Questions She Asked a Cow

What are you?

I am a steak, 313 hamburgers, and some dog food.

When did you know?

I have always known.

Did you fight it?

No.

Why not?

There is nothing to fight.

Isn't there?

Things are the way they are. That is how the world goes.

Don't you feel that's unjust? Don't you think from a Rawlsian perspective —

I do not think from a Rawlsian perspective.

Because it's too painful for you?

Because it doesn't matter. Because I am a cow.  

Bereft

Rubbing exhausted eyes I cannot go to sleep yet, not yet, I cannot let myself sleep. I stay up one o'clock two o'clock three o'clock craving words, any words from anyone. It is worse at night, this longing, it is worse at night.

Deleatur

Our heroine lies draped across her unmade bed, pen in hand, arm curled around notebook. She is not writing but crossing out words. She crosses them out six or seven at a time, with lines that finish in elegant loops. She writes a few more, then crosses them out again. Her cast wide open window lets cool air blow in and over her body. Cool air on naked skin, she concentrates on the sensation until she no longer thinks Why? Why won't words erupt forth, good usable lava flow of words, unstuck unstilted words, why won't they pour onto the page, why won't they deliver her from doldrums and vapidity and meaningless transience and the ache of nostalgia and the fear of death and doing three more dishes, folding two more shirts?

Avatar

Denny responded to online personal ads with two photographs: one of his head shot from the side, which angle gracefully understated his double chin; and one of another man’s cock. The cock he had gleaned from the internet; it resembled his own in curvature and skin colour but was, he estimated, a good inch and a half longer, with a considerably more bulbous head.

These pictures, introduced by three generic lines of dubious grammaticality, he sent indiscriminately to any ad labelled w4m. He rarely got responses but didn’t care. He liked to imagine the women who’d written the ads (he mostly didn’t read them) opening up their email inboxes and seeing, jutting up lewdly on their laptop screens, the glorious thick veiny angrily purple cock that he thought of as his, even though it wasn’t.

The women of his fantasies — against their prudish wills, naturally — found this ineluctably arousing. Hijacked by their primitive subconscious, they juiced themselves into a frenzy imagining him fucking them — imagining the cock, his cock, plowing in and out of them; imagining his turgid monstrous cock fucking them while delicate slender fingers reached as if possessed to touch slick cunts, fingers sleek and wet stroking cunts dripping oozing gushing, imagining him, imagining his cock, huge and engorged and majestic.

Ingenuity

We stood in the bathroom, him behind me. I pulled the toothbrush out of my mouth.

I said: What did they do while they were pooping, before the invention of books?

He said: Maybe they whittled. Or knit clothes.

I said: They could not have knitted. Imagine you were in an outhouse. The ground and the seat would be dirty. There would be no place to rest the skein.

He said: It would have been doable. They need only have built shelves.

Waiting

A while ago I was waiting for something, or waiting for maybe even waiting for several somethings: waiting for well mostly for a response of some kind, like an email or a phone call or a message in a bottle floating towards me on the ocean on like some sort of figurative ocean if you will. I had sent out I guess you could say missives e-missives mostly, I’d sent out floods of pigeons into cyberspace pigeons i.e. self-addressed stamped birds. I was checking email checking mail and email and phone messages and thinking maybe this minute maybe this minute maybe now maybe soon—surely soon. But nothing happened. Then nothing happened.

Health Nut

For breakfast she eats plain yogurt, to which she adds antioxidants, that is to say, berries. She sweetens it with agave nectar. Then she drinks a glass of pomegranate juice and eats one slice of whole spelt bread, with peanut butter, unsalted.

For lunch she has vegetable-quinoa salad, along with a side of hummus. She washes it down with clover leaf tea. But later, after dealing with several recalcitrant clients, she indulges in a Diet Pepsi—which, yes, contains aspartame, but she feels exhausted and needs pepping up.

Her boss comes back from his afternoon coffee break with doughnut holes, which he offers around the office. She perceives considerable social pressure not to turn them down.

Once home she plops onto her couch; watches television; begins to sip wine. Just one cigarette would do her some good. She is too tired to cook, so she orders a pizza. By the time it arrives, she has difficulty undoing the clasp on her wallet. The deliveryman finally helps her with it; she declares that he’s fabulous and tips thirty percent.

