How comest thy part in this tale?
And who dared enlarge it so far
That, bloated, thou staggerest onward,
And thy role doth so hopelessly mar?
The footsteps thou strivest to follow
Are truly so small and so light,
That any attempt that thou makest
Goes blundering into the night.
Thou ought to be small, unoffensive,
And not go out wandering so much,
Chasing Gondorian Rangers,
Whose hearts thou so gropingly clutch.
Hypnosis by brain-waves thou sendest
To a gullible soul far away.
Thy necklace, a chain ever-clanking,
Obsesseth him day after day.
Thou seest how low is thy standing
In the favor of one, which is me.
I think that thou long ago should have
Been drowned on thy way o’er the sea.
Thou askest now why I am speaking
To thee, whom I esteemest so low?
I’m done now, but why did I bother?
Ask not, because nobody knows.
~Tierney Erwin
p.s. Since my reputation is worth so much, and hangs already on a thread so fine, I feel compelled to point out that 1) I wrote this years ago (I forget how many), and 2) even then, the formal English (thee, thou, -est, etc....what is that called, anyway?) was bad on purpose.
There. Now I feel better.
26 February 2009
07 February 2009
The Adventures of Biff and Iguana Man
"No throwing babies," the sign in the window said.
I stopped to gawk and wonder, and then to scratch my head.
I stood there for a moment, then I turned myself around;
I watched, with grave suspicion, the goings-on in town.
A woman swept the sidewalk while the grocer stacked his wares;
Some boys were playing freeze tag, and a girl sat on some stairs;
A teen, complete with ipod, with great effort parked his car,
And near a blowout sale rack, two young moms played tug-of-war;
A new car passed an old one, and a moped passed them both;
A couple lovebirds waltzed on air, apparently betrothed.
Upon this scene of normalcy I gazed with some alarm--
What dreadful secrets lay beneath this fair facade of charm?
What possibly could spur the drawing up of such a sign?
Were babies really being thrown? A shiver smote my spine.
For a time I stood there frozen, then my Inner Hero stirred;
“Well, don’t just sit and slobber! Get your cape, you lousy bird!”
To my face these words were spoken! I could scarce believe the spite,
But I didn’t pause to answer, for I knew that he was right.
And, besides, my Inner Hero (though heroic to a fault)
Is known to lean toward rudeness. Indeed, perfect he is not.
So I thundered to my pickup with my nostrils bravely flared;
A cape is in my trunk, you see. I always come prepared.
I flung it round my neck, and in its blueish-green embrace
A new Me took the spotlight, though I kept the same round face.
My hat was pulled down to my eyes; my collar touched my ears;
I was, as has been wisely said, among evil’s darkest fears.
I tore across the pavement, kicking sparks up in my wake;
My heart was pounding wildly, but I swear it didn’t quake.
When I reached the storefront window, with that awful sign inside,
I paused to shake my fist, and then I flung the front door wide.
The splendor of my coming would have scared a warlord stiff,
But the freckled kid inside just laughed (his name was likely Biff).
He had braces and bifocals, and he laughed like choking cats;
I couldn’t help but loathe him, but I stalked to where he sat.
“Tell me now where I must venture,” were my words to that young bloke,
“To avenge these hard-tossed infants.” And I gave his face a poke.
With the benefit of hindsight, that last gesture was not wise,
For immediately upon it, greenish flames flicked in his eyes.
“Did you just poke my face?” he rasped. What could I say but “yes”?
And what precisely happened next is anybody’s guess.
I tried to keep my balance, but that kid was quick and fierce;
The strength with which he kicked me quite defied his tender years.
We tumbled on the floor then, getting jabs in when we could;
Of this art I am a master, but this Biff guy sure was good.
At last I broke his hold and stood and grabbed a whiteish flag;
“Oh say,” I said, “Why not be pals? This fighting’s such a drag.”
He gave an awful gurgle and made three more well-aimed kicks,
Then he grinned a silly grin and said, “Ok. Let’s call it quits.”
With relief my soul was flooded now; I wrung his sweaty paw;
Then, “You must be Iguana Man,” he said in startled awe.
I smiled and blushed a little bit, for what he said was true;
Then, out of common courtesy, I asked, “And who are you?”
“My name is Biff,” quoth he, to which I said, “I thought as much.”
(A face like his, I thought, no other name could justly touch.)
“Are you looking for a job, Biff? For your wallop’s got pizzazz,
And a sidekick’s something I’ve not got, but really ought to have.”
Such radiance seized Biff’s features that it rather hurt my eyes,
And he gave a harsh, elated squeak, in affirmative reply.
“Come on now, Biff,” I said then, “There are babies to be saved.
Someone has been throwing them; let’s crush the errant knaves!”
Biff yodeled, and he set off down the street at such a pace
That I had to rent a scooter just to keep up with the chase.
For many blocks we sped thus, till we reached the edge of town,
Then Biff pulled up so sharply that I nearly mowed him down.
“This is it,” he whispered hoarsely, “This is where they toss the babes,
But they tranquilize the infants, so their cries don’t wake the nabes.”
“The fiends,” I darkly muttered, and with stealth we crept inside.
Then Biff got really nervous, and he said we’d better hide.
“They meet here every Tuesday right at seven, and that’s soon.
Let’s hide here in the closet, then we’ll snag the wretched goons.”
A first-rate plan I thought it, so we hid among the coats—
The reek of must and mothballs was so strong it hurt my throat.
We didn’t suffer long, though, for there soon arose a din,
So we crowded to the keyhole to peek outside from within.
There was padding on the floor, and there was padding on the walls;
There were men in padded jumpsuits (some were short and some were tall).
There were cradles in the corners. There were babies all about
(They were wrapped up snug in blankets, with their faces poking out).
Then a great and solemn silence swept the chatter off its feet,
And there rose a muffled humming, and a soft but steady beat.
Then a man strode to the infants and he gently picked one up,
And with fluid, swift dexterity he slung the helpless pup;
Another silent man reached out and snatched it from the air.
I didn’t scream, but this I did: I pulled out half my hair.
As one body, Biff and I leapt out; we cried, “Lay down your arms!
Place the babies in the cradles, or you’ll certainly be harmed.
