Tongue may have to be surgically removed from cheek

There are few things I like more than a good rainstorm.
One thing I like more is coming out of a workout so good my knees are vibrating, into a rainstorm.
The first rain of spring makes a sound like a violin and piano in perfect harmony and makes everything glisten like emeralds. Today has been a blessing of perfect timing and fortunate coincedence. It must have been on such a day that the first caveman rolled a rock down a hill and thought, "hey...". On such a day Newton decided to smell the fresh grass under a fruitful tree. On this day Columbus set sail. (well, two outta three)
I have compelling reasons to believe that I am the happiest woman on earth.

What a shame I shall have to give up the gym.
No, no wails nor tears shall sway me. I heed them not. It was decided today after a discussion with an acquaintance.
He was telling me how he planned to get fit for an upcoming trip and I enquired about his routine, since he was a novice, and I've been fortunate enough to pick up a few tricks here and there. He gave me a rough rundown (Chest, arms, back, etc.) I suggested a few things and he brushed them off, asking where I'd heard such stuff. I replied that I went to the gym regularily and avidly sought out sources of information on proper techniques. He bravely countered that I went "just to lose weight, right"? When I voiced that my main perogative was to gain muscle, he informed me that,
"Girls that are big are gross."
I laughed a little, made polite other conversation and moved on, but the doubt, lingered...
Have I been scaring away potential suitors with my ham-like quads? (Yes, I always compare my muscles to food.) Could I be possible that every foot I set in a gym diminished my pool of soulmates? (Yep. It's a pool.)
Say it is not so!
So to my squats I say, "away"!
I shall be dead 'er I lift again!
Never shall I clean and jerk, else I shall never find my own clean jerk!

Now if you'll excuse me, I have a class on Fainting to Frame your Dress to Best Effect.

In other news, enjoy the beautiful weather. I'm thinking picnic time!

Sunrise Symphony

Over the desk he tells me of his dream

to plant mango trees in his home city.

He lights up describing the five

thousand trees he planted last summer,

ripe with free fruit and promise.

Explains how everyone could eat,

saving hundreds that starve in the street,

with self-sufficient trees for a small cost.

His round face falls as he describes

the tractors that chewed them down

snip

snip

snip

wrapped in bureauocratic red tape,

his innocent hope shines through

like sunlight on the smell of mangoes

Already he's changed the world.





*****



Sometimes, walking in this building, it worries me

how long some creature could continue snacking

on my body before someone discovered it. D :

Artemis and Apollo pt. 2

I am a child of the sun
He shows me everything in life
without bias
I trust
only his hands
my sun

I am known to him perfectly
never desiring to hide, nor could I
weighed, measured
approved by
the only measure
my sun

I find the Gold standard no coincedence
without him there is no light
no life
prime mover
origin of all
the sun

I am a mirror of his goodness
untouched by years
people come
people go
anchored by this
my sun

(Faith) eludes me, a dance
full of deception and folly, mocking
my head
No anchors here
cast into shadow
no sun

Artemis and Apollo pt. 1

I am a child of the moon
by night we roam the streets

like hooligans
No photosynthesis
my skin drinks
the moon

I have confessed my sins to her
Her face heard and forgave me
loves me
because of
and despite them
my moon

I am stripped of my hubris
the insecurities that plague
locust thick
Lady Godiva
my white mare
the moon

I am an orphaned child
In the black forest of my heart

hiding wolves
only faith
amid burnt caravans
under my moon

(Science) bundled me away
taught me civilized life, mocking
my heart
No wolves here
there is also
no moon

Thought Unthinkable #3

I did it. After lying in bed for an hour, puzzling, I just got up, throwing back the fuzzy covers and activated the decanting code. Almost instantly the chamber emptied and the glass chamber slid back with mechanical smoothness. His knees crunched, as they folded with is ankles, into the floor, hitting it with a sound like a sack of wet cement, and then the only sound was the steady drip from the tube. We paused there, his pink wetness, like a damp spot on a child's bed, offsetting my statuesque granite skin. Then his body lurched forward and he sprawled in the fetal position in the puddle on the concrete.

I could feel a hot rush pass over my body and I wondered, briefly, if I had blown a fuse.
This was Ridiculous!
This was a MISTAKE?!
He lay there with a stupid, wide-eyed stare as I became hotter and hotter. Normally time passed like fleeting sparrows, but as I stood there the minutes dragged by. Never had I experienced time before!
How pathetic!
That I would be able to learn anything from this inanimate blob!
What a waste.
I turned on my heel and marched, disgusted, out of the lab.

