Frankly, I've been putting this off -- although it's one of the first potential topics I jotted down, when I was worried that one day soon I wouldn't have anything to say. (So likely, don't you agree?) But it's unseasonably warm here in northern New Jersey -- practically spring-like, really, and there's a steady rain falling -- so I guess this is as good a time as any...
First, let me clarify -- 'My Own Little Flood' means just what it says. As I go on, to itemize and explain the events of spring, 2010, on a little property astride the border of South Orange and Newark NJ, I want to stress how painfully aware I am, of the relative puniness of my challenges, past and present. It was only six months ago, as a matter of fact, that the governor of Iowa was talking about 'the worst flooding' he'd ever seen in his state. And the year before, levees and sand bag dams were savagely pushed aside by Iowa's swollen rivers. Homes and businesses were inundated.
So it's not as though I don't realize how lucky I've been. What I can't grasp, however, is why such (relative) good luck was so devastating to me, physically and emotionally, and how such a minor inconvenience, relatively speaking, has led to such profound grief. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
At the approach of late March and early April, for the past couple of years, John and I are prone to watching the weather reports carefully, and cringing a lot. We've had, over the past ten years, at least four 'water events', as I euphemistically call them, in spite of the fact that, on our first inspection of our new home, both of us were impressed by how dry the basement smelled and felt. How were we to know that 2002 marked the fifth year of a drought in northern New Jersey? What did we know of restrictions on watering lawns, or washing the car in the driveway? We were living in institutionalized denial, in an apartment in Jersey City, after all. Water comes out of the tap. Then you turn it off. Simple.
So, when there was that first heavy April snow, in 2004 I think it was, we thought nothing of it. There was a steady rain after that, but it always rains in April -- May flowers and all. What rocked our world, then, was the sudden appearance of pools of water in the basement -- first by the stairs, along the front wall, and back by the dryer, but soon spreading all the way across the floor, to a depth of maybe two inches. At first, I thought I could sop it all up with a couple of bath towels. Then I was thrilled that we had an excuse to buy a wet/dry vac, and I got to take a few days off from teaching in Philadelphia, even if it meant straining my back because I was emptying the three-million gallon vacuum cleaner every twenty minutes, into the basement toilet. As I dimly recall, that initiating flood lasted about a week, and then things went back to a slightly soggier version of normal. I promised myself to put everything up on stilts.
We had another such brief attack, a year or so later, and our next-door neighbor was flooded too --to his amazement. He's lived here 50 years, he said, and he'd never had water in his basement before, ever. As is often the case in situations like this, I felt slightly guilty. Certainly, my mere presence musts somehow be to blame. Before I could drift too far in this direction, the rains let up, the vacuum finally hit dry pavement, and I finally discovered that that plumbing fixture, countersunk into the basement floor, near the hot water heater, was an outflow valve. Now they tell me! Should a 'water event' ever happen again -- God forbid -- I could say good bye to the three million gallon wet/dry vac, and conquer nature with a big squeegee! However, in spite of this built-in remedy for future such events, I nevertheless promised myself to put everything up on stilts.
I suppose then, that as the calendar pointed toward the springier months of 2010, I should have been more braced. (Or at least begun, as promised, to put everything up on stilts) But in my heart of hearts, denial and hope were having a love feast, and I was overcome by the resulting fumes. Plus, we had discovered the floor drain, and I already had the new big squeegee. With the wet/dry vac in reserve. We watched the snow pile in record amounts. Torrential rains followed, right on cue. But this time, we reached a new level of the old familiar event.
The first place to show an imminent basement 'water event' in our house, is along the seams between the slabs of poured concrete flooring. They go grey and sullen, and soon water is rising. The water never comes down the walls -- it literally forces its way up from underneath the house. So I could tell, when those junctures started looking damp, that we should get ready. And when, sure enough, I woke one morning to see a sheen of shallow water at the foot of the basement steps, I knew exactly what to do.
I went to the washing machine, not concerned about splashing through the inch or so of water already spreading under things. I found my big adjustable wrench, and splished back over to the floor drain. This would be such a snap. I got a good grip on the square cap, and in anticipation of relief, at watching the water all around me obeying the laws of gravity, I gave the wrench a healthy, gratifying pull.
Gravity was apparently not paying attention. Although that drain cap had come off easily, in my hand, there were clearly other powers at work. Malign powers. Repellant powers. Instead of an outflow of cold ground water, there was an inrush of dark, deeply disturbing liquidity. I tried, instantly, to get the drain cap back into place, against the flow. There was no alternative -- I had to feel, to see how it fit. The floor pipe was threaded, I could tell. The cap, I realized after trying -- while screaming at the top of my voice 'There's shit in my house!!!' -- had nothing like threads on it at all. I had to wedge it into place as well as I could, against that urgent foulness that wanted out. I grabbed at anything I could find -- some old scraps of towel -- to push into place, as a feeble fabric dam. By the water heater, for some reason I don't recall, was a large rock, flat on one side. I pulled it over and stepped on it, hard, on top of the escape drain that was supposed to have been my salvation.
There followed weeks and weeks of relatively low-impact horror and torment. Concerned about possible danger from what was already in the house, John and I slept in the attic. Every day, I pulled on my old green rubber boots and the shop vac, and tried to hold back the tide of what was now mixed materials. Nothing was backing into the house from the exit valve now, but the ground water continued to push its way in. Always stopping, it seemed, at about two and a half inches. Only slightly deeper in some places. But for me, never shallow enough, anywhere.
We called plumbers, who said we had to call the city. We called the city, who said we had to call another city. I vacuumed. John vacuumed. The cities talked. They sent crews. We vacuumed. (One crew, interestingly enough, checked upstream from our house to see if the blockage was there. Sometimes I despair)
The street in front of our house was excavated, torn apart and delved into. They brought in a crew with a hi-tech fiber optic tool, but no matter how they threaded it, they couldn't see the problem. Which, thanks to God, they did acknowledge was there. A public works official, from the town to which we pay our taxes, stopped by to tell us that, when things were all fixed, we would need to spend tens of thousands of dollars on a dry well in our back yard. I went back to vacuuming.
We burned out one vacuum motor. We sent for a replacement motor, and bought another one. The torment of the water seemed endless. The street in front of the house was impassable. At one point, the excavation crew struck down and through an old ceramic pipe, and a dismaying upsurge of wetness literally chased the young crewman up out of the hole to safety. Finally, the real problem -- some broken old pipes, that had caved in on themselves -- was located, and only a few days later, that particular problem had been addressed. Except for tamping down the traces of excavation, and repaving the road. Perhaps it's no surprise that, because I was still in the basement, still bent over the vacuum, I didn't really care about that.
And as I vacuumed, I was also moving things, from one side of the basement to the other, because now the sanitation crew needed to come in, to clean up. Which couldn't happen until the insurance adjuster stopped by, to check on the damage, and assess what they might return to us, from the premium payments we'd been making for all the uneventful years we've lived here. Reimbursement payment in hand, we called the cleaning crew. When they could finally get there, they were great. Quick and efficient. A deep sigh of relief.
Next, we hosted the plumbing crew, to address other related damage, and while they were at it, to upgrade the hookup for our washer and drier. I moved more things, to accommodate the work they needed to do. While they were here, we consulted with them on the advisability of installing either a French drain, or a sump pump, or possibly both. When the plumbers left, I moved some more things around again, and although it felt like defeat, we nevertheless began shopping for drainage specialists. We got a bid we thought reasonable, for the combined French drain/sump pump option, but because we weren't the only people impacted by this winter/spring water adventure, the work couldn't be done until June.