We are trained in Russian boxing, and we know a hundred tricks;
We have written epic poems, and we sometimes swallow bricks.”
Now, I cannot say with certainty that all of this is true,
But things were looking desperate, and, well, what else could we do?
It did the trick, at any rate—those brutes spun out and fled,
And we chased them round in circles till we all were almost dead.
At last the fiends surrendered, and they hung their heads in shame;
I told them that, if I were them, I would surely do the same.
Then Biff scooped up the babies, while I dragged the crooks to jail;
By sunset we were satisfied that one more case was nailed.
I was pleased with my new sidekick, who, though ugly as a toad,
Was very good at boxing, and with valor was bestowed.
We stood out on a hilltop then, my partner Biff and I.
We didn’t have to say a word—the same glints were in our eyes.
The world was now a safer place; our day’s good deed was done,
So we kicked back, had a beer, and watched the setting of the sun.
The End.
I stopped to gawk and wonder, and then to scratch my head.
I stood there for a moment, then I turned myself around;
I watched, with grave suspicion, the goings-on in town.
A woman swept the sidewalk while the grocer stacked his wares;
Some boys were playing freeze tag, and a girl sat on some stairs;
A teen, complete with ipod, with great effort parked his car,
And near a blowout sale rack, two young moms played tug-of-war;
A new car passed an old one, and a moped passed them both;
A couple lovebirds waltzed on air, apparently betrothed.
Upon this scene of normalcy I gazed with some alarm--
What dreadful secrets lay beneath this fair facade of charm?
What possibly could spur the drawing up of such a sign?
Were babies really being thrown? A shiver smote my spine.
For a time I stood there frozen, then my Inner Hero stirred;
“Well, don’t just sit and slobber! Get your cape, you lousy bird!”
To my face these words were spoken! I could scarce believe the spite,
But I didn’t pause to answer, for I knew that he was right.
And, besides, my Inner Hero (though heroic to a fault)
Is known to lean toward rudeness. Indeed, perfect he is not.
So I thundered to my pickup with my nostrils bravely flared;
A cape is in my trunk, you see. I always come prepared.
I flung it round my neck, and in its blueish-green embrace
A new Me took the spotlight, though I kept the same round face.
My hat was pulled down to my eyes; my collar touched my ears;
I was, as has been wisely said, among evil’s darkest fears.
I tore across the pavement, kicking sparks up in my wake;
My heart was pounding wildly, but I swear it didn’t quake.
When I reached the storefront window, with that awful sign inside,
I paused to shake my fist, and then I flung the front door wide.
The splendor of my coming would have scared a warlord stiff,
But the freckled kid inside just laughed (his name was likely Biff).
He had braces and bifocals, and he laughed like choking cats;
I couldn’t help but loathe him, but I stalked to where he sat.
“Tell me now where I must venture,” were my words to that young bloke,
“To avenge these hard-tossed infants.” And I gave his face a poke.
With the benefit of hindsight, that last gesture was not wise,
For immediately upon it, greenish flames flicked in his eyes.
“Did you just poke my face?” he rasped. What could I say but “yes”?
And what precisely happened next is anybody’s guess.
I tried to keep my balance, but that kid was quick and fierce;
The strength with which he kicked me quite defied his tender years.
We tumbled on the floor then, getting jabs in when we could;
Of this art I am a master, but this Biff guy sure was good.
At last I broke his hold and stood and grabbed a whiteish flag;
“Oh say,” I said, “Why not be pals? This fighting’s such a drag.”
He gave an awful gurgle and made three more well-aimed kicks,
Then he grinned a silly grin and said, “Ok. Let’s call it quits.”
With relief my soul was flooded now; I wrung his sweaty paw;
Then, “You must be Iguana Man,” he said in startled awe.
I smiled and blushed a little bit, for what he said was true;
Then, out of common courtesy, I asked, “And who are you?”
“My name is Biff,” quoth he, to which I said, “I thought as much.”
(A face like his, I thought, no other name could justly touch.)
“Are you looking for a job, Biff? For your wallop’s got pizzazz,
And a sidekick’s something I’ve not got, but really ought to have.”
Such radiance seized Biff’s features that it rather hurt my eyes,
And he gave a harsh, elated squeak, in affirmative reply.
“Come on now, Biff,” I said then, “There are babies to be saved.
Someone has been throwing them; let’s crush the errant knaves!”
Biff yodeled, and he set off down the street at such a pace
That I had to rent a scooter just to keep up with the chase.
For many blocks we sped thus, till we reached the edge of town,
Then Biff pulled up so sharply that I nearly mowed him down.
“This is it,” he whispered hoarsely, “This is where they toss the babes,
But they tranquilize the infants, so their cries don’t wake the nabes.”
“The fiends,” I darkly muttered, and with stealth we crept inside.
Then Biff got really nervous, and he said we’d better hide.
“They meet here every Tuesday right at seven, and that’s soon.
Let’s hide here in the closet, then we’ll snag the wretched goons.”
A first-rate plan I thought it, so we hid among the coats—
The reek of must and mothballs was so strong it hurt my throat.
We didn’t suffer long, though, for there soon arose a din,
So we crowded to the keyhole to peek outside from within.
There was padding on the floor, and there was padding on the walls;
There were men in padded jumpsuits (some were short and some were tall).
There were cradles in the corners. There were babies all about
(They were wrapped up snug in blankets, with their faces poking out).
Then a great and solemn silence swept the chatter off its feet,
And there rose a muffled humming, and a soft but steady beat.
Then a man strode to the infants and he gently picked one up,
And with fluid, swift dexterity he slung the helpless pup;
Another silent man reached out and snatched it from the air.
I didn’t scream, but this I did: I pulled out half my hair.
As one body, Biff and I leapt out; we cried, “Lay down your arms!
Place the babies in the cradles, or you’ll certainly be harmed.
We are trained in Russian boxing, and we know a hundred tricks;
We have written epic poems, and we sometimes swallow bricks.”
Now, I cannot say with certainty that all of this is true,
But things were looking desperate, and, well, what else could we do?
It did the trick, at any rate—those brutes spun out and fled,
And we chased them round in circles till we all were almost dead.
At last the fiends surrendered, and they hung their heads in shame;
I told them that, if I were them, I would surely do the same.