For the next few months I avoided the lab, throwing myself into meaningless pursuits that I had long ago tired of. I did everything I could to keep him out of mind.
His frailness taunted me.
His inaction annoyed me.
Had I erred? Was I mistaken? If I was perfect, how could this be so?

When I finally mustered the courage to enter the lab, he was gone.
Incredible.
Where could he go?
The thrill of mystery, so long denied, was like a sip of perfect wine to a choked tongue.

In my dreams I never fall

I realized today I have no idea what I look like in my dreams. Several theories (mostly touted out by the same people who believe that your dreams can predict your life, but also a few reputable non-crackpots) espouse that the way you appear in your dreams is your "true self"; that is, a blend of what you would like to look like with what you believe you look like.
Thus I am somewhat at a loss, having no idea what my "true self" looks like.
The current most accepted theory of dreams is that they serve as a dual problem-solving, memory-filing process. I realize few dreams resemble the days that produce them, but it is more a matter of association and connections, then true representation. Memory storage is hopelessly complex. That is why people typically cannot remember anything from before their fifth birthday or so; it's "stored" in a different memory framework, much akin to a computor trying to read a .jpg file with windows music player.

My dreams always follow one of two patterns: One, I am saving people or have a mission to save someone, two I'm lost and terrified. The strangest dream I ever had included me running through a maze that had no roof, only darkness above, which was filled with Samurai and russian peasants. The samurai would kill the peasants when they found them, and I was trying to save them, but I kept getting caught and beheaded, but it never killed me.
Crazy.

Apr 18, 2008

Too depressed to write.
I was right about balance.
My uppance has come.

La mort qui n'est pas petite ou bonne

There was an article in Esquire today, in which the author speculated that teenagers shot each other because they didn't realize that the person could actually die. Teenagers understand that when someone is shot, they die. What they typically fail to understand is the higher moral code at stake here. The idea that one should refrain from acting in a "bad" way because it is morally wrong, not because you might get caught. People are too often punishing their children by saying, "Because I said so" Or some such nonsense, without explaining that hurting someone is bad because the other person has the right not to be hurt by you, or the right to defend themselves in a sufficiently unpleasant manner. People are failing to develop a sufficiently advanced superego (postulated by Freud (yes he's a crackpot- Except this once)) to take responsability for their actions, and adjust accordingly.

I was in my kitchen today, making a sandwich of provolone and genua, under the dim spherical light, listening to the sound of typing from the next room; when I spotted a moth on the wall. Huge, fat, brown-velvet covered body; two massive, fuzzy wings folded neatly behind; slender, arching antennae wobbling precipitously in front. I shuddered (moths disturb me), and began to look around my little house for a shoe, newspaper, or some such implement of doom. Finally, equipped with my moth-remover paper, I approached the beasty from across the ceramic tiled floor. As I approached the moth, however, I realized I couldn't kill it. I could not move my arm, starting with the shoulder, moving the elbow, ending at the wrist, swishing the black and white weapon, to land on that fragile, unknowing creature. I could not imagine being the reason that the tiny brain that powers this barely-sentient bug stops puttering. "It would be almost instant. It would feel nothing, would know nothing." My brain told me; and I began to distrust it. What kind of brain would let me accept that as an excuse to snuff out this life? I threw out the paper, rammed my sandwich into the reusable plastic bag I use for my lunches and trooped out the door to catch my late-night bus.

Last stanza

So it has come down to us, mighty few, our backs to the wall as our opponents face us, brows furrowed in grim determination, hands full with implements of our undoing.

We've fought, so long it seems, and we've lost good people. In their memory, for their honor, we stand, ready.

I've been running so long, I don't know if I have the strength to save myself, should the next volley come my way.

From their eyes we know, they will do whatever it takes to defeat us. There can be only one victor here.

As I search for a way to save my comrades, an opponent turns to me and lets fly. A dull thud heralds contact with my abdomin. It's over.

A big, blue, squishy ball to the groin.
Guess I should've jumped left.

Dodgeball: If you can't take the heat, stay the fuck outta dodge.



****
Alternate end mottos also included:
Dodgeball:
-takes balls
-leaving you breathless
-because all you're good for is hitting other people
-shut up and throw
-not just for the playground anymore
-grab some balls
-because your girlfriend won't touch your balls
(I went with the "outta dodge" because I like cussing.)