At three in the morning she wakes up with a dry mouth and an urgent need to urinate. She stumbles into the bathroom, banging into the sink. After relieving herself, she replenishes her system with water to which healthful vitamins have been added. Her head aches. She swallows some Advil, but feels bad about it later. She prefers to avoid pharmaceutical drugs.

'Tis a gift to be simple

Their arrangement was simple. On Wednesdays and Sundays at eight o'clock, she materialized on his front porch wearing a floral-printed or maybe paisley skirt, long and loose and gathered with string. She always carried a purse and perhaps an umbrella if it was raining and on Wednesdays a lumpy black bag containing, probably, he assumed, books. She came straight from some regular engagement, but he had never asked her what it was.

Once inside she would sit on his brown velour couch, on the corner of the cushion, so that her weight barely dented its well-worn surface. She might have been photoshopped into the room. She always kept her belongings close in; they formed a cluster at her feet. When he asked if she'd like something to drink, she usually said just water, but sometimes he pressed upon her a glass of white wine.

How had her day been, he would ask, and she would say something about the bus ride over. He would sit down on the sofa beside her. Then words would begin to spill out of her, he was never sure what about. The things she said were very complex. He nodded, though, and chuckled whenever she seemed to have made a joke.

He felt ten minutes was a respectable amount of time to wait before damming her flood of words. Sometimes, if she seemed agitated, he waited fifteen.

After goods had been exchanged for services, she would gather up her things and head out the door. Sometimes he would watch her from his window, standing at the bus stop across the street. She was headed north. He didn’t know how far. He felt it was simpler not to ask.

In My Gmail Drafts Folder

Thousands of unsent words, half-written emails with grandiose language that now seem overwritten, melodramatic, ridiculous. I meant them at the time, though—fervently, every last word. Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if I had sent them. Would I have made a fool out of myself, or might they have helped? Less is more, people tell me; but I cannot shake the conviction, somehow, that the solution to every problem is to throw more words at it.

An Intimate Tableau

He lay there napping but I was awake. The air was cold. I sat up beside him and pulled a blanket round my shoulders, then looked past his somnolescent form out my window and gazed at nothing. Car sounds roared through the emptiness in my head. I was an impostor. Someone had plucked the rightful woman out of a warm and tender postcoital scene and replaced her with me instead—me, full of uncertainty and doubt, distant, confused, not sure what I was doing. There were too many sounds: they grew not louder but more menacing; they were a rumbling sonic stampede heading towards me. I bent low and covered my ears against the assault.

He opened an eye and saw me huddling. "Are you all right?" he asked with sleepy concern.

"I'm fine," I said, and he pulled me closer to him and wrapped large languid arms around me, then went back to sleep. I lay there tangled in his limbs and looked skyward, my eyes tracing the lines in my stuccoed ceiling, tracing again and again the same lines. He lay there napping but I was awake.

A Time of Change

I woke up just now to the chatter of early-morning birds and watched the pale predawn light billow out white and gentle upon the world and I thought: It is spring, and I am starting anew.

Caricature

I was never born. A vagrant artist drew me into existence one afternoon while sitting in a booth in a narrow back alley where drifters peddle knickknacks that no one needs. He gave me: a toothy too-wide smile; exaggerated ears. Now, huge-headed but skinny-necked, I bobble my way through my cartoon life. Plea: If I was never designed to manifest proportionality and realism, then someday may I at least be syndicated?

Strictly Distraction

The urge to debase myself, to plead, is always stronger than my need to maintain a semblance of dignified splendour. Shall I then tender my resignation to propriety and do something foolish out of a lack of sobriety? Notoriety would be the only result, though. No: I have more pride than that.

Instead: Hold back, keep to yourself, make your face go blank. Your blue funk shows—tuck in your knees and elbows. A better way to waste your time: put words beside each other and feel smug when they rhyme.

Small Selves

Inside of giants, remember, is a tiny version of their selves, easily spooked, will run and hide in a hollow limb or duck behind organs if you move too quick. Wait a while, though, lie still and be patient: it will peek out of giant eyes and look at you hesitantly, quizzically, it will climb out of a giant mouth, hoisting itself up over giant teeth to look at you hesitantly, quizzically, look at you with quiet tender eyes.