June it was. I once again moved things, to prepare for what seemed like a little reenactment of the scene in the street -- jackhammers and dirt, cement and digging, for three days I think it was. I'd pledged to empty the basement completely, but only managed to clear out half of what was there. These seasoned workers didn't mind. They simply pushed everything that was left to the center of the room, draped it with a large sheet of plastic, and went about their business. By mid-July, and just before the heat spell of 2010, they were finished.
We, of course, were not.
(Level Two to follow...)
© 2011 Walter Zimmerman
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
What Can't Be Seen
What Can’t Be Seen
A Scientific Inquiry into Two Photographs, with Intimations of a Third.
Before us, we have two black-and-white snapshots, both roughly the same size, and apparently of the same vintage. As is so often the case with this type of documentation, surface evidence – the images on paper itself – fails to illuminate other crucial elements, which might expand our grasp of what it is that we are, in fact, seeing. Using verifiable, first hand information in the case of each, we have examined both these documents, and will now lay out the relevant underlying facts, which will make the significance of each image plain. We believe we have also discerned the necessity of yet a third image, the specifics of which will shortly be made clear.
Let us proceed.
In the first photograph, we see a slightly pudgy, dark-haired woman, perhaps in her 30’s, walking a dog in a park. She wears a light-colored Chanel-style suit, and has a small hat over her dark hair. The small, fuzzy dog appears to be pulling the woman forward. The leash is long, slender and taut. The woman’s inward-looking expression might indicate peevishness, or an effort to remember something.
Many things in this photograph can’t readily be seen. The park is the Bois de Boulogne. The grey tone hints that the woman’s suit is most likely a dull pink – her favorite color. We can’t tell, from the picture, that her hair, freed from her hat, is thick and wavy. We cannot see, naturally, that as she walks her dog, she leaves behind a faint scent of sweet almond and maraschino cherries.
Also invisible, but impacting this document is the photographer himself – the woman’s burly former lover, now her husband. A military man. Unindicated as well, photographically, are the woman’s five children, all alive at the time of the picture. One child -- her only daughter, age 4 ½, is having lunch in a cramped apartment in an unfashionable arrondissement, while her mother walks the dog. The other children, four boys, all alive, are far away.
We now consider the second photograph. We note that it is marginally blurrier than the first, but is still clearly legible, enough for our purposes. In this quick snapshot, we are presented with a group of nine young boys, all wearing roomy, patterned garments with large buttons down the front. The darkness beyond the wide sash window behind them indicates this to be a night scene. Eight of the boys have dark hair, cut short. One of the smaller boys is serious-looking, brightly blond and has dark eyes. At the other end of the group a boy, slightly taller than the serious one, presents a broad, stiff, eager grin. He wears glasses, and there is a dollar-bill sized white bandage under his right eye.
The boys stand beside a small, cloth-covered table. In the center of the table is a cake. Behind the cake, directly opposite the camera, sits a stout, grinning woman, whose pale hair is piled up on her head in a braided crown. On a wall behind them, to one side by the dark window, hangs a framed picture. It is a portrait -- the torso and head of a bearded man with long dark hair. He wears, over his shoulders, loosely layered cloth, and there is a glow around his head. The dark-haired man is smiling as well.
The photograph does not reveal either the location or the use of the room where the smiling boys, the cake and the grinning woman are gathered. Simply from looking, the viewer cannot know that this is, in fact, an alcove in one wing of a spacious attic, atop a mansion that itself sits on a low hill, surrounded by cornfields and pastures for dairy cattle. One does not observe, in this photograph, that the mansion has been converted into use as an orphanage. It is not instantly clear that these boys (it is safe to assume that their smiles imply eager expectation, with respect to the cake) are for the most part strangers to each other, but that they have lived together, in the various alcoves of this attic, under the watchful eye of the grinning woman, for weeks, or months, or years.
The photograph has not documented, either, that every Saturday, these boys, in groups of two and three, crowd into a tubful of soapy water, until each one has been scrubbed, and the water is grey. Nor does the photo tell us that the plump grinning woman has her own small room in that same attic, and that she keeps a wide brown leather razor strap there, with which she beats these boys, from time to time – each beaten boy lying face down and naked on his cot, his bare legs twitching in pain, unsure whether this beating is for a real offense, or something imaginary.
The photographic evidence in this particular document fails, too, to show that each one, in this particular group of boys, and also others under her care, is routinely summoned, in no particular order, one at a time, into the darkened room where the razor strap idles on the door hook, and where the grinning woman requires amusement. We are unable to discern, using only this cake-centered picture, that after these diversions, most of the boys – the weaker ones -- will go back, one at a time, through the dark hall to his cot, crying.
Only a few imperceptible, but historically accurate facts remain to be unfolded, for this photograph to be properly understood, as well as for that third image to emerge and resonate. Three of the cake-focused boys are brothers. They also have a younger brother, asleep now in another attic wing of the mansion, with the rest of the children too young for school. We are unable, using only the black-and-white of the photograph, to discern that this youngest boy – who will soon enough find himself in the care of the grinning woman – in fact has a twin sister. And that, due to the time differences between continents, this twin sister is having lunch, while her mother -- smelling of sweet almond and maraschino cherries – walks a stylish little dog along a sandy path in the Bois de Boulogne.
As stated above, we have reason to expect that there is, in fact, a third photograph. We can know this to be so, by using a corollary of the same reasoning available to astronomers, by which they can observe and measure faint perturbations in the orbits of distant stars. By extrapolation, they locate, with appreciable certainty, another, otherwise invisible body orbiting close by. Emotional bodies certainly move in a radically different fashion, but the mathematical probabilities tied to the necessities of the individual human heart are no less implacable, we find, than those governing the stars.
This mathematically necessary photograph, then, has been taken either in the early morning or late evening. By the light of street lamps along a stone bannister, we see, clearly enough, the figure of a woman, clad in a pale-colored Chanel-style suit. She is leaning out over the bannister, which is identified, from glimmering reflections in the lower right, to be the railing of a bridge. The woman has apparently just lost, or dropped, a small puffy bag, or a toy, or perhaps a pair of fur gloves. Attached to this falling bundle is a long slim belt. The item, caught while still falling in this photograph, is just beyond the woman’s reach, although from her posture, it seems unlikely that she is reaching for it. The woman’s face is slightly averted. We see her thick dark hair. Even with one arm still extended, she seems already to be moving away from whatever it is that she has lost.
What can’t be seen, from this statistically necessary photograph – probably snapped by a tourist unable to sleep, one early morning near Notre Dame, in the late 1950’s -- is that the woman on the bridge wears a suit of dull pink, that the falling belt is a leash, and that it smells faintly of sweet almond and maraschino.
© 2011 Walter Zimmerman
Monday, December 5, 2011
Uh-oh...... Really, Don't Read This... Booooooring.....
Well, I supposed it was bound to happen, although I didn't expect it quite so soon. And really, I've been working -- honest! Hours and hours, scouring over typescripts, deleting words right and left, expunging gratuitous adjectives, rearranging whole paragraphs...
But no -- no matter how hard I've tried today, I arrive at 10:21 pm, and aside from a few mangled, partly finished things, I Have Nothing To Post.