Gyroscopic Distemper

Things are good in my life right now.
Which makes me nervous.
I've long believed that things, moods and fortunes especially, balance. Sometimes I try to be miserable all day if I know the evening is important.
So good moods come with a sense of trepidation.
It's worse if I cannot find some bad to equal a good; what if someone is suffering for me?
The ultimate torture is to struggle on my behalf, and never allow me to make amends. In defence of my sanity, I adopt willfull ignorance about the origin of my clothes and food.
Even my heritage reflects this blend of oppressor to oppressed. Although, given enough history, whose doesn't?
I think nightshift might be robbing me of my ability to speak to people. I used to take after my dad, who has an innate ability to connect with strangers after about 5- 10 minutes. Every time I open my mouth now, a jackass comes out. (not to mention my main conversational partner is my roommate, a man who makes Dr. House look like Richard Simmons; although, he cut his hair and got a job today, while all I accomplished was to flood the kitchen and ruin my nails.) Perhaps this is my penance? For good fortune elsewhere, I will be alienated most everyone I speak to.
Perhaps I should stop whining and get out more?
Tomorrow holds the exciting prospect of a Dodgeball game. I'm heading out to watch, possibly even participate, in a dodgeball game with a team, coached by my boss, aptly named, "Dodgeystyle", (a name which causes me to stop and giggle uncontrollably for as long as 6 minutes at a time)Assuming I don't physically assault or offend anyone, this holds the promise of being an interesting social event!
Good luck to me!

(In anticipation, I have purchased a keg of Red Bull. Even if I fail at socializing, I should have some...insightful stories.)

Sight Unseen #2

This place is a mess.
One victim, mutilated, heavily, on the couch, grotesquely posed to watch T.V, the other in the shower, well, most of him. Camera flashes take it all in as men in sweat-soaked suits murmur respectfully about motives, epidemics, and, just once, about monsters.
What do they know about monsters?

After clearing the yellow caution tape, I take over the scene from the pirmary responders, and the witness: a seven foot angel, hunched in the corner, nursing a broken wing, his knee dislocated. He nods when I look at him and, if I'm careful, I could use this. I say out-loud, without looking at anyone specific,
"What happened here?"
The first constable gives me the rundown. I skim it for useful facts; none.
The angel, talking over him in a voice only I can hear, tells me everything he saw.
A man, allied with a demon, responding to his animal urges. The angel fought, saved the child, who I know has gone in the ambulance for a check-up and observation. The angel asserts this isn't the last we've seen of this man, but this is the most sloppy. If we're going to get him, we need to get him before he gets good.
"Someone give me something to run with."
The constable says it's no use; the place is (hah.) un-holy clean, but the angel points while wiping blood off his split lip.
I hurry over, finding a tooth embedded in the carpet next to the wall. People already think my powers of deduction are creepy, I'm not really worried it will arouse suspicion, but it may be prudent to exercise caution later.
I gesture for an evidence bag and, pretending distraction to the owner of the proffered bag, gaze directly at the angel's eyes,
"Thank you."
People are clapping me on the back, congratulating my 'great eyesight'.I just hope I haven't used up too much luck for us to pull clean D.N.A.

This new advantage both excites and scares me. We have a break on a huge case, these lucky-breaks usually only happen in one out of every 30 cases. This could be the greatest thing to happen to forensics since fingerprints. Should I tell others? It would be easy enough to prove I'm not crazy; pull some random ESP stunts. Here, my selfishness gets the better of me; This could raise me to international acclaim. I run the risk, however, of becoming too reliant on this new tool. I float through the rest of the day on a cloud of debate, finally clocking out early for once.

On the way home I grab chicken and corn from a mom & pop's corner market. My live-in friend has cooked for us both for the past month, so every night I arrive home to warm food. His skill seems to be increasing exponentially. I'm pondering bringing home increasingly weird food to cook with. He also made an attempt to clean the house, but I think his standard of clean is different from mine.
I'm...proud of him.

Sometimes there's no words

One of the worst feelings in the world is disappointment. That dashed emotion of a stolen smile (Where again? It was right here...)
HELLFIRE! DAMNATION! Conflicted rage!
After months of desiring to run forward, I find I cannot even plant one foot.

Everything I do right now is wrapped up in annoyance, anger, and frustration.
I need a sparring partner.