Then Biff scooped up the babies, while I dragged the crooks to jail;
By sunset we were satisfied that one more case was nailed.
I was pleased with my new sidekick, who, though ugly as a toad,
Was very good at boxing, and with valor was bestowed.
We stood out on a hilltop then, my partner Biff and I.
We didn’t have to say a word—the same glints were in our eyes.
The world was now a safer place; our day’s good deed was done,
So we kicked back, had a beer, and watched the setting of the sun.
The End.
03 February 2009
my flitting thoughts light briefly hereon...
...in other words, here are a few things I've been thinking about lately. This is my excuse for a blog post when I lack the motivation or subject matter to write anything of my own.
Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.
-Job 13:15
Oh Master, grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
Or to be loved as to love with all my soul.
-a song
I cannot think well of a man who sports with any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than a stander-by can judge of.
-Jane Austen
And Jesus answered and said to her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things."
-Luke 10:41
It takes no courage whatsoever to type alone in my study. Especially when I'm typing for a safe audience.
-Andree Seu
For mad scientists who keep brains in jars, here's a tip: why not add a slice of lemon to each jar, for freshness?
-Jack Handey
Time sneaks up on you like a windshield on a bug.
-John Lithgow
Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.
-Job 13:15
Oh Master, grant that I may never seek
So much to be consoled as to console,
To be understood as to understand,
Or to be loved as to love with all my soul.
-a song
I cannot think well of a man who sports with any woman's feelings; and there may often be a great deal more suffered than a stander-by can judge of.
-Jane Austen
And Jesus answered and said to her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things."
-Luke 10:41
It takes no courage whatsoever to type alone in my study. Especially when I'm typing for a safe audience.
-Andree Seu
For mad scientists who keep brains in jars, here's a tip: why not add a slice of lemon to each jar, for freshness?
-Jack Handey
Time sneaks up on you like a windshield on a bug.
-John Lithgow
24 January 2009
I blame Dorothy Sayers
Imagine a man--not a terribly honorable man (guilty, in fact, of murder; though only two people know it yet)--who has become entangled in a deadly drug-smuggling ring. At the beginning, he didn't know what he was getting into, but he needed money; and even when he did find out what it was all about, he stuck with it. Imagine that such a man, under the growing suspicion that you (who are obviously a British lord who moonlights as a self-directed private detective of sorts) are on to his trick, comes to your flat one night to confess. After exchanging tales and getting the whole thing sorted out, making it quite evident that his game is up, suppose the man confides that, though he himself is strangely relieved that it's over, his one great distress is that his past deeds will cause his wife and child such pain and public disgrace.
The role the man played in the drug-trafficking was inconspicuous, though vital. Its revelation, besides shocking and shaming his family, would also ruin the reputation of the advertising firm for which he worked, and through which he secretly worked his mischief.
The murder he committed was related to the drug business, and was rather ingeniously constructed to look like an unfortunate accident, and has been credited as such by all the world, apart from yourself and one discerning young lady.
Suppose you are well aware, as you talk together this evening, that another member of the drug ring has trailed your man here, and is waiting somewhere in the shadows outside, fully intent on doing him in as he makes his way home again.
You are also aware that if your man stays a few hours in your flat, he will be safe, for your friends at Scotland Yard will by then have sprung their trap on the rest of the gang elsewhere in the city, and the would-be assassin will have fled for his own life.
The man contemplates suicide, to save his wife and child from the scandal (provided you hold your tongue, of course).
Knowing all this, could it be justifiable to suggest something else to the man? What if you said,
"Listen! I think there is one other way out. It won't help you, but it may make all the difference to your wife and child."
"How?"
"They need never know anything about all this. Nothing. Nobody need ever know anything, if you do as I tell you."
"What do you mean? Tell me quickly. I'll do anything."
"It won't save you."
"That doesn't matter. Tell me."
"Go home now. Go on foot, and not too fast. And don't look behind you."
What if the blood drained from his face as he said, "I think I know what you mean. . .very well."
And what if he did it?
The role the man played in the drug-trafficking was inconspicuous, though vital. Its revelation, besides shocking and shaming his family, would also ruin the reputation of the advertising firm for which he worked, and through which he secretly worked his mischief.
The murder he committed was related to the drug business, and was rather ingeniously constructed to look like an unfortunate accident, and has been credited as such by all the world, apart from yourself and one discerning young lady.
Suppose you are well aware, as you talk together this evening, that another member of the drug ring has trailed your man here, and is waiting somewhere in the shadows outside, fully intent on doing him in as he makes his way home again.
You are also aware that if your man stays a few hours in your flat, he will be safe, for your friends at Scotland Yard will by then have sprung their trap on the rest of the gang elsewhere in the city, and the would-be assassin will have fled for his own life.
The man contemplates suicide, to save his wife and child from the scandal (provided you hold your tongue, of course).
Knowing all this, could it be justifiable to suggest something else to the man? What if you said,
"Listen! I think there is one other way out. It won't help you, but it may make all the difference to your wife and child."
"How?"
"They need never know anything about all this. Nothing. Nobody need ever know anything, if you do as I tell you."
"What do you mean? Tell me quickly. I'll do anything."
"It won't save you."
"That doesn't matter. Tell me."
"Go home now. Go on foot, and not too fast. And don't look behind you."
What if the blood drained from his face as he said, "I think I know what you mean. . .very well."
And what if he did it?
08 January 2009
conversations with a five-year-old superhero
Tierney is walking through her parents’ bedroom.
Enter Eli (wearing a cape with the collar turned up, a belt with a pistol holster bearing a wooden sword, and Tierney’s graduation cap) and Sam (dressed in long johns, a baby bib, and a too-small knitted cap of some kind).
Tierney: Oh, look, it’s a graduated superhero.
Eli: No, it’s actually a helmet. It only looks like a graduation hat.
Tierney: I see.
Sam: Hi, Middis Bott.
Tierney: Mrs. Potts? Why do I always have to be Mrs. Potts? Can’t I be someone else this time?
Sam: No. Middis Bott.
Tierney: Oh, fine. Who are you, again?
Eli: Mr. Beeda. Or maybe Baby Mayne.
Sam: Yeah. Baby Mayne.
Tierney: Oh. Hi, Baby Mayne.
