Tuesday, December 23, 2008

Travel Notes!

a few e-mail excerpts to my mother from my travels of summer 2007:

"just got to Oslo after the neverending train ride from hell or to hell, or both. it was sooooooo long we almost died. I might actually be dead right now. WE didn't have reserved seats so we had to seat hop and get up whenever someone had a res seat came to sit. I ended up sitting next to a foul old drunk man with scabby fingers for about 4 hours. He drank about 6 beers at least and some wine. He burped, snotted, made other weird noises - SO GROSS."

"oh, i am going to be a millionaire superstar since i came up with a great party jam and the lyrics go-


that's it. it's a hit.in the making. you can breathe a huge sigh of relief for my future"

"we get free internet in this gay cafe that's a hike from our hotel."

"I'm a trooper. I'm delicate and beautiful like a flower, but a trooper. Like a flower who carries a gun. And wears fatigues."

a few replies from my mother:

"I had never been to Oslo until yesterday that was ME with the native Americans I was the one on the pan flute I saw that you didn't recognize me (I was the chubby one) in my warrior paint I was so into my pan flute serenade that unfortunately when I finished you and sara had vanished I asked Dad to use his dreamcatcher to find you to no avail he had stepped away to reserve some train tix oh well I just have a few more performances here and then dad and I will be heading LA Way."

"flove and fstuff - fI'm fspeaking fNorweigen"

"ET PHONE HOME> It's harder to reach you than ET, I think eventhough I never really tried to reach ET."

Thursday, December 18, 2008

Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Story Time!

Installment 2-

Mr. Bilge stood in his kitchen, baking a cake. Oliver kept him company, ruining the kitchen floor as he poked around for food. Although miniature in size, a horse is still a horse with hooves and excretions that ruin all styles of flooring.

Mr. Bilge was hoping the cake would soothe whatever nerve of Babette’s he sensed he had frazzled. Oliver kept trying to lick the spoon and while Mr. Bilge could not fault him for that he certainly could not condone it. He did, however, allow Oliver to lick the bowl.

Mr. Bilge scampered upstairs to his bathroom. He had called for Babette that morning. When he returned home after she refused Olive the prior evening, he slowly realized her decision was not temporary rejection. Mr. Bilge sank beneath a murky mire of depression.

He couldn’t eat a single bite the rest of the night. Not a morsel snuck between his lips except for a light hors d'oeuvre, a heavy dinner and a midnight snack. He didn’t sleep a wink other than the twelve-hour doze into which he briefly fell after throwing himself into bed and sobbing in ragged jags for about ten minutes. In his slumber he fell more in love with Babette than ever. For when Mr. Bilge slept he possessed Babette entirely. Every date was open to Mr. Bilge and no other clients clouded the sunny skies of their days. But this, alas, was but a flower of a dream that Mr. Bilge could never grow or hope to pluck from the grounds of the real world. The last image that floated by as his eyes fluttered to wakefulness was his hairy hand delicately shoving a white and fluffy piece of wedding cake between Babette’s red and open lips.

Oliver was chewing on his hair. As he did, Mr. Bilge told him of the wedding that had just passed and became increasingly excited and love struck as he convinced himself this was a vision of the future.

“Oh my god, Oliver,” he gasped, throwing a heavy arm around the miniature horse. “I see it all so clearly now. She’s been upset with me because she thinks I’m not devoted! Don’t you see?! That’s what a man is to do when he snares the one he loves. I’m to be suspicious and insulting – not the simpering accepting poltroon I am. I should be demanding Babette retire! I should be threatening her other clients! I should be looming over her every minute! I’ve been a fool, Oliver. A great fool. No wonder she refused you. I wouldn’t accept a miniature horse from anyone but my true love. Miniature horses are forever! Or at least a few years of a commitment.”

He leapt out of bed like a joyous gazelle, leaving Oliver to wrestle with his newfound realization of mortality. A few years? Only a few years? He hadn’t realized all this could end some day. He was already small, but now he was also fleeting! He vowed to live every day as though someone was about to slaughter him. So it was that Oliver became tremendously vivacious yet paranoid, trusting just Mr. Bilge and those who Mr. Bilge considered friends. He took what he pleased and didn’t apologize. But Oliver only took what others offered and always thanked them for it.

