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.

The Internet

Nightly before bed, I stare at the static lines of text on my computer screen and wish the letters would begin moving, would sprout arms and legs, would morph into tiny black and white figures with laughing voices and lively eyes. They don't, though. So after a while, sighing, I surrender to solitude; sighing, I surrender to sleep.

A memory from a while ago

His frame (incongruously sturdy) landed softly with every step and he moved with a hesitance I could never connect with any particular gesture but it always struck me nonetheless. When he walked he did not obtrude upon the world. Deerlike he held himself in, always alert to the omnipresence of danger, one supposed, though what form he thought it might have taken I don't know.

Knowing he would pass by I had waited there a quarter hour to appear before him and with my presence say: I exist, damn it; I cannot be wished away. I recognized him in the distance by his walk. Unexpected: a paralyzing admixture of sympathy and terror. The words rehearsed a thousand times in my mind (conciliatory words, indignant words), how would I now say those words? Which ones of them could squeeze my swollen thoughts into a moment?

I hid till he had walked past; he didn't see me. The rest of the day: propping myself up with the hackneyed phrases with which one serves the public I hoped my impersonal polite well-rehearsed smile would hide that I was trembling.

On Prescriptivism

Language use is a game of hide-and-seek with coy teasing laughing fairy words. They flit about your head but then dart away whenever you want to use them. Even if you catch them they will only wriggle free again. They are lively and delightful but they can't sit still long enough to mean anything.

(To write with them you must be patient, you must be coaxing. You cannot give them orders; they will only scowl and fly away. But if you sing to them then sometimes they will waltz for you. Then afterwards when they are tired, they will alight soft-footed on your shoulders and nuzzle up against your neck.)

Sometimes people grow frustrated with words: they are capricious, unreliable. These people put up great nets to catch words in. The goal is to tranquilize them, pacify them, so that they will finally just hold still. You must understand: when words stop squirming they can be made useful. They can be lashed together into any shape. They can even be tied into bundles, then crammed into cardboard boxes and shipped across centuries.

Their proponents say: "See how efficient they are! They mean today what they meant ten years ago, and they will mean the same in another twenty. This is the way of the future. This is modern industry at its best."

But as I look at them lying still I note their waxy skin, their dull eyes. They cannot fly anymore for their wings have been clipped. It is said they have a longer shelf life, but to what end? Is the only purpose of language to ship more meaning at a cheaper cost?

It is true that words in the wild are inefficient, that they are not optimized. But I find it delightful to watch them dance.

Lovely

The child had filled up his shelves not with books but with dolls: lines and lines of them, all wearing pink. To each one he had given a name—Esther, or Julia, or Sue, or Cindy. He would take up each in turn and play with it for a while. With their distinct personalities they suited his several moods: one was gentle and good, another feisty; a third cried a lot and always clung to him. Towards them all he showed kindness and benevolence: he complimented them, and he doted on them, and indulgently he showered them with gifts.

Late at night when he was lonely, he would look out from his bedstead at the pretty pink dolls and watch their distinct features melt together in the fading light until there were only the lines (stretching on forever) of pleasing pretty pinkness; and then drifting softly to sleep he would murmur: "Oh! that is lovely. Oh oh! that is lovely."

My Body

I am soft, pliable. My spine bends, my ribs expand and contract. I am made up of small chunks of interconnected flip-flopping things. I stand like a jig doll on collapsible joints.

Defensive Driving

My driving instructor is middle aged with a gruff voice and grey curly hair. He is twice my size and he talks very fast. I explain that I am nervous about driving and he says, "Don't worry: I believe in student-centred learning."

It comes up that I have just graduated. "From where?" he asks, and I tell him I went to Harvard. He then tells me he has to go down to Boston himself sometimes. "I'm the president of the Porsche Club of Upper Canada," he hastens to explain.

What am I planning to do next? he wants to know. I tell him that I'm not sure what to do with my life; that I thought maybe I'd dabble in other subjects for a while; that I'm planning to learn some math in the fall. "I think it's great when women study math," he says. "It's so untraditional."

In the lesson I have some trouble manoeuvring the car. I overshoot a few turns. I get flustered when several things are happening at once. He responds by increasing the speed and volume at which he talks.

Sometimes I mix up which signal is left and which is right. To this he says, "What school did you tell me you went to again?" I turn to look at him. "Relax," he says. "I've got to amuse myself by making some jokes. Otherwise I'm going to get bored."

He tells me to pull over to the curb. At the last moment I am worried I will hit it instead and start steering away. "What are you doing?!" he exclaims. "I asked you to pull over on the right and you're steering left. Come on, this isn't rocket science."

At the end of the lesson, he tells me, "At this rate, you're going to need some extra lessons." He just wants me to know, that's all. But if I feel more comfortable going at this slower instructional pace, that is perfectly okay with him. "Like I said," he assures me, "I believe in student-centred learning."

The Good Life

Once upon a time there was a man who was supremely happy.

His life was proceeding splendidly. Years of hard work, combined with an uncommon intelligence, had brought him considerable success. He had attended prestigious schools; he had earned A's. He had a job now, and it paid well, and he liked it. He had interesting hobbies. He exercised. When he had time, he appreciated art.

He had a wide circle of friends. They met together every once in a while in big groups, and photographs were taken, and he was always in them. These photographs showed up on the internet and proved to the world that he was well liked.

Sometimes his friends would argue amongst themselves, but he never got involved with their in-fighting. It cannot be established that he regularly knew about it. He was very busy and rarely saw his friends outside of their big group gatherings. When he did, he talked with them about grand ideas and theoretical models of things and curiosities of the intellect. Their conversations were fascinating, but they were never personal.

He had never been in a serious relationship. It wouldn't do to get too close to anyone; there was the risk of getting hurt. Consequently he was very careful to avoid emotional, and sometimes even physical, intimacy. He termed it "entanglement": a dangerous thing that led inevitably to disaster.

This, you see, was the secret to being a supremely happy man: you just had to make sure that nothing bad ever happened to you.

Menswear

Here he said draping a button-down shirt over my shoulders: this is your bathrobe.

Holding it closed with one hand I walked out of his bedroom into the dormstyle bathroom down the hall. In the mirror was my reflection, hair tousled face flushed. The shirt was blue and came down to my midthigh, the shoulders landing where teeshirt sleeves should end. I looked at myself engulfed and tiny and wondered who am I to venture into the world?

Plainness

I want to look ugly for a while.

I want my body hidden beneath oversized sweaters and baggy pants. I want to wear the same clothing for weeks, even if I spill stuff on it. I want to smell. I don't want to shower.

I do not want anyone to think I am attractive. I cannot offer myself up for them to find me so. All I want is to be unnoticed and unnoticeable.

So I will make myself drab and small. Then, should it be required that I tiptoe into the world, no one need ever know that I was there.

Overexposed

Was it safe out there? After prying open the cellar door I peeked outside. I was met with a wall of faces and of bulging eyes and hands pointing and voices crying and stampeding towards me feet and legs.

I slammed the hatch shut again, locked it, barricaded it, quivered in fear. I shall stay down here for a while. Should anyone need to reach me, they may slip a note through the slat on my door.