being reported on American news programs, elevating the status to crisis intervention level. Sure, Russia! Great idea! But why were they told to duct tape their luggage shut?
The Russian October is like our November, and the heat and hot water don't arrive until The Government turns it on; washing dishes was a rinse under the cold tap, couldn't waste fuel for heating dishwater. Showers? You can guess. Each of the exchange students were able to call home once; this was when phone calls were sputtery and voices waved in and out like ghosts. Russian time is seven hours ahead, so when he called me to say hello, it was three in the morning, and I was heavily asleep, courtesy of Ambien. I fought to become awake and could feel adrenaline pumping. Hello?
"You have a call from Brian, are you willing to accept?" My heart was in my throat, he was alive on the other side of the world. Yes, yes, yes. "Hello, Mom?" Snapping static made it difficult to hear him, he sounded far away, were those voices behind him? Was he kidnapped? Was this really my son? I wanted proof.
"BRI? BRIAN?" I wanted a question that only he would have the answer to, I was super clever Mom and able to outwit these Russians holding him for ransom.
"WHAT KIND OF FISH DO YOU HAVE IN YOUR AQUARIUM?" Ooh, good one.
14 year old Brian: "What? Mom?"
"TELL ME WHAT KIND OF FISH YOU HAVE IN YOUR AQUARIUM." Or maybe you are a replica Russian Brian, trying to get my Social Security number so you can break into my bank account and get the $400 I have in there. Gimme the answer, you.
Brian: "Mom, I don't have much time. Everyone is looking at me. I have an angelfish."
"YOU SURE YOU'RE BRIAN?" It kinda sounded like him, but I wasn't convinced. Of course the voice would answer yes, I was trying to think of another question. This is remembered clearly, and it was going to involve relatives.
"Mom, I'm okay. It's me."
"BRIAN? WHAT'S YOUR NICKNAME?" I'm hard to convince. Talking loudly might help Russia hear me.
"Buzz. Mom, are you alright?"
"BRI? THIS IS REALLY YOU? OH, BRIAN! IT'S TERRIFIC TO HEAR YOU"
"I'm fine Mom. The people are nice here. We're going to The Hermitage tomorrow."
"I'M SO PROUD OF YOU, BE HELPFUL WITH THE FAMILY YOU'RE WITH. PICK UP AFTER YOURSELF AND HELP WITH THE DISHES."
"I am, but Mom, my time's up and I gotta go. I love you."
"I LOVE YOU TOO, HONEY. I LOVE YOU. SO MUCH."
"I love you, too. 'Bye Mom." He sounded relieved to be hanging up.
I lay in the bed glowing that I was able to talk to him, but upon reflection, wondered what the heck was the matter with me that I thought Russians had confangled the telephone lines and were pretending to be my son. And could I have come up with a different question? Fish, for god's sake. Could you not have just told the kid how great it was to hear him? I spent more time playing Tricky Mom vs. the Russians than listening to him. I still feel a bit bad, even though we laugh about it now. He later told me that everyone could tell by his face that something was wrong, but in truth, it was quite right. Call me at three a.m. and find out. No more Ambien, but the wheels keep turning.
The sun is headed to the other side of this sphere now, as the great immensity turns on axis, still powered from the cosmic collapse that happened 4.6 billion years ago. When the gaseous cloud collapsed under its own weight, eddies of dust and gasses spun off into planets as those materials came together and solidified. Like a skater that pulls in their arms, the speed increased as the earth formed. Now, we have divided that space into twenty-four hours for living between each sunrise.
Oh, I wish you to sleep on this airy, light spring evening; check under the bed for Russians. They're friendly. Dobroj noči. Good night.
The return address is from someone I didn't know, in a place I never go to; there was a Forever stamp of heart-shaped red swirls; sealing the flap was a heart sticker in rainbow shades. Who do I know named Elizabeth and is gay? A rainbow outside is a beautiful thing, a rainbow inside is a beautiful thing as well, but in my world mostly indicates gay. Am I getting hit on for a LGBT donation? This is a very thin envelope, is there anthrax inside? Do I open this? Send me a Barbie pink letter, and I am full of suspicion as this happens every once in a never.