Sam: Hi…
Eli: My name is Jack. I’m actually a guard at the hotel.
Tierney: The hotel?
Eli: This is the hotel.
Tierney: I see. Do all the hotel guards wear helmets like that?
Eli: Yeah, it has armor underneath. I have two chain mail shirts, too. And this is my sword.
Tierney: At least your sword looks like a sword.
Eli: Yeah.
Tierney: Do you get a lot of armed robbers at this hotel?
Eli: No, I’ve got two chain mail shirts.
Tierney: I know, but why do you need all that armor? Do you get attacked a lot?
Eli: Not really. Sometimes I wear a suit coat.
Tierney: Oh. Do you wear your chain mail underneath?
Eli: No, just a white shirt.
Tierney: I see. Do people call you Agent 86 when you wear your suit coat?
Eli: Yeah, but I’m really a guard.
Tierney: Disguised as Agent 86?
Eli: Yeah.
Tierney: Very tricky.
Sam: Daddoo, beez! Daddoo, beez!
Tierney: What?
Sam: Daddoo, beez!
Tierney: Tractor please?
Sam: No, daddoo, beez!
Eli: Oh, you want your gun?
Sam: No…
(A trek is made to Sam’s dresser, wherefrom Eli pulls a largeish “number one” birthday candle.)
Tierney: Oh…I see. Candle please.
Eli: That’s his gun.
Tierney: Oh. It looks like a candle.
Eli: It’s a gun.
Tierney: Disguised as a candle?
Eli: Yeah.
Sam: Yeah. Daddoo.
Tierney: So then you can tell all the bad guys, ‘No, I just carry a candle around with me for fun,’ and then you can shoot them.
Eli (laughing): Yeah, like, pshew! Pshew!
Tierney: Oh, that was fun.
Sam: Yeah. Dun. Bad duys. Oh!
Tierney: Oh man...
Sam: Oh man!
Tierney: What is it?
Sam: Dood duys! Winnow!
Tierney: The good guys are coming in the window?
Sam: Yeah. Dood duys.
Tierney: Good guys should really come in the door.
Sam: Yeah. Bad duys.
Tierney: Oh, there are bad guys, too?
Sam: Yeah, winnow.
Tierney: Well you’d better get them!
Sam: Pshew! Pshew! There.
Tierney: How do you tell which ones are the bad guys that you can shoot?
Eli: The bad guys all wear white, and the good guys all wear black.
Tierney: Sam’s wearing white.
Eli: No, he has a blue bib, and this blue hat, and a tractor on his jammies.
Tierney: Oh. So the bad guys just wear all white with nothing on it. Are you a good guy, Sam?
Sam: No. Dood baby.
Eli: All the good babies wear white pajamas with this little tractor on them, and a light blue hat, and a blue bib with a brown dog on it, and above the dog it says ‘woof’, and no socks.
Tierney: I see. That’s quite a uniform.
Sam: Oh! Bad duys!
Tierney: Bad guys over there, too? Good grief, they’re coming out of the woodwork tonight.
Sam: Dood duys!
Tierney: Bad guys and good guys? Oh dear. Are they fighting?
Sam: Yeah.
Tierney: Who’s winning, the bad guys or the good guys?
Sam: Um…bad duys.
Tierney: Oh no! You’d better go help. You can’t let the bad guys win!
Sam: Dun?
Eli: Yeah, here, shoot my helmet.
Tierney: You want a hole in your helmet?
Eli: No, it’s got armor under it.
Tierney: Oh, it’s bullet-proof?
Eli (scornfully): No, it’s sword-proof.
Tierney: So if someone shot your helmet, the bullet would go through and kill you?
Eli: No, it’s armor.
Tierney: Well, that’s what bullet-proof means. Bullets can’t get through it.
Eli: Oh. Yeah. It is.
Tierney: That’s good.
Eli: I’m actually one of them, over there.
Tierney: One of the good guys?
Eli: Yeah. I’m a guard.
Tierney: So I hear.
Eli: All the guards wear black pants and a grey shirt, and white socks, and a black cape, and a sword, and a helmet.
Tierney: Goodness. Who designed your uniform, anyway?
Eli: The hotel, of course!
Exit Eli and Sam. Finis.
Enter Eli (wearing a cape with the collar turned up, a belt with a pistol holster bearing a wooden sword, and Tierney’s graduation cap) and Sam (dressed in long johns, a baby bib, and a too-small knitted cap of some kind).
Tierney: Oh, look, it’s a graduated superhero.
Eli: No, it’s actually a helmet. It only looks like a graduation hat.
Tierney: I see.
Sam: Hi, Middis Bott.
Tierney: Mrs. Potts? Why do I always have to be Mrs. Potts? Can’t I be someone else this time?
Sam: No. Middis Bott.
Tierney: Oh, fine. Who are you, again?
Eli: Mr. Beeda. Or maybe Baby Mayne.
Sam: Yeah. Baby Mayne.
Tierney: Oh. Hi, Baby Mayne.
Sam: Hi…
Eli: My name is Jack. I’m actually a guard at the hotel.
Tierney: The hotel?
Eli: This is the hotel.
Tierney: I see. Do all the hotel guards wear helmets like that?
Eli: Yeah, it has armor underneath. I have two chain mail shirts, too. And this is my sword.
Tierney: At least your sword looks like a sword.
Eli: Yeah.
Tierney: Do you get a lot of armed robbers at this hotel?
Eli: No, I’ve got two chain mail shirts.
Tierney: I know, but why do you need all that armor? Do you get attacked a lot?
Eli: Not really. Sometimes I wear a suit coat.
Tierney: Oh. Do you wear your chain mail underneath?
Eli: No, just a white shirt.
Tierney: I see. Do people call you Agent 86 when you wear your suit coat?
Eli: Yeah, but I’m really a guard.
Tierney: Disguised as Agent 86?
Eli: Yeah.
Tierney: Very tricky.
Sam: Daddoo, beez! Daddoo, beez!
Tierney: What?
Sam: Daddoo, beez!
Tierney: Tractor please?
Sam: No, daddoo, beez!
Eli: Oh, you want your gun?
Sam: No…
(A trek is made to Sam’s dresser, wherefrom Eli pulls a largeish “number one” birthday candle.)