Fiction work #22

He straightens his cravat, checking his shoes in the mirror again. Brown doe-skin breeches, a navy jacket, topped with a hat at a jaunty angle help to convince himself he's irresistable.
"Now or never." he thinks, as he grabs his silver-topped cane, heading out the oak door, across the cobbles, moving with purpose.
Today's the day.
He had lay awake all night, planning. After a few hours, he got up in his nightshirt, lit a candlestick and wrote feverishly by the muted light. When his masterpiece was complete, he threw off his sweaty clothes, flung open the shutters and stood in the moonlight, exhaling triumphantly.
God, what a rush; it was perfect. The diction painstakingly selected to suggest passion with purity, security with respect, patience with desperation.
He'd sealed it with a glob of gold wax and a kiss.
That morning, after only a few short hours of sleep, he lept out of bed, sure that this sunrise would lead to a sunset on his loneliness and aching desire.
She was a butcher. Somewhat below his station, but he didn't care. She was perfect for him. For weeks he imagined her reaction, her eyes would shine the way they did when he asked for her recommendation, her mouth curve in that impish little grin like when she suggested anything spicy. She would accept, they would be wedded and have several beautiful children he could teach the violin to. They'd be good at it if they inherited his ear; excellent if they inherited her exquisite hands.
They had just retired to a beautiful villa in his head when he noticed a man standing nearby. The man was dressed well but finished strangely with a maskerade mask, out of which two dark eyes stared, unwaveringly, at him. He looked around, but no-one in the crowd paid them the slightest attention. Finally, un-nerved, he asked,
"Do you want something?" (Which was odd, he decided later. He meant to say 'need'.)
"Yes. Your letter."
He goggled at the man. The letter was hidden in his pants pocket, and no-one knew he had written it.
"Why? and how...?"
"The letter. No reason. We will give you one million for it. But you will never write another."
The man was clearly insane, but he held a trunk that could have easily contained a million pounds.
"How do you know I won't go home and write another?"
"You won't. One million."
He was intrigued, and gestured toward the trunk,
"May I?"
"Yes."
As soon as he opened the heavy trunk lid, he knew he was going to trade. The rows and rows of heavily stacked bills was too enticing, too entoxicating. Besides, he could always write another, right? Right?

He closed the lid firmly, and fished the letter out of his pocket. He handed it over without looking at the man, who left without another word. The trunk was old-fashioned, but well made, and he carried it home without much difficulty. He didn't noticed the sun set as he counted it.

Three days passed while he was making arrangements for the money.

Finally after making sure it was safely inside the bank, fully documented and secured, he smacked his lips, rubbed his hands together, and sat at his writing desk with a fresh stack of paper and a bottle of ink, intending to write another. He began it the same way, using all the same words, but somehow, it felt hollow.

When it was finished, he re-read it, crumpled it carefully, and thoughtfully threw it away.

His palms began to sweat around the fourth letter. His fingers began to blister from pulling his collar away from his throat repeatedly.

After the twelfth revision he put his head on the paper and cried, the salt water mixing with the ink, throwing rainbows across the sheet in the morning light.

He spent the whole next day in bed, panicking that he had been cursed, sweating and crying like a fevered child. The life he had imagined was slipping away, smuggled away under that damn mask. What had they done to him? Who were they? What had he been thinking?
Later that week, he finally threw back the covers, leaping down the stairs three at a time, pausing only to add a heavy coat and untied shoes, before barrelling down the street. He tripped twice on his way, sprawling in the street in his dirty nightshirt, knees bloodied, tears streaming down his face, hands cut and rock-filled, his glasses long smashed, hanging off one ear. When he arrived at the bright blue butcher's shop, he hurtled through the door, rushing up to the counter in the mercifully empty store and kowtowed in front of her startled expression.

She listened patiently, after closing the store and retiring to the stockroom, while he sobbed his tale, clinging to her skirts and tiny waist. When he admitted he hadn't slept in three days, she stroked his hair, clucking under her breath.

They stayed in that tableau, his hands clenching her muslin, genuflecting at her feet, hers in his hair, head angled in concern over his back, until sunset.
When he finally awoke, he lifted his face to hers and asked simply,
"Will you be my wife?"
and was rewarded with the smile that he'd longed for.

Your Attention: Is it turned on?

There is a photograph. It is of a vulture waiting for a sundanese girl, crouched on the ground, as if in prayer, to die. It has been passed around the world millions of times, you cannot see it without being affected; it's creator killed himself, although there is debate as to whether the picture was the cause or not.

There is a theory. In quantum theory, the act of observing a particle determines whether it is decayed or not. The act of placing attention on something changes the item being attended.