Mr. Bilge resolved to propose to Babette the next time he saw her. So he rung her immediately and booked her first availability.

“The quickest way to a woman’s heart is through your wallet!” Babette would always kid Mr. Bilge. Mr. Bilge knew Babette’s heart was located in some region most accessible through other channels. One was the thoughtful conversations that they shared, in which Babette endearingly asked him the same things each time she saw him, which she said was so she could tell all her friends all the witty things he said verbatim. Another was escorting her to theatrical shows she would sweetly close her eyes throughout, which Babette explained was so she could mull over the writer’s text without distraction. He adored her snores of appreciation, because that’s when he knew she was truly absorbed in the play, lost to the world around her. Lastly, were the homemade trinkets he made her that never found their way onto her mantelpiece because, as Babette explained, they were stored affectionately in a trunk with all her most prized possessions.

Mr. Bilge didn’t seem to notice that his wallet did seem to make the journey to Babette’s heart much more swift.

But when Mr. Bilge bounded out of bed that morning he realized that the only clear and true way of shackling his heart to Babette’s was with an engagement ring. He decided to hide the ring in the cake he had dreamt up only a few minutes ago.

And so he had baked it. He had groomed himself and now was trying to ease his nerves before Babette was due to arrive. He had put Oliver in the backyard. He seemed to upset her. But she would learn to love him.

He sat in the living room as night fell. Or he tried to since he kept jumping up every few minutes to straighten the knickknacks on his bookshelves or to fuss with his hair in the mirror. He watched the hands of the clock tick off the seconds more slowly than ever. He sighed, rose to his feet, paced about the room and sat down again. He began wringing his hands as the clock told him the time would never come for Babette’s arrival. Mr. Bilge’s fury with the timepiece was building into a towering inferno and he was about to explode when he heard the sound of a car crackling over his gravel driveway.

He squealed with girlish delight at the shock, falling off the couch at the same time. As a loud pounding echoed from behind the front door, Mr. Bilge was launched to his feet.

“Dearest! Finally!” Mr. Bilge’s voice shook with delight. He wrenched open the door and saw the moon was full and sky was bursting with brilliant pinpoints of light. He heard those pinpoints were sometimes referred to as stars. But at this moment, he didn't care a fig for what you wanted to call them. Babette had arrived.

to be continued...

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Story Time!

Proposals and Engagements for the Uncommon Prostitute - Installment 1

It all started with a proposal from the right man. He had asked her how much. She had told him the price and they retreated to a bedroom. But to her any man was the right man, as long as his pockets weren’t empty.
Babette Nickels was a common prostitute. That was her self-determined rank and title in society. So, if in conversation, one happened to ask, “And what is it you do?” Babette would smile and answer, “I’m a common prostitute.” At which point the conversation tended to grind to a bit of a halt.

However, it was at this point that Mr. Bilge would jump in and interject most vigorously: “Such a joker!”

The conversation would slowly begin to accelerate once again as who ever Babette was talking to would exhale the sudden breath of embarrassment they had just inhaled. It had been a joke! A horrible and tasteless joke! That’s what they would think.

Babette would direct an angry glare at Mr. Bilge, even though she knew what he was going to say next. Mr. Bilge would shoot Babette a mischievous grin of slightly crooked, but nevertheless very white, teeth – as though what he was going to say next was just occurring to him.

“Why, my dear Babette – you are simply the most uncommon prostitute I’ve ever met and would ever hope to meet.”

Babette would suddenly smile, as though she had never heard this before. It was usually at this point that whoever they were talking to would make a polite or not-so-polite excuse to extricate themselves from what they deemed an uncivilized situation. As they would retreat, Mr. Bilge thought it helpful to yell: “Uncommon in ways you don’t understand! Not like she does weird stuff – nothing with animals! NOTHING!”