Tierney: Oh…I see. Candle please.
Eli: That’s his gun.
Tierney: Oh. It looks like a candle.
Eli: It’s a gun.
Tierney: Disguised as a candle?
Eli: Yeah.
Sam: Yeah. Daddoo.
Tierney: So then you can tell all the bad guys, ‘No, I just carry a candle around with me for fun,’ and then you can shoot them.
Eli (laughing): Yeah, like, pshew! Pshew!
Tierney: Oh, that was fun.
Sam: Yeah. Dun. Bad duys. Oh!
Tierney: Oh man...
Sam: Oh man!
Tierney: What is it?
Sam: Dood duys! Winnow!
Tierney: The good guys are coming in the window?
Sam: Yeah. Dood duys.
Tierney: Good guys should really come in the door.
Sam: Yeah. Bad duys.
Tierney: Oh, there are bad guys, too?
Sam: Yeah, winnow.
Tierney: Well you’d better get them!
Sam: Pshew! Pshew! There.
Tierney: How do you tell which ones are the bad guys that you can shoot?
Eli: The bad guys all wear white, and the good guys all wear black.
Tierney: Sam’s wearing white.
Eli: No, he has a blue bib, and this blue hat, and a tractor on his jammies.
Tierney: Oh. So the bad guys just wear all white with nothing on it. Are you a good guy, Sam?
Sam: No. Dood baby.
Eli: All the good babies wear white pajamas with this little tractor on them, and a light blue hat, and a blue bib with a brown dog on it, and above the dog it says ‘woof’, and no socks.
Tierney: I see. That’s quite a uniform.
Sam: Oh! Bad duys!
Tierney: Bad guys over there, too? Good grief, they’re coming out of the woodwork tonight.
Sam: Dood duys!
Tierney: Bad guys and good guys? Oh dear. Are they fighting?
Sam: Yeah.
Tierney: Who’s winning, the bad guys or the good guys?
Sam: Um…bad duys.
Tierney: Oh no! You’d better go help. You can’t let the bad guys win!
Sam: Dun?
Eli: Yeah, here, shoot my helmet.
Tierney: You want a hole in your helmet?
Eli: No, it’s got armor under it.
Tierney: Oh, it’s bullet-proof?
Eli (scornfully): No, it’s sword-proof.
Tierney: So if someone shot your helmet, the bullet would go through and kill you?
Eli: No, it’s armor.
Tierney: Well, that’s what bullet-proof means. Bullets can’t get through it.
Eli: Oh. Yeah. It is.
Tierney: That’s good.
Eli: I’m actually one of them, over there.
Tierney: One of the good guys?
Eli: Yeah. I’m a guard.
Tierney: So I hear.
Eli: All the guards wear black pants and a grey shirt, and white socks, and a black cape, and a sword, and a helmet.
Tierney: Goodness. Who designed your uniform, anyway?
Eli: The hotel, of course!
Exit Eli and Sam. Finis.
29 December 2008
Heinrich opened the parcel in surprise, and read the note taped to the bundle of yellow papers inside.
"Come now, you can be a chum, can't you, and record this silly little thing for me? Just remember the good old days when we did it together, and those fine strolls on the docks when we were finished. What larks, eh? Isn't that what we used to say? -H.W.
p.s. If it's not too much bother, could you do it this week? Send me the manuscript back when you're done, along with the recording.
p.p.s. And don't go trying to make improvements on my stuff. I remember every note of it, and I'll hear if it's not right.
p.p.p.s. Only, if you don't mind, humor me and treat it as a great secret. It's those voices in my head, you know--or at least, the doctors say that's what it is. -H.W."
"Ah, Hector," he smiled when he had read it. "Not even the loony-house can keep you down. Don't you know this is illegal? You really must be losing it...no song is worth risking your neck over, however lovely. Poor chap...why did it have to happen to you, who were the brightest star we had? But...at the same time...how can I refuse? What larks, indeed. It's the least I can do, I suppose."
He flipped slowly through the tattered pages. His face sobered.
"My word, Willoughby, what have you become?" he muttered softly. "This is absurd."
Some pages were almost entirely blackened with notes flying in every direction; in other places there would be nothing at all but a slow series of chords, each sustained almost beyond reasonable endurance, for pages at a time. Sometimes the only thing written was a ridiculously simple melody on a single instrument. Sometimes there were so many melodies and counter-melodies going at once, chaos seemed the only possible outcome. This was not the Willoughby he had known. This was impossible.
---------------
"Hello? Hello? I say, someone did answer the phone--I heard them. Where'd they go?"
"I'm still here, sir, if you'd only let me speak. This is the Guildenbrock Mental Institute. How may I--"
"I know it's the Guildenbrock Mental Institute, you nitwit. Why would I dial a number without knowing who it belonged to? Especially a Mental Institute...good heavens. Are you an employee or an inmate? They oughtn't to let inmates answer the phone. Very bad policy. Get me a nurse or a doctor or someone."
"I am a nurse, sir, and we call them patients, not inmates."
"Another bad policy. Might as well call 'em what they are. But whatever you want to call them, I have to speak to one of them. Called Hector Willoughby."
"Oh, I'm sorry sir, but we don't allow our patients access to the telephone. Like you said, it would be a bad policy."
"I said it would be a bad policy to let them answer it, not talk on it, and I meant the ones who really are off their rockers. Willoughby isn't crazy--you know that as well as I do, I'm sure, unless you really are as dense as you make yourself out to be."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not allowed to give out that information. And it's on the Rule Board, that no patients are to be allowed to use the telephone. I'm sorry."
"Look here, miss. I'm sure you're sorry, but you're going to be a whole lot sorrier if you don't let me talk to Hector. Don't you know you're talking to Heinrich Zinsser? Things never go well for people who get in the way of Heinrich Zinsser. Now get Willoughby on the phone, I say."
"Heinrich Zinsser? The real Heinrich Zinsser?"
"No, the pretend one. Go find Willoughby."
"You mean Heinrich Zinsser, the great composer and conducter? The one who wrote the march for the Commander's victory parade? The one with twelve motorcars and a gilded piano and ever such a handsome son?"
"Yes, well, I suppose he's a good enough looking kid in his own way, but he's got an ugly moustache."