Look there, now, you have frightened it away! It scampered down through the neck and slipped past the heart and wriggled into the gut, hid there, pulling intestines over its head as cover. Look, you have frightened it; it is frightened of you now, perhaps forever.

Forever? Wait a while; lie still; be patient: perhaps it will peek out again someday, hesistantly, quizzically, bringing you pretty rocks from its garden and seashells and smooth coloured glass that it found at the beach.

Trust

There once was a king who lived in a great castle on top of a hill. The heavens smiled upon him, for his kingdom was bountiful and every year his fortunes grew. He filled his castle with rich tapestries and golden sculptures; his royal self he clothed in robes of velvet. He adorned his queen with precious gemstones and together they dined every night on sumptuous feasts of the plumpest beasts and fowls in the realm.

He was known far and wide as a generous man. "I love my people," he would declare, and to cheering crowds he would announce from a turret of his castle that he would share his wealth with his subjects. For instance, one morning he announced that a fine pheasant would be given to any commoner who entered his courtyard the next day.

That evening, under cover of night, his royal guard built a moat around the castle. There was only one drawbridge, and when the people of his kingdom came the next day, it was drawn. They shouted at the guard and implored him to let it down, for the generous king wished to bestow pheasants upon his people. But it was to no avail: the cruel guard would not be moved.

Another time, the king announced that he would give out a deer to anyone who entered his courtyard the following day, and the citizens—who by now were starving—were greatly heartened. But that evening, under cover of night, his royal guard dug a deep pit around the castle and filled it with sharp spikes. In the morning the citizens could not enter.

Then one day, a vile, treasonous young man riled up the people of the realm. "The king has riches," he cried, "while we are starving! Let us storm the castle at once!"

An angry mob soon swelled the grounds before the castle. They carried such weapons as they could find—hatchets, staves, kitchen knives. They came by the thousands, their weapons clanging, their hoarse shouts roaring, their rage echoing all through the land. And then with a final cry they descended upon the castle.

They got only so far as the castle courtyard before the guards mowed them down. The ground gleamed red with their treacherous blood.

The next day the generous king shook his head with great sadness. "I cannot trust my own citizens," he said. "I loved them and they have betrayed me." As great tears rolled down his weary face, he ordered that his castle guard should be tripled and two new cannons should be installed.

Calling Doctors

When you must call doctors to make appointments, or dentists or offices of any kind, do not call during business hours. It is dangerous: a voice will reach through the telephone to grab you by the neck and demand, Quick: what is your business? Quick: why are you calling today? You will get flustered and jumble what you wanted to say. A misunderstanding will arise, and you will have to correct it. You will stutter and sound like a fool.

Instead, call after hours. Leave a message and wait; someone will call back the next day. If you feel calm enough, you can pick up then, but if not, you can let them leave you a message in turn. Eventually, after enough messages have been left, you will have warmed up to the idea of talking on the telephone, and an appointment can finally be scheduled.

This is inefficient but safe, and I greatly prefer it. In my old age I have given up making first moves; I simply will not do it. I will only indicate to the world that I am ready to be solicited.

Scissors

Snip snap snip snap they went as they cut through the thread on which the basket was dangling. It dropped out of sight into the chasm below. We can only assume it hit ground with a thud, but we shall never know. If its contents spilled everywhere, we shall never see them, nor shall we ever discover what they were. May the dirt be soft, the wind blow gently, the scavengers leave them untroubled and unpawed.

Upon Awakening

I like the sleepy sensuality of mornings. I wake up and feel sunshine and flannel soft against my skin and the soothing weight of blankets. The air is cold but I am wrapped up and folded up in sheets. Lying on my stomach I mold my body into the mattress so that I am cushioned by my own softness; and then I lie still and quiet and just feel things.

Giblets

My heart, liver, and kidneys have been wrapped up in plastic and stuffed inside of my chest. They jiggle gelatinously and they ooze out blood. What shall I do with them—eat them with relish? Used for gravy, they would make it taste rich; or they'd add tang to a stuffing. They could simply be browned and sizzled in butter. They might make a wonderful stew.

But is it worth the work? I would have to touch them, feel their slippery goo, clean it off my messy fingers. I am tempted to pass up their flavour and dispose of them instead: throw them neatly in the garbage, or feed them to the dogs.

My viscera, my offal, my innards dark red and awful: are they worth the work?

