16 pennies

The coffee after dinner was not a good idea. 12:36am. I am sitting on a porch swing with three cushions of some sort of outdoor canvas-type fabric decorated with palm and yellow and pink flowers at my dad's house in Houston. The humidity down here is a welcoming reminder of being back; it's pleasantly mild and a little breezy out this evening. Earlier, I had seen a thin raccoon balancing on three legs, holding his left front paw up and sniffing the air in anticipation of catching the odor of whatever it was he would find to eat this evening. We were both awake at the same time in the middle of the night. He looked up at me and we had a staring contest that didn't last all too long; I won. He was likely distracted by his growling raccoon stomach at the precise moment that he was finally able to catch the aroma of his next meal.

I got up and walked to the edge of the faded blue wood slats and found a new little perch for myself. Looking down at the weathered 2"x6" over which I hung my legs, I noticed 15 equally weathered pennies scattered about in an unsettlingly random manner. Knowing that it would offer me some easement when I organized each into a neat series according to year, I set down the book that I had grabbed the last few minutes before leaving home for the airport, at which time I had cursed myself for forgetting where I'd placed the book I had really wanted to read. As I started to read off the years on the pennies, I spotted a 16th penny on the porch floor, and was relieved to know I'd be working with an even numbered collection of unshiny goodies. On the third penny, I came to the realization that these pennies had been sitting out for sometime in the rain (I wondered if they had been here to see Hurricane Ike), there would be ones- like the one in my hand at that moment- that would require more effort on my part than merely glancing to read the year. I was gripped with my all-too familiar (and perhaps irrational) fear of touching bare metal things, knowing that this would be worse: I'd have to lick a finger and rub some of these pennies that guarded their cast-on years with indeterminable layers of dirt and grime and maybe even mosquito footprints. What would mosquito footprints look like? I'd have to look that up later. I'm sure they are not even called "feet" when referring to an insect, but that was pushed to the back of my mind for later research.

I licked my right ring finger, which was least sensitive to my fear of metal things, and rubbed at the year. This wasn't enough. I struggled to find the greatest potential source of incandescent light on the porch, and was finally satisfied with the angle. I think I saw Lincoln snear at me in his clever way as if to say, "I'm hiding something that yoooou can't see." I rubbed more. Alas! The year 2000. The year I was supposed to graduate with my B.S., but didn't due to my changing of majors from marine biology to microbiology to food science and a minor in political science. Again, I quietly thanked my dean for substituting American foreign policy for accounting when I confessed to him that I really didn't care for it, and that I was too cheap to buy what I'd discovered was the rather necessary textbook. I neatly placed the second year 2000 penny next to the other, pointing Lincoln's head westward. I returned the snear to let him know that I was now in control of him. I continued through my recently discovered treasury of metal things and found that there were quite a few pennies that were minted in the last decade.

Funny how a word such as mint, which brings to mind something so refreshing that it can sometimes be irritatingly so, would also loan itself to the term used for process known as minting, a word describing something that involves bare metal things and paper that would later be passed around in strangers' hands and put in places where people would not even think to dust or steam or wash or otherwise clean. A 1933 penny! I don't remember what these are called, but Billy and I used to call them "One Cent Pennies" as they were marked as such (well, without the penny part) on the back, hugged by two bird feathers of exacting size. At least they appeared exacting. I wondered what the job title of the person in charge of seeing that the formatting of pennies was as exact as possible (if that was, in fact, the goal) was called. The first that came to mind was that of a graphic designer, but I'm not sure what "graphic designer" would be translated to in 1933 lingo. I don't like the word lingo, but it reads better than talk. Done. One 1933, one 1980, one 1983, one 1994, one 1995, one 1997, one 1998, two 1999s, three 2000s, two 2004s, two 2006s. All were proportionately spaced in chronological order by earliest (farthest westward) to latest (farthest eastward) year. The overall design of my efforts looked like something out of Star Wars. Or some sort of futuristic robot that would go into combat against other futuristic robots in a battle over something I didn't care to continue spending time thinking about.