Well, in my own defense, it has been an unusually busy day, for a guy like me, who tries to avoid doing anything unless it's strictly necessary. For instance, instead of an afternoon composed mostly of unstructured time (my favorite kind), I had a doctor's appointment. Nothing serious, I was thinking -- I've been having some dizzy spells, and it was recommended that I see a neurologist, in case my carotid arteries were about to explode or something. Actually, I kind of wrote off the first doctor's suggestion, until I heard something about carotid artery problems, in some police show on TV. Oh my God, I thought -- if it's on TV, it must be serious. Even if it's only in one of the few episodes of Law and Order I can't literally lip-synch.
So I made an appointment. My wonderful doctor has her practice in Jersey City, which used to be a long walk, or a brutal bus ride from our apartment over on Kensington Avenue, down the street from the Catholic girls' school, where they threw out all that chemistry equipment one time, and I found an old blue suitcase, probably used by one of the nuns, and in one of the little inside pockets, made of lots of fabric all crinkled up, I found two little glass vials of perfume -- one smelling of rose, and the other of something indistinct. There was also a set of old earbuds. They were, appropriately, black. I had the strangest realization, as I held this suitcase, that I was glimpsing the temptations and sins of some poor nun, who spent her life in Jersey City, at the intersection of Kennedy Boulevard and Kensington Avenue, teaching sullen, uniformed girls things they didn't care about -- when all the while, she dreamed of smelling like a rose.
Now, though, since we've moved to South Orange, I have a much longer commute -- a drive through East Orange (I think), and then out onto some brutal highways that tip wrong, so all the cars are kind of forced off the road. Then I dip down into the swamplands that always flood when there's a serious rain, and where the Post Office is located (who would think that a Post Office might need to worry about water damage, anyway?); just past that, I zoom as fast as I can, heading for those two black drawbridges across the sorry river between Kearny and Jersey City. Today, there was a terrible back-up, due to a three-car fender-bender, I discovered, as I finally snaked past the unfortunate drivers, and got myself up into Jersey City proper, and to the parking garage on Magnolia St. There was a ticket jam in the dispenser at the entry gate, and a very affable Arab guy who works there came over and fixed it. I asked him if he gets a lot of reading done, as his job involves a lot of sitting around, but he said he spends most of his time with his cell phone, on Facebook. I told him I'd been without electricity for a whole week, and cable for two, and he said he would go crazy if he had to be without his computer for even one day.
I actually got to the doctor's office exactly on time, but of course I always have to wait. I'd brought a crossword puzzle and a drawing pad, but was distracted by some of the people around me. I get like that sometimes. Snotty and judgmental. Well, they were kissing and stuff. I had the most stinging exchange with them, in my head of course. I was afraid to say anything to them, in real life. They looked a little dangerous, and careless too.
Anyway, after about an hour, my name was called, and I had to get weighed -- I've lost maybe 12 or 13 pounds, which isn't all that surprising to me, as I've had difficulty eating lately -- can't tell the difference between nausea and hunger. (Well, that's not strictly true -- I also feel angry and helpless and not worth much, and about the only thing I can think of, to help keep our household on something like an even financial keel, is to restrict my eating. I told my psychiatrist about this, and he just waved his hand and said, 'Oh, you don't need to eat too much'. Then he told me to focus on fruits and vegetables, and drink lots of water. But he's from Nigeria originally, where the average daily caloric intake is probably a tithe of what we expect to eat -- I'm sure, to him, all of us Americans look swollen and unhealthy) Then I got to see the doctor -- I've always liked her (hence my willingness to drive through a slice of unheated hell to get to her office), and I think we have a good rapport. I need to see a neurologist, about that carotid thing. I need to have an MRI, because my right knee still isn't good -- although the doctor said she didn't see any physical evidence of something wrong. And, because it's almost a year since my last physical, I have an appointment for a blood test in two weeks.
All of this was nice, but it put me on my return trip to South Orange at the precise leading edge of rush hour. I got stuck on some new overpass, and contemplated going home via Hoboken, but then decided just to sit there like everyone else (even though, because I was driving John's car, I knew there was no food in it, and that was a little alarming. I prefer to have food around, even if I'm not going to eat it. Don't ask, please), until the traffic started moving again. By the time I got back home, I had just an hour to work on finishing my newest 'real' post, but that clearly wasn't long enough. (It's a kind of gruesome piece, actually, and I'm not sure I'll ever really feel sure about it)
Then, I had to get ready to drive to New Brunswick, for choir rehearsal at John's church -- I sing with a group called Canticum Novum, and I really enjoy the other singers. But to get there, I usually take the 31 bus, from Dover St. and South Orange Ave., about four miles into downtown Newark, and at last to Newark Penn Station. Often, on the 31, I am the only one on the bus who looks at all like... me. It should happen to everyone at least once, I think. At Newark Penn, I take NJT to New Brunswick. $4, one way (because I'm so ooooooooooold). The commute takes about an hour and a half, or sometimes a week, depending on how I feel. In New Brunswick, John and I reluctantly have dinner at someplace neither of us is thrilled about, and back at the church, right before everyone arrives, I sharpen pencils for us to use (how Little House on the Prairie. Which I have never ever seen even one minute of, ever, by the way. Hmmm -- that makes me think -- maybe I could do an entry on all the cultural icons that I've missed throughout my life?)
But today, instead of taking the train, I drove, using first the Garden State, and then the Turnpike. As I drove, I thought about something I could write, here, as a legitimate post, for you -- but I couldn't quite keep my mind on it, because of all the stopping and starting, the hypnotic stream of red lights ahead of me, and the sheer volume of weaving traffic. In spite of all that (and because I drive like a maniac), I got to the church in 45 minutes -- leaving me just enough time to run to Starbux for bracing coffee and a starchy bagel. We worked for just over an hour -- it seemed to be a difficult rehearsal for John somehow -- I think he's just bone tired -- and then we drove back home. Stopped, as usual, at Stop'n'Shop (I think) in Union (I think -- it's always dark when we go there), so he could get some tortilla wrappers for lunch, some chocolate ice cream, and two cans of cat food -- we're thinking of weaning the cats off their dry food; I think we'll start it tomorrow. (We also joked, grimly, about the possible eventuality of selecting cat food flavors... for ourselves. So funny)
Outside, just beyond the supermarket parking lot, and at the intersection of two roads whose names I probably should know, but don't, as to me they both look identical, there was a dramatic scene, reminding me of a dystopian nightmare -- my favorite genre. Road work taking over the whole intersection. Huge glaring lights shone down on earth-moving equipment lumbering in the narrow space, Pavement had been pulled up and thrust aside. Concrete had been split and piled everywhere. Police vehicles sat with their warning lights whirling, casting lurid red and blue shadows over what was still, and what was moving. There were a few men with hard hats, looking like toys. Lots of deep grinding, and heavy things pushing other heavy things. All that was missing was a school bus full of unusually well-behaved kids, and an army of extra-hungry zombies. As we left the parking lot, I mentioned to John that perhaps I should have been more ambitious in my art -- maybe I should have gone into some kind of mass-destruction aesthetic, where, on a semi-regular basis, I eliminate small towns. He didn't think it was such a good idea. Although he's probably right, I think he's really just worried that I would make an even bigger mess than I already do.