Our attention, a biological process documentable in the cortex, changes the world simply by being directed. I did a paper on "The Effects of Neural Plasticity on Deaf Persons over time", in which I noticed that congenitally deaf people had two points of attention, which they could control seperately. Typically people only have one, which is defined primarily by memory. We remember what we payed attention to but what we recall later. Even subconsciously, we pay attention to something. If you daydream, you will still show a preferential treatment in recall towards what the main focus of your attention was.

It is, unfortunatly, not only what your eyes are pointing at; this is demonstrated by a simple experiment. Fix your eyes on the period at the end of this sentance. Now, read the words around it, without moving your eyes. It should be possible, since even blind people, or people without eyes, are capable of fixing their attention.

This is, unfortunatly, also the extent of our knowledge about this elusive process. The actual mechanics of attention are unknown. People, even without seeing, can tell when someone is watching them, with a disturbingly high accuracy rate. Is it pheromones? It is unlikely to be eye contact. Perhaps electromagnetic disruptions. There are computors now that respond to thoughts; you focus your attention on a sliding bar with two lights on it and imagine pulling the lights apart, and they move. What is the nature of the process at work here?

I think it is likely to be electromagnetic disruptions. This, however, makes me wonder, can a computor pay attention to something? If it can, how will this affect our views of "humanity"? Will a computor be human? My personal beliefs regarding sentience and the nature of humanity is that if you apply a personal moral code, with guidelines, then you are human. This shows a higher understanding of one's actions, the motivations, consequences, and ethical ramifications therein. If a computor becomes able to pay attention, and thus become self-aware, for it is only a matter of time before a source of attention turns to itself, will it be classified as human? Perhaps an animal first?

This is not a fully-developed idea, as I have been busily training people, but this was too interesting not to write on.

Fiction Work #21

I'm standing on the dark wooden steps, bright blue sky above me, trying to imagine where things went so wrong.
I recall being sold, not really a big deal, I had known it would happen. Somehow I never thought it would really occur, however, so my goodbyes held the flavor of unreality, devoid of the realization that I would literally never see them again. Sweet family, I replayed our last moments through my head a thousand times, searching for new truths as a tounge searches for raspberry seeds deep in toothy crevasses. We spoke on paper infrequently, but it was hollow and unfamiliar.
Not even the voice of my mother was allowed to come the many kilometers across the border from Austria to France.
They even took my name from me.
No longer could I be a child, I was alone in a den of vipers and I needed to be cunning and full of guile. I failed at even that; so full of sweetness and sugar. It was a small piece of luck that my husband (whom I met days later) seemed rather taken with me, if unsure what to do with me. Unable to treat me as a wife for reasons my pretty head didn't understand, he resorted to doting on me in a permanent courtship.
I was without a purpose. Bred solely to forge an alliance between two huge countries. Once a child secured that link, I was aimless; a pretty slip of art in a symbol of wealth. However, what a price that child came at. The windows would never recover, as would my relationship with courtiers.

Scared of my husband's growing intensity with the war he was financing (again, a permanent courtship over full involvement) I engrossed myself with mindless hedonistic pursuits, sure he would follow me, and in becoming happy, I would find myself fulfilled with the ultimate goal of being a good wife and a good daughter.
He once commented on my shoes; I bought hundreds.
He admired my dinner parties; they became legendary.
"I prefer your hair up."; it never touched my shoulders again.

Despite my machinations, he found me unintellegent, and did not confide in me. I sought to educate myself, but was hampered by the lack of early learning so critical to higher learning later. Indeed, my life became wrapped tight by the cords that had been weaved in my youth. I further dropped into meaningless pursuits, but my poker game improved.

I was unable to understand this swelling sense of desperation, this urgency within myself. I only knew that I desired to please him, to make this strange war-like behavior stop. How little I knew how grave my plight would become. My slightest nod, or even lack thereof, became a herald of chaos on black wings, unseen, hidden behind my huge skirts.

The penultimate blow came from a hideous diamond necklace that I did not desire, yet was gifted from an oblivious dunce. The people of France villified me, and my spirit finally broke. I felt trapped. Surrounded on all sides by unfamiliar and unfriendly faces.

I could sense the fall coming, heavy and dark, like the blood red opera curtain that announced "la fin". I was in denial, as I had been about my Goodbyes, and it seemed whatever the outcome, I was to have no hand in it.

The death of my husband crippled me, but it was the death of my dear little girl-friend that affected me the worst. Her lightness and razor-sharp quips had been the toast of many of my parties, and I could not imagine someone wishing her harm.