I smiled and went inside to indulge in the delightful treat of handwashing that was required once I'd allowed enough time to pass... and this time promised to be especially exciting since I'd just handled filthy metal things. As I walked inside, I was greeted with the soothing sound of an old wooden floor creaking beneath my feet. I found the restroom, turned on the four-pronged hot water (which was actually just lukewarm water) faucet handle, wet my hands, squirted an adequately-sized dollop of liquid green Dial soap that smelled cleansingly citrusy, then rubbed my hands together and awaited the greatest moment of handwashing: watching the newly discolored suds drip from my hands onto the white porcelain sink belly. This is in my Top 10 Things That Never-Fail-to-Make-Me-Smile-List. After a thorough rinse, calmness overcame my senses, and I wrapped four fingers around the four valleys of the four-pronged faucet handle and turned off the flow of the water.

I walked back outside onto the porch one more time to verify that the pennies were still in their orderly fashion. They were. I gathered my book and plastic cup of tap water and decided it was time for bed. Well, bedtime after washing my hands one more time for the evening, since I'd have to take the door knob into my hands (along with the key to lock the door into my fingers) after passing through the threshold on my way back inside my dad's house in Houston.

sky turtles

In the clouds yesterday, I saw a whale eating a turtle. He was going directly for the turtle's head at the moment I spotted them. Just a generic toothed whale. Not anything unusual like a narwhal. I don't even think a turtle could survive in the Arctic, anyhow (well, not that there would be much surviving to do if a narwhal was after it). I imagine that a horse and a narwhal on Noah's Ark crept off together and had an affair, then one of them (I have never been able to decide which) later gave birth to a unicorn. Noah got pissed, since this wasn't part of his plan, split the two up... and since there was only one unicorn, it died without a mate to further the species, so that's why we don't have unicorns anymore. Anyway, the cloud whale looked like a cartoon whale I'd drawn a year or so ago.

Seeing that sky turtle reminded me of something I'll get back to in a minute. Writing "sky turtle" sounds funny to my mind. That would be a magical turtle-creature with wings. Since it would be called a sky turtle, I suppose it wouldn't be fitting for it to be a flightless turtle. However, a turtle's anatomy is just not built for flight. I guess it still can tuck it's feet into the shell body to make it more aerodynamic. But it'd certainly take more genetic engineering to make it's frame and center of gravity capable of any sort of flight that would take it up into the sky.

The sky turtle reminded me of my former belief that a turtle's shell size was a constant, while the turtle itself grew. I think this idea came from my fascination with hermit crabs when I was growing up. When hermit crabs outgrew their borrowed shells, I pictured them walking around with those hand-scribbled signs you sometimes see at airports (or, more likely, movies with airport scenes), held by guys dressed in crisp uniforms standing in front of recently polished cars, reading, "siyez XL shell" (hermit crabs are poor spellers). Or perhaps they visited hermit crab funeral homes to look for their new homes. Discussing a sensitive issue as a "new" replacement shell with grieving fellow hermits would be a difficult, stressful situation for a hermit crab due to his lack of social skills and awkward personality around others.

The idea of a naked turtle wandering his environment in search of a better-fitting shell made me giggle, so I drew a picture to reflect what I was thinking. He wore a frown and had a protruding pot belly. He had spent so much time outside of a shell in the way that I've heard about people who work in a job that requires scrubs sometimes gain weight with little initial notice, since they spend most of the day in very forgiving clothing, then come to realize they can no longer fit their regular clothes, and get a little depressed. I think that's why he was frowning. And, I'm pretty sure he was an emotional eater. Unfortunately, the little drawing has since gone lost... maybe it wandered off to look for another place to reside.

About a minute later, I looked back up at the feeder and feedee clouds and saw that the turtle's head was then detached from it's body, growing closer to the whale's mouth. I wondered if the lost drawing of my naked turtle would find this now vacated shell (well, vacated once the sky turtle's body rotted away or was eaten by some other cloud animal). I hope so... though, he'll likely have to do his fair share of sit-ups to fit into it.

smoke

My daydream was interrupted by the changing of the upcoming stoplight from green to yellow to red. Well, it wasn't really a daydream, as it was night... but, I wasn't sleeping, so I suppose it could be classified as a daydream. Perhaps an after-hours dream.

As I write this, my first thought was that I was on my way home from the gym, but then I recalled that I haven't been to the gym in the evening in a long time. I get unreasonably upset when I walk in and see someone else on my favorite elliptical, and this happens all too often right after work. It's much easier to use insomnia to my advantage and head there at 3:30am. There are often none or one or two other people there at that time, and those who do show up at that time seem to have a strange quirk or behavior or characteristic to him/herself. This kind of makes it more fun, like a game of people watching. But, not really watching, since it'd be rather obvious given that there are so few of us there early in the morning.