But now, I think I'm going to have some of that chocolate ice cream we bought (it's their store brand, and is surprisingly good), and get ready for bed.
By the way -- this isn't what I consider a legitimate 'blogue' experience, but maybe only the truly bored or desperate will actually read this. Lifers with wi-fi. Then tomorrow, when I should have some of that unstructured time I love so much, I can either go back over this, or (as is more likely) erase it all, and post something else. Although I do like the idea of the sinning nun, and the blanks in my cultural experience, and anything involving weak children outnumbered by zombies.
Sorry about this. Don't you have a television or something?
© 2011 Walter Zimmerman
But no -- no matter how hard I've tried today, I arrive at 10:21 pm, and aside from a few mangled, partly finished things, I Have Nothing To Post.
Well, in my own defense, it has been an unusually busy day, for a guy like me, who tries to avoid doing anything unless it's strictly necessary. For instance, instead of an afternoon composed mostly of unstructured time (my favorite kind), I had a doctor's appointment. Nothing serious, I was thinking -- I've been having some dizzy spells, and it was recommended that I see a neurologist, in case my carotid arteries were about to explode or something. Actually, I kind of wrote off the first doctor's suggestion, until I heard something about carotid artery problems, in some police show on TV. Oh my God, I thought -- if it's on TV, it must be serious. Even if it's only in one of the few episodes of Law and Order I can't literally lip-synch.
So I made an appointment. My wonderful doctor has her practice in Jersey City, which used to be a long walk, or a brutal bus ride from our apartment over on Kensington Avenue, down the street from the Catholic girls' school, where they threw out all that chemistry equipment one time, and I found an old blue suitcase, probably used by one of the nuns, and in one of the little inside pockets, made of lots of fabric all crinkled up, I found two little glass vials of perfume -- one smelling of rose, and the other of something indistinct. There was also a set of old earbuds. They were, appropriately, black. I had the strangest realization, as I held this suitcase, that I was glimpsing the temptations and sins of some poor nun, who spent her life in Jersey City, at the intersection of Kennedy Boulevard and Kensington Avenue, teaching sullen, uniformed girls things they didn't care about -- when all the while, she dreamed of smelling like a rose.
Now, though, since we've moved to South Orange, I have a much longer commute -- a drive through East Orange (I think), and then out onto some brutal highways that tip wrong, so all the cars are kind of forced off the road. Then I dip down into the swamplands that always flood when there's a serious rain, and where the Post Office is located (who would think that a Post Office might need to worry about water damage, anyway?); just past that, I zoom as fast as I can, heading for those two black drawbridges across the sorry river between Kearny and Jersey City. Today, there was a terrible back-up, due to a three-car fender-bender, I discovered, as I finally snaked past the unfortunate drivers, and got myself up into Jersey City proper, and to the parking garage on Magnolia St. There was a ticket jam in the dispenser at the entry gate, and a very affable Arab guy who works there came over and fixed it. I asked him if he gets a lot of reading done, as his job involves a lot of sitting around, but he said he spends most of his time with his cell phone, on Facebook. I told him I'd been without electricity for a whole week, and cable for two, and he said he would go crazy if he had to be without his computer for even one day.
I actually got to the doctor's office exactly on time, but of course I always have to wait. I'd brought a crossword puzzle and a drawing pad, but was distracted by some of the people around me. I get like that sometimes. Snotty and judgmental. Well, they were kissing and stuff. I had the most stinging exchange with them, in my head of course. I was afraid to say anything to them, in real life. They looked a little dangerous, and careless too.
Anyway, after about an hour, my name was called, and I had to get weighed -- I've lost maybe 12 or 13 pounds, which isn't all that surprising to me, as I've had difficulty eating lately -- can't tell the difference between nausea and hunger. (Well, that's not strictly true -- I also feel angry and helpless and not worth much, and about the only thing I can think of, to help keep our household on something like an even financial keel, is to restrict my eating. I told my psychiatrist about this, and he just waved his hand and said, 'Oh, you don't need to eat too much'. Then he told me to focus on fruits and vegetables, and drink lots of water. But he's from Nigeria originally, where the average daily caloric intake is probably a tithe of what we expect to eat -- I'm sure, to him, all of us Americans look swollen and unhealthy) Then I got to see the doctor -- I've always liked her (hence my willingness to drive through a slice of unheated hell to get to her office), and I think we have a good rapport. I need to see a neurologist, about that carotid thing. I need to have an MRI, because my right knee still isn't good -- although the doctor said she didn't see any physical evidence of something wrong. And, because it's almost a year since my last physical, I have an appointment for a blood test in two weeks.
All of this was nice, but it put me on my return trip to South Orange at the precise leading edge of rush hour. I got stuck on some new overpass, and contemplated going home via Hoboken, but then decided just to sit there like everyone else (even though, because I was driving John's car, I knew there was no food in it, and that was a little alarming. I prefer to have food around, even if I'm not going to eat it. Don't ask, please), until the traffic started moving again. By the time I got back home, I had just an hour to work on finishing my newest 'real' post, but that clearly wasn't long enough. (It's a kind of gruesome piece, actually, and I'm not sure I'll ever really feel sure about it)
Then, I had to get ready to drive to New Brunswick, for choir rehearsal at John's church -- I sing with a group called Canticum Novum, and I really enjoy the other singers. But to get there, I usually take the 31 bus, from Dover St. and South Orange Ave., about four miles into downtown Newark, and at last to Newark Penn Station. Often, on the 31, I am the only one on the bus who looks at all like... me. It should happen to everyone at least once, I think. At Newark Penn, I take NJT to New Brunswick. $4, one way (because I'm so ooooooooooold). The commute takes about an hour and a half, or sometimes a week, depending on how I feel. In New Brunswick, John and I reluctantly have dinner at someplace neither of us is thrilled about, and back at the church, right before everyone arrives, I sharpen pencils for us to use (how Little House on the Prairie. Which I have never ever seen even one minute of, ever, by the way. Hmmm -- that makes me think -- maybe I could do an entry on all the cultural icons that I've missed throughout my life?)
But today, instead of taking the train, I drove, using first the Garden State, and then the Turnpike. As I drove, I thought about something I could write, here, as a legitimate post, for you -- but I couldn't quite keep my mind on it, because of all the stopping and starting, the hypnotic stream of red lights ahead of me, and the sheer volume of weaving traffic. In spite of all that (and because I drive like a maniac), I got to the church in 45 minutes -- leaving me just enough time to run to Starbux for bracing coffee and a starchy bagel. We worked for just over an hour -- it seemed to be a difficult rehearsal for John somehow -- I think he's just bone tired -- and then we drove back home. Stopped, as usual, at Stop'n'Shop (I think) in Union (I think -- it's always dark when we go there), so he could get some tortilla wrappers for lunch, some chocolate ice cream, and two cans of cat food -- we're thinking of weaning the cats off their dry food; I think we'll start it tomorrow. (We also joked, grimly, about the possible eventuality of selecting cat food flavors... for ourselves. So funny)
Outside, just beyond the supermarket parking lot, and at the intersection of two roads whose names I probably should know, but don't, as to me they both look identical, there was a dramatic scene, reminding me of a dystopian nightmare -- my favorite genre. Road work taking over the whole intersection. Huge glaring lights shone down on earth-moving equipment lumbering in the narrow space, Pavement had been pulled up and thrust aside. Concrete had been split and piled everywhere. Police vehicles sat with their warning lights whirling, casting lurid red and blue shadows over what was still, and what was moving. There were a few men with hard hats, looking like toys. Lots of deep grinding, and heavy things pushing other heavy things. All that was missing was a school bus full of unusually well-behaved kids, and an army of extra-hungry zombies. As we left the parking lot, I mentioned to John that perhaps I should have been more ambitious in my art -- maybe I should have gone into some kind of mass-destruction aesthetic, where, on a semi-regular basis, I eliminate small towns. He didn't think it was such a good idea. Although he's probably right, I think he's really just worried that I would make an even bigger mess than I already do.