My "trial" was a farce; accused of everything and anything, I fought to save myself only where the reputation of my son was concerned. In my vehmenency and desperation, I stole the hearts of many mothers, all who had come to crucify me. This was a small consolation as the judge passed sentance.

This is all a dream, the cakes, shoes, dresses, parties, flowers, mansions, and other extravagencies, a million miles away, as I watch the steel blade, crusted, held up by a scratchy robe straining against the massive weight of the wedge. The smell of blood is eveywhere; I am familiar with it, but it calls up the worst moments of my life, and I nearly faint. Even in these last moments, I think of my reputation, of the reputation of Austria, of my late husband, everything I have struggled for, in my way, as best I could. I grit my teeth, calling up reserves of strength I never knew I had, thinking of my best times, of the way his hair shone in the light, of the tea parties in the garden, of my favorite purfume, of my children.

And I show them how a Queen, how Marie Antoinette, Maria Antoina, dies with dignity; on this bright blue morning.

Felicitous Feline

Oh for fingertips
and a fat-lipped smile
my cat, my self,
the bed, and I

With mischief, wit,
and knavery
my half-waked state she
plagues to taunt me

Acute aware
of my lament,
(Of dormant time
too quickly spent)

She looks at me
askance to say,
"Haven't you had
enough sleep today?"

Fiction work #20

There is a line. From my clenched fist, down my arm, across my shoulders, up my other arm to my folded elbow. The ends of this line wish to touch, to bend; they pull together like there is a spring between them but I hold them apart, creating a vacumn, into which I put an arrow. This bar of steel, wood, and feather sits, still, in the cradle of this vacumn, waiting, poised for flight. A bead of sweat has reached it's capacity and now rolls down between my shoulder blades to join it's comrades in the liner of my warm jacket. My hip is itchy. It has been so for the last thirty minutes. I long to scratch it, but doing so would ruin the shot I have waited a week for. My mind has waited so long, my body can wait now.

My attention is focused on my quarry, who is big enough that I am allowed a glimpse into what mammoth hunters from days of yore felt. I can see his breath in the air, coming from his shaggy throat. He doesn't know I'm here.

Picking his way with almost glacial speed, determined not to miss a single morsal, so scarce in this weather, he moves closer. A step, a smell, a pause, a smell, a step. For the last hour, not a muscle has twitched on this forest cow that I was not aware of.

As the pivotal second draws closer, I put myself, my heart, all my focus, into the arrow, double checking the wind, the time, the temperature, ground height, altitude. My aim is perfect, straight to his heart, the barb will kill him instantly. Those antlers will be a prize trophy, everything else I will either consume, use, or feed to the dogs; not a scrap wasted. That is my gift to this noble beast. He will lay down his life that I, the greater predator, may eat, and I respect his sacrifice, for we are all part of the circle of rebirth
FRAAAAAAAP
The moose just farted. I bark out a laugh, so involuntary, and the animal bolts. I release my shot helplessly off mark then just laugh and laugh.
What the hell else can you do?
I pack up my kit and go home; the giggles are fatal to my trade. I'll get something tomorrow. For now, there's supper.
I think I'll have beans.

Wicker Basket

The first indicator that this night was going to suck was when I decided to leave my friend's house, instead of sleeping over. I just felt too terrible to be entertaining, and wasn't interested in watching "Jackass".
The night had gone, I believe, from bad to worse when we realized, my sister, her fiance, and I, that we had missed the last bus of the night. My sister and I had little "big city" experience, so we broke down, pooled our resources, and caught a cab. Too tired to enjoy my first taxi ride, I stared gloomily out the window and tried to ignore the sounds of happiness next to me.
As I gazed insensibly, a man ran into my view. What a perfect metaphor for mankind's current state, I thought, watching this man hurtle down the center line of the road, surrounded by stationary cars and ashphalt. I dubbed him "Apollo", for the Greek God who stole his father's chariot to ride across the sky, dragging the sun with him. I made a little story for him, speculating why he was running (fitness, drunkness, humor, women) but none quite seemed to fit his free sprint yet determined gait.
He made it about twenty feet from my window when POW, he was mowed down by a shiny red grand am, who I cannot believe did not see him. (Later my sister insisted he was chased by a large, angry, man, but this doesn't fit my romanticised notion)
I remember covering my face with my hands, and I remember he was in a blue plaid shirt and blue jeans, but I do not remember the trip home after that point. I think about him sometimes.
Strange days.