I really don't recall where I was going home from. But, that doesn't really matter. As I pulled up to the red light, I noticed a strangely slow, glowing - yet nonetheless translucent - stream of smoke in the vision of my lower left eye. I looked down, but saw only my left shoulder. No smoke. I looked back up to the still red light, then saw it again. This time, I moved quicker. But it still wasn't there. I returned my eyes to the light, but using my peripheral vision to slightly glance to my lower left. The smoke again. I moved my head carefully, slowly this time, in hopes to not startle the smoke to disappear, but I still was unable to catch it in its ghostly presence. I felt defeated and looked back at the light. It was glaring red, as if reflecting the embarrassment I felt from beginning to think that I was seeing things.

The left arrow turned green and I cursed the elusive smoke that may or may not have been there. I saw it two more times on what seemed to be the otherwise inexplicably forgetful 3/10 mile home.

The smoke came back the next day, but with a faintness to it that was not there the night previous. I have not seen it since.

to the asshole who stole my purse

Hi! Just wanted to send a quick note to let you know I'm finally getting all of my shit replaced. I tore apart my home trying to find my Tiffany gold-embossed stationery that was blessed by Pope John Paul II, but I am at a loss. I hope this blog serves as an acceptable means to express my gratefulness to you, and my wishes for your shiny, bright future. And, alas, I cannot even spritz my great grandmother's cherished perfume on this blog, but please know that you are in my thoughts as well as hers, God rest her soul.

I hope you rot in hell. Actually, no. You will rot in the toilet in hell. And, much like Saddam Hussein, the Devil has multiple bathrooms. The toilet in which you will rot is really not even a bathroom at all. It is the overflowing hole in the ground that Mr. Devil only relieves himself into after he has had a liter of tequila and a baker's dozen Salmonella and E. coli O157:H7 ridden breakfast burritos. Hey, it may be fast food, but by the time UPS gets it down to hell, the ubiquitous population of pathogens characteristic of fast food have generated more than the parents of Baby Boomers. Enteric, isn't it?

Mr. Devil knows just how foul of a so-called toilet in which you live is, so he rarely asks even his filthiest inmates to clean it. In fact... Dahmer declined. Berkowitz backslided. Rader refused. Bundy banned the idea. Manson mooted it. Gein was too green. Gacy was so gregarious that it freaked out Mr. Devil. But, in the end, Henry Lee Lucas confessed to cleaning the so-called toilet 3000 times, so Mr. Devil was pleased.

Don't believe Mr. Lucas. Your toilet home is never cleaned. You are as filthy as the urine and crap that was excreted into your home 16 months ago. You smell. And, I hope you continue to rot. You deserve it, asshole who stole my purse.

straws

It just seems wrong to use a straw more than once. Unless it is one of those solid plastic ones that are dishwasher-friendly. I don't even know what kind of resins are used for those. I once received a gift of a package of silly straws from a friend who said he'd gotten them from a dollar store. While they were attractive, I opted to not use them. They came from a dollar store, which led me to wonder if they were sold to the store from the original manufacturer or distributor because they were on a recent recall list due to high levels of lead, but the dollar store buys stuff like that sometimes because I don't think they read the news. Or maybe they don't care. But, if a store did knowingly buy something that was recalled, that's pretty shitty to buy it and try to sell it to un- or underinformed shoppers. Or maybe they know that people know that the junk is there for single uses, like decorations for a party. With this in mind, perhaps they think the person acknowledges this and feels that the tradeoff of minimal exposure to the risk posed by the product is worth it for the low price.

I didn't know if they were recyclable or not since there was no resin id code on the rather vanilla package, so I just threw them away.

ruckus the beta

ruckus the beta

She sat me below their second dryer as the distinctive smell of the bleach on my hair seemed to clear my nasal passages. Except she didn’t turn the dryer on, which I found pleasing. The bulbs always smell funny when they are alight and the red-orange glow casts an all-too-obvious artificial tan glow on my skin. I don’t really believe that the bulbs are piercing my mind or that aliens are penetrating my thoughts when I sit beneath that glow, but it does come to mind. Eerie brightness. I embarrassingly laugh and remember to not consider it next time. Although I will.