But now, I think I'm going to have some of that chocolate ice cream we bought (it's their store brand, and is surprisingly good), and get ready for bed.
By the way -- this isn't what I consider a legitimate 'blogue' experience, but maybe only the truly bored or desperate will actually read this. Lifers with wi-fi. Then tomorrow, when I should have some of that unstructured time I love so much, I can either go back over this, or (as is more likely) erase it all, and post something else. Although I do like the idea of the sinning nun, and the blanks in my cultural experience, and anything involving weak children outnumbered by zombies.
Sorry about this. Don't you have a television or something?
© 2011 Walter Zimmerman
Sunday, December 4, 2011
Choices, Choices...
Hello. Thank you so much for stopping by. What you'll find here, today, is something of a mystery to me.
Not that I don't have things to talk about -- I think you already know me better than that. It's just a matter of which direction I'd prefer to take today. So many stories to tell. 'My Little Flood', for one. A wandering, ultimately painful account of why I haven't had a haircut in three months, for another. I already have a little written examination of some old photographs prepared. And then there's the matter of the pile I've made, of gnarled sycamore twigs, outside our back door -- what on earth does that mean?
But I think, as I mentally paw through these possibilities, that I'm just going to ruminate on... Sunday. (Not as weighted for me as Wednesday perhaps, but still...)
Where Has Sunday Gone, or The Last Shall Be First
Early on -- when I was old enough to understand that one day was different from another, and also old enough to walk, by myself -- I made a weekly round trip, two whole blocks each way, to the big brick Presbyterian Church and then back home. My parents had decided I should go there, and quickly, that Sunday school class became a special place in the week.
My parents didn't go with me. They didn't go to church at all. I was sent by myself. I dimly remember dressing, and then saying goodbye to my father and mother, as they lay in their bed, with the blinds pulled and the bedside lamps unlit. I could barely see them. I would be gone for at least an hour.
As for Sunday school itself, I have only a hazy sense of being suffused, that once a week, with an endless supply of sugary assurances about Jesus, whose picture beamed down on all us children -- children He was said vastly to prefer to grownups. Perhaps I was too idealistic a boy, or had an unusual openness, or a dangerously indiscriminate capacity for believing in things, but I know I felt that I'd found an invisible, faithful and attentive Ally, Who knew me by name, and was watching attentively as I sat at a little table, being as good as possible, and soaking up sweetness.
One Sunday, bad Eddie (master of the Word, you may remember) met up with me on my way to Sunday school, and coaxed me into playing hooky. Behind a hedge across the street from the front steps of the church, we watched together as the other children filed in for their weekly treat of Bible tales and miracles. I still recall the inner sense of transgression, a kind of dirty regret, that instead of marching to the Sunday school room with the good kids, and sitting respectfully while the teacher told us even more wonderful things, there I crouched, dressed in my Sunday clothes and hiding behind a bush. I have no idea what the trade-off actually was, or what Eddie and I did until I had to go back home. I didn't let him lure me away from Sunday school after that.
Soon enough my parents had moved us all to another place to live, a ranch-style house in a near suburb of Belleville. Sundays lost their pole-star place in the week for me. There was no church close by. There was no bus into town. And this was really too bad, I thought, because we really needed extra divine help right then, because the family was clearly breaking apart.
I assured myself that Jesus didn't mind it all that much, that I'd skipped Sunday school one time; I didn't think He blamed me because I couldn't find another place to go and sit at a little table, politely, beneath a picture of Him, on the wall, smiling. In my eight-year-old way, I was so sure of the things I'd been told about power, and love, and caring. Though a bit tall for my age, and with a kind of bad haircut, I was still, technically, one of the little children He liked so much, wasn't I? Looking through the open bedroom window, I lay in my top bunk bed and begged Him to fix our family. It shouldn't be that difficult. My parents screamed at each other -- my mother hoarsely taunting my father for earning so little money -- and I pleaded. They threw things at each other, and I tried to find, in the dark sky, the direction in which Heaven lay, so my begging would take less time getting to the One who could surely do something for us. (Whether these fights happened on Sundays or not, I can't tell you -- although at that time, my father was generally only at home on the weekends. Whenever they happened, for me these battles obliterated time, twisted space, and swallowed weeks whole)
Months later, and hundreds of miles away from that suburban ranch-style house, my brothers and I had been left at The Home, as it was called. Sunday reemerged, as though thrust up through the earth's crust, a terrible twenty-four hour monolith. In the Home, it was impossible to confuse Sunday with any other day, ever.
We would all troop to the small, cold, white Valencia First Presbyterian Church. We had assigned pews, away from the other members of the congregation. I remember feeling examined, as the whole lot of us filed in, to take our places and then sit through another long, plain, somber Sunday service, relieved only by the hymns. There were droning sermons about things I didn't understand. Flat-backed wooden benches that had never known any manner of cushion. I looked for distraction, or meaning, anywhere. (I remember deciding, after staring at it week after week, that the large gold letters "I H S", embroidered on the red velvet flaps under the pulpit Bible, stood for a quote from Jesus, and they meant " I Hate Satan". I thought about that for a few Sundays) Every three months, we ate a cube of stale white bread, and then drank a small cup of grape juice. We slipped the empty cup into a little wooden holder with three holes in it, attached to the back of the pew in front of us, next to the hymnal rack. The tiny, wide-mouthed glasses, and the little rack, and how they all fit together, were interesting to me.
I really did try to pay attention to these obviously important, sin-centered thoughts being earnestly strewn over us, but it was difficult. I was fidgety, but also afraid of attracting a disapproving eye. I certainly didn't dare fall asleep; there was a cautionary tale making the rounds at the Home right about then, that even the bigger, tougher Senior Boys seemed to believe:
A man and his wife were in church. During the sermon, the man nodded off, and started dreaming about Hell. Just when things in his dream were at their hottest, his wife noticed that he was sleeping, and prodded him sharply with her elbow. He jerked once, had a heart attack, fell over dead, and went straight to the Devil himself.
This story was repeated over and over, with great conviction, as though it had been in the newspaper. I wondered -- without, of course, saying anything -- how, if the man died so suddenly, anyone knew what he'd been dreaming about. I was becoming a different kind of boy.
After church, back at the orphanage, Mrs. Boyce and the rest of the kitchen staff had a big lunch ready for us. We all ate in the former mansion's large dining room, each at our own place at one of the big round tables filling the room. (We changed places and tables every week, lest friendships spring up). We had cloth napkins in napkin rings. We stood behind our chairs for the blessing. We sat, with a great scraping of chair legs and rustling of clothing, and then began the most substantial meal we would have all week. I especially remember the salty gravy that always accompanied whatever main dish was served -- ham or roast beef...