Holding the envelope up to the light does nothing, the return address label is decorated with a pair of flip flops; WHO ARE YOU? I get my sharpest scissors and slice off the end, ready to stab anything that jumps out. Oh. It's an invitation to Brian and Dana's wedding shower, on computer paper edged with balloons. "Gifts of fun and laughter, for their happy ever-after! RSVP to Bette."
This has happened before, a situation that ignites a panther-nervous-nosey anxiety in my brain, and I am ready to swat, claws extended. My son, the aforementioned Bri, went to Russia during high school as an American Field Service exchange student. He was with a family for a short stay in October 1993, the year the tanks were rolling into Moscow amid street brawls and firefights. Thank heavens he was just south of Moscow, but the atmosphere in the country was trepidacious, which it usually is anyway; these doings, however, were being reported on American news programs, elevating the status to crisis intervention level. Sure, Russia! Great idea! But why were they told to duct tape their luggage shut?
The Russian October is like our November, and the heat and hot water don't arrive until The Government turns it on; washing dishes was a rinse under the cold tap, couldn't waste fuel for heating dishwater. Showers? You can guess. Each of the exchange students were able to call home once; this was when phone calls were sputtery and voices waved in and out like ghosts. Russian time is seven hours ahead, so when he called me to say hello, it was three in the morning, and I was heavily asleep, courtesy of Ambien. I fought to become awake and could feel adrenaline pumping. Hello?
"You have a call from Brian, are you willing to accept?" My heart was in my throat, he was alive on the other side of the world. Yes, yes, yes. "Hello, Mom?" Snapping static made it difficult to hear him, he sounded far away, were those voices behind him? Was he kidnapped? Was this really my son? I wanted proof.
"BRI? BRIAN?" I wanted a question that only he would have the answer to, I was super clever Mom and able to outwit these Russians holding him for ransom.
"WHAT KIND OF FISH DO YOU HAVE IN YOUR AQUARIUM?" Ooh, good one.
14 year old Brian: "What? Mom?"
"TELL ME WHAT KIND OF FISH YOU HAVE IN YOUR AQUARIUM." Or maybe you are a replica Russian Brian, trying to get my Social Security number so you can break into my bank account and get the $400 I have in there. Gimme the answer, you.
Brian: "Mom, I don't have much time. Everyone is looking at me. I have an angelfish."
"YOU SURE YOU'RE BRIAN?" It kinda sounded like him, but I wasn't convinced. Of course the voice would answer yes, I was trying to think of another question. This is remembered clearly, and it was going to involve relatives.
"Mom, I'm okay. It's me."
"BRIAN? WHAT'S YOUR NICKNAME?" I'm hard to convince. Talking loudly might help Russia hear me.
"Buzz. Mom, are you alright?"
"BRI? THIS IS REALLY YOU? OH, BRIAN! IT'S TERRIFIC TO HEAR YOU"
"I'm fine Mom. The people are nice here. We're going to The Hermitage tomorrow."
"I'M SO PROUD OF YOU, BE HELPFUL WITH THE FAMILY YOU'RE WITH. PICK UP AFTER YOURSELF AND HELP WITH THE DISHES."
"I am, but Mom, my time's up and I gotta go. I love you."
"I LOVE YOU TOO, HONEY. I LOVE YOU. SO MUCH."
"I love you, too. 'Bye Mom." He sounded relieved to be hanging up.
I lay in the bed glowing that I was able to talk to him, but upon reflection, wondered what the heck was the matter with me that I thought Russians had confangled the telephone lines and were pretending to be my son. And could I have come up with a different question? Fish, for god's sake. Could you not have just told the kid how great it was to hear him? I spent more time playing Tricky Mom vs. the Russians than listening to him. I still feel a bit bad, even though we laugh about it now. He later told me that everyone could tell by his face that something was wrong, but in truth, it was quite right. Call me at three a.m. and find out. No more Ambien, but the wheels keep turning.
The sun is headed to the other side of this sphere now, as the great immensity turns on axis, still powered from the cosmic collapse that happened 4.6 billion years ago. When the gaseous cloud collapsed under its own weight, eddies of dust and gasses spun off into planets as those materials came together and solidified. Like a skater that pulls in their arms, the speed increased as the earth formed. Now, we have divided that space into twenty-four hours for living between each sunrise.
Oh, I wish you to sleep on this airy, light spring evening; check under the bed for Russians. They're friendly. Dobroj noči. Good night.
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