I am glancing at her two-toned hair that she has confessed to me is actually a wig, then she smiles at me and I ask, “What is the fish’s name?” She tells me that the shop has had him for a while and that his name is Ruckus. I smile back and think of all the hairstylists and their perfectly imperfect hair, and wonder how they came about their own cuts and colors. I wonder who named Ruckus, and suppose it might be the girl with the pin in her hair that looks like a combination of a jewel-encrusted dragonfly flower. Not that I know of a flower called a dragonfly flower, but if a flower and dragonfly were to breed, her hairpin would be the offspring. Would the act be called sexual pollination?

I open my book that I’ve marked my place with an old utility bill that has my unit identified as FN (first north, I think), and recall sitting with my dad as my car pulled a U-Haul from Texas to Missouri, calling to set up my utilities and internet and power. I tried to explain to the customer service representative that it was unit A. I didn’t know why it would be called any other letter(s). She shared with me just what FN stands for, but I have since forgotten and have replaced it with what is likely what I made up in an effort to make some sort of abbreviation that makes sense to me and perhaps even others, if it is even front and north of something or anything. The book gets better and I soon run across what is now in my Top Ten Favorite Lines in a Book. It is in “A Wolf at the Table” by Augusten Burrroughs, page 34. “She might have been mad at me because earlier she had let me lick an envelope and it was so good so I went into her study and licked all the envelopes in the box.”

I look back over at Ruckus and wonder how often the girls clean his fishbowl. I can see rings on the glass that once represented the water levels before it evaporated to the level at which it now sits. The water looks foggy and I wonder what it smells like. I had a friend also named Kelly who had a turtle for a pet. Kelly was really skinny and ate Little Debbie Swiss Rolls everyday. Her sister was Marsha and once left Kelly a note on her turtle’s cage-bowl that read, “Clean this… it smells like cow ass!” I think it was in all capital letters. I didn’t smell the water that seemed to magically suspend Ruckus, but did begin to wonder why this fish seemed so content to sit in the same spot. Since he had just a tiny bowl for a home and the creepy dryer lights for his sun and appeared somewhat neglected (due to the water and rings visible from my chair), I thought he might be depressed. I ran my fingers along the glass just above his predominately anterior eyes, but he did not move. I really started to believe that he was depressed, so I stroked circles on the glass following his head and tail and back, hoping for any sort of reaction, but he showed nothing.

My left index finger met with the cool water and I reached down to soothe his back and dorsal fin. Movement. He shot forward several fin strokes in his tiny bowl then just sat. And sat. I know fish don’t really blink, but his eyes just seemed so fixated on something that just was not likely there. Maybe Ruckus could see something with his tiny fish eyes that I could not see with my human eyes. I started to wish that I could, for just a moment, have the visual acuity of an ostrich so that I might see what Ruckus was staring at. I don’t know if it is quite possible to achieve fulfillment of such ideas as that, but I do often wonder what sort of prayer or karma or whatever it is that it may take. Then, he slowly started drifting backward. It appeared as a strange vision of a dead fish floating upwards. I wondered how large the air bladder of a beta was versus its body size and if it would be possible that they took time to turn upside down upon death. Or maybe they had recently fed him, so his stomach somehow weighed him down temporarily. That would explain some of the cloudiness in the water. And, if he truly was depressed, perhaps he was an overeater.

Did my touch give him a fish heart attack? I had made a concerted effort to lower my index finger down slowly so as not to startle him. But, nonetheless, he may have not been used to touch from a human. I thought of the rings on the glass and wondered again at just how long it had been since it had been cleaned and how long it had been since he had been handled.

Though his pelvic fins remained motionless, his pectorals began to twitch like some sort of monkey undergoing experiments with methamphetamines. I was sure this was all the sign of a heart attack of a fish his size. I am unsure as to whether or not fish can have heart attacks or not. Perhaps they do not live long enough for such things to be studied. After a few seconds that seemed painful to the both of us, he stopped. His eyes returned to their familiar fixation, but somehow seemed a bit more alive than last he and I had spent such time together. I saw some motion in his tiny red-purple body, then my stylist appeared and cheerfully announced that she was ready to wash my hair.

ride 05.03.09

terrible little poem about today's ride:

rode from home through downtown

anticipating the rain in which I might drown.

made it to the Riverfront Trail

saw birds, but not a single snail.

some small hills and a light wind,

saw a guy peeing and grinned.

got lost on the way home,

around downtown I did roam.

then met a fellow cyclist at a stoplight

with directions, she was quite bright.

we rode together on the streets

she even had some funky socks on her feets.

made it back home with smiles

got in 54.38 good miles.