(Sometimes we had venison -- by special government-approved arrangement, policemen could bring to the orphanage any deer that had been killed along the road, and weren't too badly mangled. The handyman, Mr. Fyfe, would clean and butcher it. It was never announced that this was what we were eating, or where it came from, but I know this was at times our Sunday meal. Looking back, there seems a kind of gruesome rightness to this, to our consuming, communally, the results of an inadvertent sacrifice. Certainly more apt than cubes of bread and grape juice)
After the big lunch, we were sent to our respective dormitories, and were supposed to take a mid-day nap. In the late afternoon, the bell range, and we all filed downstairs and into the main hall, for another devotional period. The youngest kids -- boys along one banister, girls along the other -- sat in rows, up on the steps of the tall, wide main staircase with the big stained-glass window at the top. Off to one side, Miss Creswell was prepared to accompany some hymns, on the old upright piano. When this extra session of Bible readings, and thoughts about what Jesus wanted from us now, and then some songs, had ended, we went back to the dining room, where we had a very simple evening snack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and bowls of ice cream. In retrospect, it seems odd and improbably festive -- cavalier, even -- that a day otherwise steeped in predetermination, and lectures on the pitfalls of sin, assurances of harsh judgement and other sour things, should be brought to a close with the taste of sugar in our mouths. When we'd finished our desserts, 'Pop' Campbell, the head administrator, would dismiss us with his usual admonishment to shine our shoes.
I don't remember whether the occasional night-time beatings were suspended because it was Sunday, but I rather doubt it.
(And now, I'm putting Sunday aside. Next week perhaps? Prolix as I am -- I wonder if I've ever actually used that word before -- I certainly have plenty more to say on the subject. Maybe I can revisit it... once a week? Until I've exhausted what I think I want to say? I can tell you this -- future Sunday-centric posts will include long hikes in the country, visions of a mink stole, the occasional visit to a Catholic church and attendant problems with an aspergilium, and perhaps finally, some musings on Jesus and the reproductive cycle of the common squid)
Time now, though, for more coffee.
Thanks again for being here with me.
© 2011 Walter Zimmerman
Not that I don't have things to talk about -- I think you already know me better than that. It's just a matter of which direction I'd prefer to take today. So many stories to tell. 'My Little Flood', for one. A wandering, ultimately painful account of why I haven't had a haircut in three months, for another. I already have a little written examination of some old photographs prepared. And then there's the matter of the pile I've made, of gnarled sycamore twigs, outside our back door -- what on earth does that mean?
But I think, as I mentally paw through these possibilities, that I'm just going to ruminate on... Sunday. (Not as weighted for me as Wednesday perhaps, but still...)
Where Has Sunday Gone, or The Last Shall Be First
Early on -- when I was old enough to understand that one day was different from another, and also old enough to walk, by myself -- I made a weekly round trip, two whole blocks each way, to the big brick Presbyterian Church and then back home. My parents had decided I should go there, and quickly, that Sunday school class became a special place in the week.
My parents didn't go with me. They didn't go to church at all. I was sent by myself. I dimly remember dressing, and then saying goodbye to my father and mother, as they lay in their bed, with the blinds pulled and the bedside lamps unlit. I could barely see them. I would be gone for at least an hour.
As for Sunday school itself, I have only a hazy sense of being suffused, that once a week, with an endless supply of sugary assurances about Jesus, whose picture beamed down on all us children -- children He was said vastly to prefer to grownups. Perhaps I was too idealistic a boy, or had an unusual openness, or a dangerously indiscriminate capacity for believing in things, but I know I felt that I'd found an invisible, faithful and attentive Ally, Who knew me by name, and was watching attentively as I sat at a little table, being as good as possible, and soaking up sweetness.
One Sunday, bad Eddie (master of the Word, you may remember) met up with me on my way to Sunday school, and coaxed me into playing hooky. Behind a hedge across the street from the front steps of the church, we watched together as the other children filed in for their weekly treat of Bible tales and miracles. I still recall the inner sense of transgression, a kind of dirty regret, that instead of marching to the Sunday school room with the good kids, and sitting respectfully while the teacher told us even more wonderful things, there I crouched, dressed in my Sunday clothes and hiding behind a bush. I have no idea what the trade-off actually was, or what Eddie and I did until I had to go back home. I didn't let him lure me away from Sunday school after that.
Soon enough my parents had moved us all to another place to live, a ranch-style house in a near suburb of Belleville. Sundays lost their pole-star place in the week for me. There was no church close by. There was no bus into town. And this was really too bad, I thought, because we really needed extra divine help right then, because the family was clearly breaking apart.
I assured myself that Jesus didn't mind it all that much, that I'd skipped Sunday school one time; I didn't think He blamed me because I couldn't find another place to go and sit at a little table, politely, beneath a picture of Him, on the wall, smiling. In my eight-year-old way, I was so sure of the things I'd been told about power, and love, and caring. Though a bit tall for my age, and with a kind of bad haircut, I was still, technically, one of the little children He liked so much, wasn't I? Looking through the open bedroom window, I lay in my top bunk bed and begged Him to fix our family. It shouldn't be that difficult. My parents screamed at each other -- my mother hoarsely taunting my father for earning so little money -- and I pleaded. They threw things at each other, and I tried to find, in the dark sky, the direction in which Heaven lay, so my begging would take less time getting to the One who could surely do something for us. (Whether these fights happened on Sundays or not, I can't tell you -- although at that time, my father was generally only at home on the weekends. Whenever they happened, for me these battles obliterated time, twisted space, and swallowed weeks whole)
Months later, and hundreds of miles away from that suburban ranch-style house, my brothers and I had been left at The Home, as it was called. Sunday reemerged, as though thrust up through the earth's crust, a terrible twenty-four hour monolith. In the Home, it was impossible to confuse Sunday with any other day, ever.
We would all troop to the small, cold, white Valencia First Presbyterian Church. We had assigned pews, away from the other members of the congregation. I remember feeling examined, as the whole lot of us filed in, to take our places and then sit through another long, plain, somber Sunday service, relieved only by the hymns. There were droning sermons about things I didn't understand. Flat-backed wooden benches that had never known any manner of cushion. I looked for distraction, or meaning, anywhere. (I remember deciding, after staring at it week after week, that the large gold letters "I H S", embroidered on the red velvet flaps under the pulpit Bible, stood for a quote from Jesus, and they meant " I Hate Satan". I thought about that for a few Sundays) Every three months, we ate a cube of stale white bread, and then drank a small cup of grape juice. We slipped the empty cup into a little wooden holder with three holes in it, attached to the back of the pew in front of us, next to the hymnal rack. The tiny, wide-mouthed glasses, and the little rack, and how they all fit together, were interesting to me.
I really did try to pay attention to these obviously important, sin-centered thoughts being earnestly strewn over us, but it was difficult. I was fidgety, but also afraid of attracting a disapproving eye. I certainly didn't dare fall asleep; there was a cautionary tale making the rounds at the Home right about then, that even the bigger, tougher Senior Boys seemed to believe:
A man and his wife were in church. During the sermon, the man nodded off, and started dreaming about Hell. Just when things in his dream were at their hottest, his wife noticed that he was sleeping, and prodded him sharply with her elbow. He jerked once, had a heart attack, fell over dead, and went straight to the Devil himself.
This story was repeated over and over, with great conviction, as though it had been in the newspaper. I wondered -- without, of course, saying anything -- how, if the man died so suddenly, anyone knew what he'd been dreaming about. I was becoming a different kind of boy.