"No-one's going to believe me when I tell them I talked to the real, live Heinrich Zinsser on the telephone. Oh my goodness. Which patient did you say you wanted to talk to, again? Oh, I remember now. H. Willoughby. That's #80395, I think. I'll have him here in a jiffy."
"In a who?"
But she was already gone.
......................
"Hello? Willoughby, that you?"
"Ah, yes. Hector. Nice of you to call. I'm afraid you'll have to make it quick, though. Doctors don't like me using this thing. Think it's bad for my digestion, no doubt, or some rot like that. They haven't got a clue what they're doing--sometimes I wonder if they're really doctors at all. But tell me, what's on your mind? Surely you didn't call just to talk about the weather?"
"We weren't talking about the weather, you old fish. Don't be ridiculous. The point is, what was that manuscript you sent me? Where did it come from?"
"Ah, was it really so bad? I didn't mind it, but I'm crazy, you know. You can't trust a crazy man's instincts. Plus I didn't have any instruments to test it out on. They aren't allowed here, of course. Had to write it all straight out of my head. Bound to go wrong somewhere."
"There you go talking nonsense again! Gone wrong? If that music was wrong, I could wish every note ever written had been just as bad. It was perfect! Divine! Where did it come from, I say? There was electricity in the air when the orchestra played it! Even the instrumentalists felt it, and they don't know a thing about anything. What was it?"
"Oh, then you did like it. I'm glad. I can't stay and talk though, old friend. Just send me the recording, why don't you. Tally-ho."
"But no, I say, hang on for just one moment. You've got to explain this to me. I'm in such a state, you see. I can't even pour my own tea, I'm in such a state. I mean, real music like that isn't allowed anymore! What were you thinking? But it was perfect! How did you do it?"
"I know it's not allowed, silly. That's why I had to do it."
"What kind of explanation is that? You can't really expect me to understand your riddles! Speak English!"
"Sorry, I must be going now. Nice chatting. Call again sometime. But no, on second thought, don't. They wouldn't like that."
"Wait! Come back. At least let me come visit. You could talk then, couldn't you?"
"No, you'd better not do that. Just send me the recording, like a good chap. Thanks!"
"But why not? Come on, Willoughby, be rational. I say--"
click.
"Come now, you can be a chum, can't you, and record this silly little thing for me? Just remember the good old days when we did it together, and those fine strolls on the docks when we were finished. What larks, eh? Isn't that what we used to say? -H.W.
p.s. If it's not too much bother, could you do it this week? Send me the manuscript back when you're done, along with the recording.
p.p.s. And don't go trying to make improvements on my stuff. I remember every note of it, and I'll hear if it's not right.
p.p.p.s. Only, if you don't mind, humor me and treat it as a great secret. It's those voices in my head, you know--or at least, the doctors say that's what it is. -H.W."
"Ah, Hector," he smiled when he had read it. "Not even the loony-house can keep you down. Don't you know this is illegal? You really must be losing it...no song is worth risking your neck over, however lovely. Poor chap...why did it have to happen to you, who were the brightest star we had? But...at the same time...how can I refuse? What larks, indeed. It's the least I can do, I suppose."
He flipped slowly through the tattered pages. His face sobered.
"My word, Willoughby, what have you become?" he muttered softly. "This is absurd."
Some pages were almost entirely blackened with notes flying in every direction; in other places there would be nothing at all but a slow series of chords, each sustained almost beyond reasonable endurance, for pages at a time. Sometimes the only thing written was a ridiculously simple melody on a single instrument. Sometimes there were so many melodies and counter-melodies going at once, chaos seemed the only possible outcome. This was not the Willoughby he had known. This was impossible.
---------------
"Hello? Hello? I say, someone did answer the phone--I heard them. Where'd they go?"
"I'm still here, sir, if you'd only let me speak. This is the Guildenbrock Mental Institute. How may I--"
"I know it's the Guildenbrock Mental Institute, you nitwit. Why would I dial a number without knowing who it belonged to? Especially a Mental Institute...good heavens. Are you an employee or an inmate? They oughtn't to let inmates answer the phone. Very bad policy. Get me a nurse or a doctor or someone."
"I am a nurse, sir, and we call them patients, not inmates."
"Another bad policy. Might as well call 'em what they are. But whatever you want to call them, I have to speak to one of them. Called Hector Willoughby."
"Oh, I'm sorry sir, but we don't allow our patients access to the telephone. Like you said, it would be a bad policy."
"I said it would be a bad policy to let them answer it, not talk on it, and I meant the ones who really are off their rockers. Willoughby isn't crazy--you know that as well as I do, I'm sure, unless you really are as dense as you make yourself out to be."
"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm not allowed to give out that information. And it's on the Rule Board, that no patients are to be allowed to use the telephone. I'm sorry."
"Look here, miss. I'm sure you're sorry, but you're going to be a whole lot sorrier if you don't let me talk to Hector. Don't you know you're talking to Heinrich Zinsser? Things never go well for people who get in the way of Heinrich Zinsser. Now get Willoughby on the phone, I say."
"Heinrich Zinsser? The real Heinrich Zinsser?"
"No, the pretend one. Go find Willoughby."
"You mean Heinrich Zinsser, the great composer and conducter? The one who wrote the march for the Commander's victory parade? The one with twelve motorcars and a gilded piano and ever such a handsome son?"
"Yes, well, I suppose he's a good enough looking kid in his own way, but he's got an ugly moustache."
"No-one's going to believe me when I tell them I talked to the real, live Heinrich Zinsser on the telephone. Oh my goodness. Which patient did you say you wanted to talk to, again? Oh, I remember now. H. Willoughby. That's #80395, I think. I'll have him here in a jiffy."
"In a who?"
But she was already gone.
......................
"Hello? Willoughby, that you?"
"Ah, yes. Hector. Nice of you to call. I'm afraid you'll have to make it quick, though. Doctors don't like me using this thing. Think it's bad for my digestion, no doubt, or some rot like that. They haven't got a clue what they're doing--sometimes I wonder if they're really doctors at all. But tell me, what's on your mind? Surely you didn't call just to talk about the weather?"
"We weren't talking about the weather, you old fish. Don't be ridiculous. The point is, what was that manuscript you sent me? Where did it come from?"
