Wednesday, March 24, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Retriever
My father, in middle age, falls in love with a dog.
He who kicked dogs in anger when I was a child,
who liked his comb always on the same shelf,
who drank martinis to make his mind quiet.
He who worked and worked—his shirts
wrapped in plastic, his heart ironed
like a collar. He who—like so many men—
loved his children but thought the money
he made for them was more important
than the rough tweed of his presence.
The love of my father's later years is
a Golden Retriever—more red
than yellow—a nervous dog who knows
his work clothes from his casual ones,
can read his creased face, who waits for
him at the front door—her paws crossed
like a child's arms. She doesn't berate him
for being late, doesn't need new shoes
or college. There is no pressure to raise her
right, which is why she chews the furniture,
pees on rugs, barks at strangers who
cross the lawn. She is his responsible soul
broken free. She is the children he couldn't
come home to made young again.
She is like my mother but never angry,
always devoted. He cooks for his dog—
my father who raised us in restaurants—
and takes her on business trips like
a wife. Sometimes, sitting beside her
in the hair-filled fan he drives to make
her more comfortable, my father's dog
turns her head to one side as if
thinking and, in this pose, more than
one of us has mistaken her for a person.
We would be jealous if she didn't make
him so happy—he who never took
more than one trip on his expensive
sailboat, whose Mercedes was wrecked
by a valet. My mother saw him behind
the counter of a now-fallen fast food
restaurant when she was nineteen.
They kissed beside a river where fish
no longer swim. My father who was
always serious has fallen in love with
a dog. What can I do but be happy for him?
"Retriever" by Faith Shearin, from The Owl Question.
who liked his comb always on the same shelf,
who drank martinis to make his mind quiet.
He who worked and worked—his shirts
wrapped in plastic, his heart ironed
like a collar. He who—like so many men—
loved his children but thought the money
he made for them was more important
than the rough tweed of his presence.
The love of my father's later years is
a Golden Retriever—more red
than yellow—a nervous dog who knows
his work clothes from his casual ones,
can read his creased face, who waits for
him at the front door—her paws crossed
like a child's arms. She doesn't berate him
for being late, doesn't need new shoes
or college. There is no pressure to raise her
right, which is why she chews the furniture,
pees on rugs, barks at strangers who
cross the lawn. She is his responsible soul
broken free. She is the children he couldn't
come home to made young again.
She is like my mother but never angry,
always devoted. He cooks for his dog—
my father who raised us in restaurants—
and takes her on business trips like
a wife. Sometimes, sitting beside her
in the hair-filled fan he drives to make
her more comfortable, my father's dog
turns her head to one side as if
thinking and, in this pose, more than
one of us has mistaken her for a person.
We would be jealous if she didn't make
him so happy—he who never took
more than one trip on his expensive
sailboat, whose Mercedes was wrecked
by a valet. My mother saw him behind
the counter of a now-fallen fast food
restaurant when she was nineteen.
They kissed beside a river where fish
no longer swim. My father who was
always serious has fallen in love with
a dog. What can I do but be happy for him?
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
Drive My Car
Asked a girl what she wanted to be
She said baby, can't you see
I wanna be famous, a star of the screen
But you can do something in between
Baby you can drive my car
Yes I'm gonna be a star
Baby you can drive my car
And maybe I'll love you
I told that girl that my prospects were good
she said baby, it's understood
Working for peanuts is all very fine
But I can show you a better time
Baby you can drive my car
Yes I'm gonna be a star
Baby you can drive my car
And maybe I'll love you
I told that girl I can start right away
When she said listen babe I got something to say
I got no car and it's breaking my heart
But I've found a driver and that's a start
Baby you can drive my car
Yes I'm gonna be a star
Baby you can drive my car
And maybe I'll love you
Wonderful-good sick day music. Next up is...
Let me take you down because I'm going to
She said baby, can't you see
I wanna be famous, a star of the screen
But you can do something in between
Baby you can drive my car
Yes I'm gonna be a star
Baby you can drive my car
And maybe I'll love you
I told that girl that my prospects were good
she said baby, it's understood
Working for peanuts is all very fine
But I can show you a better time
Baby you can drive my car
Yes I'm gonna be a star
Baby you can drive my car
And maybe I'll love you
I told that girl I can start right away
When she said listen babe I got something to say
I got no car and it's breaking my heart
But I've found a driver and that's a start
Baby you can drive my car
Yes I'm gonna be a star
Baby you can drive my car
And maybe I'll love you
Wonderful-good sick day music. Next up is...
Let me take you down because I'm going to
Body vs. Mind
From the moment we wake up, we are at war with our bodies. Our minds can stretch so far, can be made to believe impossible things with unwavering conviction, can solve scientific riddles that have plagued generations of free-thinkers, can be condensed into a slurry by a disease like dementia. The human brain is an amazing machine for which there are no substitutions.
During the course of evolution, our bodies have evolved, I believe, at a much slow rate than our brains. Language, mathematics, logic, science, all of these algorithms lie within the capabilities and the spanse of the human brain. We've created vaccinations, prevented the deaths of millions of people, we've outsmarted many physical shortcomings that one can be born with.
Hell, we even know how much the fucking Sun weighs.
Today, I have a cold. I'm at the point where I don't want to be asleep all the time, but when I'm awake I have the dry, monotaste of illness in my mouth. I take some medicine, sure, and my symptoms are little more than propped on nice little pillows.
Before we make contact with alien races, can we knock out the human cold first?
Maybe this is all just the diatribe of a sofa-ridden female soaked in Dayquil, slowly drying out with toilet paper, old Christmas letters, and Dr. Phil. But. BUT. I have a sneaky suspicion that some things that aren't so dangerous to the public health will go uncured simply because a box of generic Day-Time/Nite-Time Cold & Flu Formula costs $10 in the Southeastern US.
Have I covered every theory here? Evolution, aliens, pharmaceutical companies? Haha, okay, I'm done.
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