After church, back at the orphanage, Mrs. Boyce and the rest of the kitchen staff had a big lunch ready for us. We all ate in the former mansion's large dining room, each at our own place at one of the big round tables filling the room. (We changed places and tables every week, lest friendships spring up). We had cloth napkins in napkin rings. We stood behind our chairs for the blessing. We sat, with a great scraping of chair legs and rustling of clothing, and then began the most substantial meal we would have all week. I especially remember the salty gravy that always accompanied whatever main dish was served -- ham or roast beef...
(Sometimes we had venison -- by special government-approved arrangement, policemen could bring to the orphanage any deer that had been killed along the road, and weren't too badly mangled. The handyman, Mr. Fyfe, would clean and butcher it. It was never announced that this was what we were eating, or where it came from, but I know this was at times our Sunday meal. Looking back, there seems a kind of gruesome rightness to this, to our consuming, communally, the results of an inadvertent sacrifice. Certainly more apt than cubes of bread and grape juice)
After the big lunch, we were sent to our respective dormitories, and were supposed to take a mid-day nap. In the late afternoon, the bell range, and we all filed downstairs and into the main hall, for another devotional period. The youngest kids -- boys along one banister, girls along the other -- sat in rows, up on the steps of the tall, wide main staircase with the big stained-glass window at the top. Off to one side, Miss Creswell was prepared to accompany some hymns, on the old upright piano. When this extra session of Bible readings, and thoughts about what Jesus wanted from us now, and then some songs, had ended, we went back to the dining room, where we had a very simple evening snack of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, and bowls of ice cream. In retrospect, it seems odd and improbably festive -- cavalier, even -- that a day otherwise steeped in predetermination, and lectures on the pitfalls of sin, assurances of harsh judgement and other sour things, should be brought to a close with the taste of sugar in our mouths. When we'd finished our desserts, 'Pop' Campbell, the head administrator, would dismiss us with his usual admonishment to shine our shoes.
I don't remember whether the occasional night-time beatings were suspended because it was Sunday, but I rather doubt it.
(And now, I'm putting Sunday aside. Next week perhaps? Prolix as I am -- I wonder if I've ever actually used that word before -- I certainly have plenty more to say on the subject. Maybe I can revisit it... once a week? Until I've exhausted what I think I want to say? I can tell you this -- future Sunday-centric posts will include long hikes in the country, visions of a mink stole, the occasional visit to a Catholic church and attendant problems with an aspergilium, and perhaps finally, some musings on Jesus and the reproductive cycle of the common squid)
Time now, though, for more coffee.
Thanks again for being here with me.
© 2011 Walter Zimmerman
Saturday, December 3, 2011
Mea Culpa, Plus Some Messiah
Two things. One: I'm afraid I'm doing this all wrong. Two: I saw, and learned, something amazing last night.
First my misgivings. I am, as you probably know, a novice bloggeur. (If I were my sister, I would be a bloggeuse) (which, to me, sounds less like a mucous-based nasal obstruction, and more like a rarely-imported, expensive and highly smelly French cheese) In the all-of-seven days that I've been unloading a variety of thoughts, opinions and other such written stuff here, I'm afraid I've been having too much fun, and talking too long. Writing tooooooo much. (I can't guarantee, of course, that this will change anytime soon, but I'm just putting it out there)
I love writing, I love words, I spend monstrous amounts of time alone, so this forum is, for me, something like one of those breathing tubes they used to build into coffins, in the Victorian era. Just in case the deceased wasn't really dead yet. Life saving. (Although, I'm grateful to say, without the satin lining and the claustrophobia)
Mea culpa. I have grievous faults. I'll try to be better. But I make no guarantees. (Think: divine intervention?)
Now -- What I Saw Last Night.
As some or all of you may know, my husband/domestic partner/civilly unionized/significant other/boyfriend of long standing, Dr. John Sheridan, is a musician, and has recently taken the position of Director of Music at Christ Episcopal Church, in New Brunswick NJ. The program at Christ Church, built over some seventeen years by the redoubtable Mark Trautmann, John's predecessor, sometimes leads John to opportunities outside the sanctuary. Last night, for example, he was guest conductor for a concert of Advent-focused sections of Handel's 'Messiah', at the State Theater in New Brunswick, with orchestra, chorus, and four soloists. Few knew, I think, that this was exactly his second orchestral conducting endeavor. Anywhere. Ever.
As it happened, I didn't get to see John before the performance, so I had no idea whether he was nervous, calm, frantic, elated, or any combination of these, and more. For myself, I was semi-frantic.
Physically, of course, I was fine. I was seated in about the tenth row, pretty much dead center. A German friend sat on my left, and friends from Christ Church were on my right. I had exactly nothing to do but sit quietly and politely, as John and the musicians did their jobs. But for me, this kind of helpless attendance is nerve-wracking, mostly because, as the oldest child with six younger, accident-prone siblings, I have an over-developed sense of responsibility, and a deeply-ingrained rescue mechanism. In musical situations, though, I'm painfully aware that I am utterly helpless. If something were to go wrong, there would be nothing, -- aside from yelling 'Fire', which I think is illegal -- absolutely nothing I could do. Not to diminish John's musicianship at all, but when he performs, I often feel that I'm watching my dearly beloved, standing far away, at the very tippy-top of the tallest ski jump on earth, adjusting his ski goggles. Through my binoculars, I think I see a loose snap on his parka. And where's his ski cap? But before I can warn him, and as the clock strikes 8, he begins his descent.
Well. This is what I learned, watching this man, who was standing on a podium that was a little too tall, struggling subtly with a music stand that was set a little too low, contending with a baton that was a little too evasive, and facing an orchestra, a harpsichordist, four soloists, and a bank of choral singers. The thick, thick score of Handel's 'Messiah'. And a house of listeners behind him.
From the moment he took that podium, and faced the forces, he was a man with a focus. There was, to my eye, no question of what he wanted, when he wanted it, and from whom he expected to get it. He was energetic without being frantic, relaxed without seeming indifferent, communicative with both the orchestra immediately before him, with the soloists (who, because they were essentially standing behind him, called for a combination of extra-strength peripheral vision, and mental telepathy), and the choir, which was arrayed way against the back wall, and must have seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be standing on a train platform in Connecticut.
Really, the music came up through him. He danced it -- not ostentatiously, but almost spontaneously, like a string vibrating in sympathy with the sounds around it. He embraced the musicians; he elicited volume and cautioned quietness -- the way conductors, after all, are supposed to do.
But there was, still something unique, for me, in John's conducting. Because of the clarity of his musical ideas, and his fluency in communicating this clarity to his musical forces, he was, simultaneously, communicating that clear intent to us, his audience.
Now, of course, I'm not exactly an unbiased observer, but I really did feel that there was something prismatic about John's work -- that, as the conductor, he wasn't just some pompous guy in a tux, waving his arms and making it hard to see the singers -- he was also helping me, as an audience member, understand the music I was hearing. He was the focal point, helping to illuminate the experience, both as it was, and as it could have been. Even if, as sometimes will happen, a dynamic wasn't what he'd wanted, or an entrance was a bit late, or part of the chorus blurred an entrance, I was allowed to understand, through the vigor and sureness of John's gestures, what his intention was, and how it should have gone. His vigor and insights effectively repaired the little surface flaws, healed the few minor musical scrapes or bruises, and helped me hear how it really should have gone.