"Ah, was it really so bad? I didn't mind it, but I'm crazy, you know. You can't trust a crazy man's instincts. Plus I didn't have any instruments to test it out on. They aren't allowed here, of course. Had to write it all straight out of my head. Bound to go wrong somewhere."
"There you go talking nonsense again! Gone wrong? If that music was wrong, I could wish every note ever written had been just as bad. It was perfect! Divine! Where did it come from, I say? There was electricity in the air when the orchestra played it! Even the instrumentalists felt it, and they don't know a thing about anything. What was it?"
"Oh, then you did like it. I'm glad. I can't stay and talk though, old friend. Just send me the recording, why don't you. Tally-ho."
"But no, I say, hang on for just one moment. You've got to explain this to me. I'm in such a state, you see. I can't even pour my own tea, I'm in such a state. I mean, real music like that isn't allowed anymore! What were you thinking? But it was perfect! How did you do it?"
"I know it's not allowed, silly. That's why I had to do it."
"What kind of explanation is that? You can't really expect me to understand your riddles! Speak English!"
"Sorry, I must be going now. Nice chatting. Call again sometime. But no, on second thought, don't. They wouldn't like that."
"Wait! Come back. At least let me come visit. You could talk then, couldn't you?"
"No, you'd better not do that. Just send me the recording, like a good chap. Thanks!"
"But why not? Come on, Willoughby, be rational. I say--"
click.
17 December 2008
my life as a series of minor disasters
Act 1
Scene 1
The stage is set. It is Monday, the eighth of December. Tierney rises early and, for once in their lives, both she and Camille are ready to leave for work with time to spare. Tierney even feels comfortable enough with the day's progression to drive slightly under the speed limit. Then, about halfway through Hartley, it happens. An elderly gentleman on his way to the grocery store makes an ill-considered left turn, and the crunch of shattered glass and crumpled metal announces the end of the short life of Tierney's Camry. As the smoke and dust slowly drift away, it becomes apparent that the right side of Cami's face has not reacted well to its encounter with the airbag, and the man in the other vehicle is bleeding pretty steadily out the back of his hand. But that is the extent of the damage to human life from this encounter, and everyone is thankful.
Scene 2
Fast forward to Tuesday, December ninth. Tierney, in spite of a deep-seated conviction that there is nothing in the world the matter with her, agrees to a precautionary post-crash trip to the chiropractor. Camille is scheduled to see the chiropractor a little later the same morning, as well as the opthomologist, for her eye was scratched and bruised in the collision. Altogether, the appointments ought to take only a couple of hours, and Tierney should be able to return to work at noon. But, alas and alack, the highways and byways have all been thoroughly coated with a glassy layer of ice, and are impassable at speeds greater than 30 miles an hour. After much toil and travail, Cami's eye is examined and proclaimed mostly-healed, both girls get their necks thoroughly cracked, and Tierney finally arrives at work a full two hours before it is time to go home.
Intermission
(From Wednesday, December tenth, through most of Saturday, December thirteenth, life proceeds at a fairly normal rate, pausing only for occasional tic-like problems that register but as small blips on the radar screen, and which are almost immediately forgotten. This is a good time to go out and replenish your supply of popcorn and Diet Pepsi, if you're running out.)
Act 2
Scene 1
Saturday, the thirteenth of December, flies by with nary an incident, but Tierney wraps up the day with a long, vivid, and disturbing dream about vampires, which finally awakens her at 6:00 in the morning. This occurrence, subsequently deemed the worst nightmare Tierney has ever had, is made all the stranger by the fact that she has never watched a vampire movie, and has thought about vampires approximately twice in her life.
Scene 2
The date is Sunday, December the fourteenth. Tierney and her mother drive to the evening worship service in spite of impending weather problems, due largely to the fact that the choir is singing before church this evening, and Tierney is the designated choir pianist. Upon the conclusion of the service, offers of places to stay the night begin to fill the air, and a glance outside proves them not unjustified. A short venture out onto the highway proves them very well justified indeed. The Erwin van makes an about-face, and proceeds instead to the Visser abode, where it remains until the next morning. Its human inhabitants, along with the residents of said abode and another family of refugees, amuse themselves until midnight by playing "Apples to Apples" and a very dangerous game of spoons. After being soundly beaten in the latter, and declared "neat", "delightful", "offensive", "revolutionary", and "aged" in the former, Tierney parts ways at last with her church attire, and falls soundly (not to mention dreamlessly) asleep in a very soft bed.
Scene 3
The fifteenth day of December is a Monday, and is, incidentally, Keegan's thirteenth birthday. School is given a two-hour-late start, much to the relief of Tierney, who will now have sufficient time to return home, shower, and find something more suitable to wear than a sweater and a tiered skirt, before returning for work by 10:30. Unfortunately, when she and her mother arrive home, they discover that the shower drain has frozen in their absence, and that the only person to get a shower has been Keegan, who remains unaware of the problem until later. Tierney makes do the best she can, but has a fairly rotten day at school. Late starts are not, she decides, good for anyone. However, at last the schoolday ends, and when she returns home she finds her mother making a pecan pie to take along to Keegan's birthday celebration with Grandpa and Grandma in an hour and a half. But what, in such a situation, is the electricity to do but go out? So it goes out. And it stays out. The family abandons the pecan pie project, finishes their preparations in the dark, and departs for the Pizza Ranch in Spencer. While there, Tierney eats just under ten pounds of food off the buffet, and drops a piece of dessert pizza on its face. The electricity is, we are happy to report, once more operational when the troops return some hours later.
Scene 4
On the morning of Tuesday, the sixteenth day in December, Tierney wakes up and shivers violently. Her face is cold, her feet are cold, her blankets are cold, and her mind is cold. Whose bright idea was it to turn the heater off in the middle of the night? Apparently it was the heater's idea, and it's sticking to it. Tierney pumps all the hot air and steam into the bathroom that she can find, and still barely survives her shower. She dons three long-sleeved shirts, wishes her chilly family all the best, and leaves for work. One can only hope that the repairman will arrive soon. (And he does.)
Let us hear the conclusion of the matter.