AMZB: Private Tutor

(Never fear, my dear readers: In the following post, names and identifying details have been changed to protect privacy.)

Arnold is ten years old, bright eyed, a bit chubby. He is staring at me in consternation.

"I don't know how to do this question. I don't get what it means."

"Which one?"

"This one. What does the triangle sign mean?"

"Oh, yes. Don't worry, you're not supposed to know what it means in advance. This is a trick the SSAT likes to play on you. They try to throw you off by using strange symbols. But see here? They've defined it for you."

I point at the top of the page where the strange operator is defined.

"Look at this equation. It tells you just what to do. 'A triangle B' just means 'multiply A by 3, then subtract B.' So you just have to plug numbers into this formula. Does that make sense?"

He nods.

"Okay. So suppose I have 5 triangle 6. What do we do with 5 and 6?"

"Do we multiply them?"

"Not quite. Okay. So what we're doing is we're taking the number before the triangle, and we're plugging it in wherever we see an A in this equation here" — I point to it — "and then we're taking the number after the triangle and plugging it in wherever we see a B. By 'plugging in,' I mean that we're replacing A and B with these numbers. We're switching out A and B for whatever numbers they give us."

"Oh, okay."

"So when we try to find 5 triangle 6, first, we replace A with 5, and then we replace B with 6. That means that everything that happens to A in this formula now happens to 5, and everything that happens to B now happens to 6. So we get 5 times 3 minus 6. Which is what?"

"Nine."

"Good! Now you try. Let's say we have 4 triangle 1. What, for starters, do we do with the number 4?"

"Do we multiply it by A?"

"No, see, we're going to replace A with 4 instead. See how A is being multiplied by 3? Now 4 is coming along and shoving A out of the way, and taking over the place where A used to be. That means we're multiplying 4 by 3 now. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, I think so."

"So then if we had 6 triangle 8, what do we do with the 6?"

"Do we multiply it by 4?"

"Okay. Let's think of this another way. The letter A here is just a placeholder. It's like ... have you ever played that game madlibs? Where you get a paragraph of text but there are blanks where some of the words should be, and you choose new words without knowing what the paragraph says, and then you get silly sentences at the end?"

He brightens. "Yeah, we play that at camp!"

"Okay. So let's rewrite this equation as a madlib." I write out the equation with blank lines where there were variables. Under each line I write either "A" or "B" in the style of a madlib.

"Now we have a general madlib and we can stick any numbers we like in it to get a different equation each time. Let's put in 6 and 8 like before." I write them in. "Then what's 6 triangle 8?"

He squints for a minute. "Ten?"

"Yes, exactly! Great! Okay. So now what's 9 triangle 2? How do we figure that out?"

"Do we multiply 9 and 2?"

Hats

One of my favourite things to do is to go into department stores and try on all their hats. I like hats of all sorts—sun hats and newsboy caps, fedoras, berets. I like peculiar hats with feathers and birds on them. I like simple hats too, though.

Gradually, I shall amass a collection of hats. I would like to acquire some very garish ones, then wear them with clothes that don't match.

I have been thinking about hats a lot tonight, and they have delighted me so much that I would like to kiss someone. I live alone, though, and there is nobody nearby. This is something I must change about my life. I must shuffle and rearrange things so that, somehow, I shall always have people to kiss when I think about hats.

Wisdom

The village sage stood in a field all day, hat cocked, eyes fixed forward. He was handsome and kind. He was made out of straw.

To the villagers he was indispensable. They talked of their sorrows with him, sought him out for advice. He was known to be an excellent listener. He served as an arbiter in the bitterest disputes, for people trusted that he would never take sides.

Only once had anyone gone to see him and left disappointed. There had been a young girl, a lonely young girl, who had come to him for companionship. She had asked, "But what of your life, sir? What do you think, and what do you feel?"

This was generally regarded as a foolish thing to have asked. It was not the role of a sage to feel anything.

Cottoning On

My mind communicates to me through a thick layer of cotton. I ask it questions but cotton balls are stuffed in its ears; it tells me answers but cotton balls are stuffed in its cheeks. I strain my ears to no avail: I cannot make out what it is saying.

I need it to lead me places but it cannot. Its movements are hampered, for it is fighting through a world packed tight with cotton.