This seemed to do more harm than good as the escapee would quicken their pace and lower their opinion of Babette & Mr. Bilge; which was a feat in Babette’s case, considering they already thought so poorly of her, and not so much in Mr. Bilge’s, considering he was already something of a societal misfit. But Mr. Bilge was the son of Reginald Bilge, founder of Bilge’s Chemists, so he was tolerated and even valued as a sort of village idiot.
Babette and Mr. Bilge would look fondly at one another, being left alone. Mr. Bilge regarding Babette with affection because he was in love with her and Babette regarding Mr. Bilge with affection because he was paying her to. Mr. Bilge tended to forget this part of the arrangement and this is how it all started. ‘It’ being Mr. Bilge’s downfall and casting out of society and Babette’s initiation into it and subsequent rise to the top of it. That was how it started for Mr. Bilge.

For Babette it started when Mr. Bilge bought her a miniature horse.

“What have you done?”
Mr. Bilge thought that a pretty stupid question considering he was standing on her front stoop with a miniature horse named Oliver next to him. Oliver stood below Mr. Bilge’s waist and was entirely brown with the exception of a white blob on his forehead.
“He’s for you. His name is Oliver. Isn’t he precious?” Mr. Bilge fed Oliver a baby carrot he happened to find in his pocket.

Babette came outside shutting the door to her house behind her. She had a client waiting and really didn’t need him to see the spectacle outside. He was the sort who would want to involve Oliver in their afternoon and Babette didn’t want him getting any impossible ideas.

It was cold outside Babette suddenly realized, as only the slightest sliver of a robe covered her. Mr. Bilge was wearing a coat, a hat and a scarf – though he tended to overestimate the gravity of a situation. It was really only sweater weather. Oliver was quite comfortable, as horses – even miniature ones – have a sort of permanent sweater stuck to their skin.

“Don’t you just love him, Babsy?” Mr. Bilge kept trying to hold Babette’s hand. With each attempt his hand made at a connection she would tighten her robe or scratch her check or pat her hair and so on and so forth.
“Yes, dear, he’s magnificent. It’s just I can’t take him right now. I’m a little busy,” Babette gestured to the house. “How about you take him back to your place and I’ll come by later.”

Mr. Bilge looked through the window next to the front door. Behind the glass, veiled by a curtain, was the silhouette of a man in the act of undress. Mr. Bilge felt a familiar pang of jealousy and troubled tolerance. Resigned to Babette’s decision he pouted and started down the front steps, Oliver just behind him. Babette watched him for a very small moment and then gladly went back into her house, removing her robe as she did so. Mr. Bilge and Oliver continued on their way.

“Oliver, what can I do? What can I do but nothing?” Mr. Bilge swatted away Oliver who was nipping at his jacket pockets. Mr. Bilge was tempted to ride Oliver home but knew this was one of many impossible desires in his life, just like his dream of marrying Babette. Yes, indeed, possessing that darling prostitute was just like if a faintly overweight man wished to ride a miniature horse: only ending with one party breaking the other party’s legs and maybe their entire body, and perhaps even their heart.

And as Mr. Bilge returned to his house, he felt his heart break a little with each step. He would find out shortly thereafter that this was more appropriate now than ever.

to be continued...

Saturday, December 6, 2008

232 Gum Drop Lane!

I wish I lived on Gum Drop Lane. One day...a girl can dream...it must be sad if your dream is to live on Gum Drop Lane. I was just kidding when I said I wished that. But when I said that I wished that you were probably totally like, "Me too!" That's so embarrassing for you.

I'm now in Utah. The land of milk & honey. Yes, it truly is the land of plenty. A land where one can make slightly above minimal amounts of money while having housing options provided to them for limited and inconvenient periods of time. YES. A land where trolleys and free buses roam the lands like wild boars charging for the horizon, with total disregard for timetables and ease of point-to-point travel. GREATNESS.

There's snow and mountains and now there is ME.

To Commemorate an Imagined Squirrel's Imagined Death-

snow falls
tree falls
squirrel falls
snow's fallen
tree's fallen
squirrel's dead