Tierney walks slowly through the quiet, powdery snow, squinting her eyes a little against the flurries of snowflake clumps still making their leisurely way down from the heavens. She shuffles her feet and kicks the snow around, smiling for no good reason at all. She's trying to think of a new way to describe the snow, a fresh, true way that will bring a vivid picture to your mind and make you think of it in a way that never occurred to you before. Gently falling powder snow deserves to be described in such a way; but she can't think of anything. One wishes for the mind of C.S. Lewis at times like this. In spite of this failure on her part, she is not downcast. It is hard to be sad when school has been let out early because of the weather (which is not even all that bad), and there is snow falling all around, as if all the world is a giant snow globe that has just got itself righted. Is there anything so quiet as snowfall without wind, the soft feather flakes brushing gently together, rustling on the very edge of hearing? Ah, life is beautiful, disasters and all.
Scene 1
The stage is set. It is Monday, the eighth of December. Tierney rises early and, for once in their lives, both she and Camille are ready to leave for work with time to spare. Tierney even feels comfortable enough with the day's progression to drive slightly under the speed limit. Then, about halfway through Hartley, it happens. An elderly gentleman on his way to the grocery store makes an ill-considered left turn, and the crunch of shattered glass and crumpled metal announces the end of the short life of Tierney's Camry. As the smoke and dust slowly drift away, it becomes apparent that the right side of Cami's face has not reacted well to its encounter with the airbag, and the man in the other vehicle is bleeding pretty steadily out the back of his hand. But that is the extent of the damage to human life from this encounter, and everyone is thankful.
Scene 2
Fast forward to Tuesday, December ninth. Tierney, in spite of a deep-seated conviction that there is nothing in the world the matter with her, agrees to a precautionary post-crash trip to the chiropractor. Camille is scheduled to see the chiropractor a little later the same morning, as well as the opthomologist, for her eye was scratched and bruised in the collision. Altogether, the appointments ought to take only a couple of hours, and Tierney should be able to return to work at noon. But, alas and alack, the highways and byways have all been thoroughly coated with a glassy layer of ice, and are impassable at speeds greater than 30 miles an hour. After much toil and travail, Cami's eye is examined and proclaimed mostly-healed, both girls get their necks thoroughly cracked, and Tierney finally arrives at work a full two hours before it is time to go home.
Intermission
(From Wednesday, December tenth, through most of Saturday, December thirteenth, life proceeds at a fairly normal rate, pausing only for occasional tic-like problems that register but as small blips on the radar screen, and which are almost immediately forgotten. This is a good time to go out and replenish your supply of popcorn and Diet Pepsi, if you're running out.)
Act 2
Scene 1
Saturday, the thirteenth of December, flies by with nary an incident, but Tierney wraps up the day with a long, vivid, and disturbing dream about vampires, which finally awakens her at 6:00 in the morning. This occurrence, subsequently deemed the worst nightmare Tierney has ever had, is made all the stranger by the fact that she has never watched a vampire movie, and has thought about vampires approximately twice in her life.
Scene 2
The date is Sunday, December the fourteenth. Tierney and her mother drive to the evening worship service in spite of impending weather problems, due largely to the fact that the choir is singing before church this evening, and Tierney is the designated choir pianist. Upon the conclusion of the service, offers of places to stay the night begin to fill the air, and a glance outside proves them not unjustified. A short venture out onto the highway proves them very well justified indeed. The Erwin van makes an about-face, and proceeds instead to the Visser abode, where it remains until the next morning. Its human inhabitants, along with the residents of said abode and another family of refugees, amuse themselves until midnight by playing "Apples to Apples" and a very dangerous game of spoons. After being soundly beaten in the latter, and declared "neat", "delightful", "offensive", "revolutionary", and "aged" in the former, Tierney parts ways at last with her church attire, and falls soundly (not to mention dreamlessly) asleep in a very soft bed.
Scene 3
The fifteenth day of December is a Monday, and is, incidentally, Keegan's thirteenth birthday. School is given a two-hour-late start, much to the relief of Tierney, who will now have sufficient time to return home, shower, and find something more suitable to wear than a sweater and a tiered skirt, before returning for work by 10:30. Unfortunately, when she and her mother arrive home, they discover that the shower drain has frozen in their absence, and that the only person to get a shower has been Keegan, who remains unaware of the problem until later. Tierney makes do the best she can, but has a fairly rotten day at school. Late starts are not, she decides, good for anyone. However, at last the schoolday ends, and when she returns home she finds her mother making a pecan pie to take along to Keegan's birthday celebration with Grandpa and Grandma in an hour and a half. But what, in such a situation, is the electricity to do but go out? So it goes out. And it stays out. The family abandons the pecan pie project, finishes their preparations in the dark, and departs for the Pizza Ranch in Spencer. While there, Tierney eats just under ten pounds of food off the buffet, and drops a piece of dessert pizza on its face. The electricity is, we are happy to report, once more operational when the troops return some hours later.
Scene 4
On the morning of Tuesday, the sixteenth day in December, Tierney wakes up and shivers violently. Her face is cold, her feet are cold, her blankets are cold, and her mind is cold. Whose bright idea was it to turn the heater off in the middle of the night? Apparently it was the heater's idea, and it's sticking to it. Tierney pumps all the hot air and steam into the bathroom that she can find, and still barely survives her shower. She dons three long-sleeved shirts, wishes her chilly family all the best, and leaves for work. One can only hope that the repairman will arrive soon. (And he does.)
Let us hear the conclusion of the matter.
Tierney walks slowly through the quiet, powdery snow, squinting her eyes a little against the flurries of snowflake clumps still making their leisurely way down from the heavens. She shuffles her feet and kicks the snow around, smiling for no good reason at all. She's trying to think of a new way to describe the snow, a fresh, true way that will bring a vivid picture to your mind and make you think of it in a way that never occurred to you before. Gently falling powder snow deserves to be described in such a way; but she can't think of anything. One wishes for the mind of C.S. Lewis at times like this. In spite of this failure on her part, she is not downcast. It is hard to be sad when school has been let out early because of the weather (which is not even all that bad), and there is snow falling all around, as if all the world is a giant snow globe that has just got itself righted. Is there anything so quiet as snowfall without wind, the soft feather flakes brushing gently together, rustling on the very edge of hearing? Ah, life is beautiful, disasters and all.
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