In a way I've rarely experienced, this confluence of intent and practice was riveting. Rather than simply sitting in my seat, and letting the music wash over me (while secretly worrying that an overhead light might fall onto the stage at any moment), I felt alert and engaged, as though in some sense, I was being conducted too. I was being led, through John's conducting, into a deeper experience and appreciation of music that, for many, has become merely a seasonal cliche.
It was thrilling. It was harrowing (the earlier 'evasive baton' reference? At one point, early on, the silly thing simply flew out of his right hand, and landed halfway between the concert master and the alto soloist. I, of course, went into super rescue mode -- should I leap to the stage to hand the baton back to him? Find my way backstage and make a weird, but humble entrance, to pick up the wayward little instrument? Not to worry. John gracefully retrieved it at the next full rest), and the work was sung with conviction I don't usually experience with music we hear so often. The soprano soloist, in particular, delivered her music as though she had just thought of it, and urgently needed to let us know what she'd discovered. When the Hallelujah Chorus began, the audience rose up in a body, not out of relief, or leg cramp (thanks, King George) or in preparation for the race to the parking garage. The energy onstage was infectious, and we in the audience were gratefully caught up in it too.
My thanks to the musicians. Thanks to the State Theater, and, of course, to Mr. Handel.
And special thanks to John. Great run. I didn't need to bring that extra ski cap after all.
© 2011 Walter Zimmerman
First my misgivings. I am, as you probably know, a novice bloggeur. (If I were my sister, I would be a bloggeuse) (which, to me, sounds less like a mucous-based nasal obstruction, and more like a rarely-imported, expensive and highly smelly French cheese) In the all-of-seven days that I've been unloading a variety of thoughts, opinions and other such written stuff here, I'm afraid I've been having too much fun, and talking too long. Writing tooooooo much. (I can't guarantee, of course, that this will change anytime soon, but I'm just putting it out there)
I love writing, I love words, I spend monstrous amounts of time alone, so this forum is, for me, something like one of those breathing tubes they used to build into coffins, in the Victorian era. Just in case the deceased wasn't really dead yet. Life saving. (Although, I'm grateful to say, without the satin lining and the claustrophobia)
Mea culpa. I have grievous faults. I'll try to be better. But I make no guarantees. (Think: divine intervention?)
Now -- What I Saw Last Night.
As some or all of you may know, my husband/domestic partner/civilly unionized/significant other/boyfriend of long standing, Dr. John Sheridan, is a musician, and has recently taken the position of Director of Music at Christ Episcopal Church, in New Brunswick NJ. The program at Christ Church, built over some seventeen years by the redoubtable Mark Trautmann, John's predecessor, sometimes leads John to opportunities outside the sanctuary. Last night, for example, he was guest conductor for a concert of Advent-focused sections of Handel's 'Messiah', at the State Theater in New Brunswick, with orchestra, chorus, and four soloists. Few knew, I think, that this was exactly his second orchestral conducting endeavor. Anywhere. Ever.
As it happened, I didn't get to see John before the performance, so I had no idea whether he was nervous, calm, frantic, elated, or any combination of these, and more. For myself, I was semi-frantic.
Physically, of course, I was fine. I was seated in about the tenth row, pretty much dead center. A German friend sat on my left, and friends from Christ Church were on my right. I had exactly nothing to do but sit quietly and politely, as John and the musicians did their jobs. But for me, this kind of helpless attendance is nerve-wracking, mostly because, as the oldest child with six younger, accident-prone siblings, I have an over-developed sense of responsibility, and a deeply-ingrained rescue mechanism. In musical situations, though, I'm painfully aware that I am utterly helpless. If something were to go wrong, there would be nothing, -- aside from yelling 'Fire', which I think is illegal -- absolutely nothing I could do. Not to diminish John's musicianship at all, but when he performs, I often feel that I'm watching my dearly beloved, standing far away, at the very tippy-top of the tallest ski jump on earth, adjusting his ski goggles. Through my binoculars, I think I see a loose snap on his parka. And where's his ski cap? But before I can warn him, and as the clock strikes 8, he begins his descent.
Well. This is what I learned, watching this man, who was standing on a podium that was a little too tall, struggling subtly with a music stand that was set a little too low, contending with a baton that was a little too evasive, and facing an orchestra, a harpsichordist, four soloists, and a bank of choral singers. The thick, thick score of Handel's 'Messiah'. And a house of listeners behind him.
From the moment he took that podium, and faced the forces, he was a man with a focus. There was, to my eye, no question of what he wanted, when he wanted it, and from whom he expected to get it. He was energetic without being frantic, relaxed without seeming indifferent, communicative with both the orchestra immediately before him, with the soloists (who, because they were essentially standing behind him, called for a combination of extra-strength peripheral vision, and mental telepathy), and the choir, which was arrayed way against the back wall, and must have seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be standing on a train platform in Connecticut.
Really, the music came up through him. He danced it -- not ostentatiously, but almost spontaneously, like a string vibrating in sympathy with the sounds around it. He embraced the musicians; he elicited volume and cautioned quietness -- the way conductors, after all, are supposed to do.
But there was, still something unique, for me, in John's conducting. Because of the clarity of his musical ideas, and his fluency in communicating this clarity to his musical forces, he was, simultaneously, communicating that clear intent to us, his audience.
Now, of course, I'm not exactly an unbiased observer, but I really did feel that there was something prismatic about John's work -- that, as the conductor, he wasn't just some pompous guy in a tux, waving his arms and making it hard to see the singers -- he was also helping me, as an audience member, understand the music I was hearing. He was the focal point, helping to illuminate the experience, both as it was, and as it could have been. Even if, as sometimes will happen, a dynamic wasn't what he'd wanted, or an entrance was a bit late, or part of the chorus blurred an entrance, I was allowed to understand, through the vigor and sureness of John's gestures, what his intention was, and how it should have gone. His vigor and insights effectively repaired the little surface flaws, healed the few minor musical scrapes or bruises, and helped me hear how it really should have gone.
In a way I've rarely experienced, this confluence of intent and practice was riveting. Rather than simply sitting in my seat, and letting the music wash over me (while secretly worrying that an overhead light might fall onto the stage at any moment), I felt alert and engaged, as though in some sense, I was being conducted too. I was being led, through John's conducting, into a deeper experience and appreciation of music that, for many, has become merely a seasonal cliche.
It was thrilling. It was harrowing (the earlier 'evasive baton' reference? At one point, early on, the silly thing simply flew out of his right hand, and landed halfway between the concert master and the alto soloist. I, of course, went into super rescue mode -- should I leap to the stage to hand the baton back to him? Find my way backstage and make a weird, but humble entrance, to pick up the wayward little instrument? Not to worry. John gracefully retrieved it at the next full rest), and the work was sung with conviction I don't usually experience with music we hear so often. The soprano soloist, in particular, delivered her music as though she had just thought of it, and urgently needed to let us know what she'd discovered. When the Hallelujah Chorus began, the audience rose up in a body, not out of relief, or leg cramp (thanks, King George) or in preparation for the race to the parking garage. The energy onstage was infectious, and we in the audience were gratefully caught up in it too.
My thanks to the musicians. Thanks to the State Theater, and, of course, to Mr. Handel.
And special thanks to John. Great run. I didn't need to bring that extra ski cap after all.
© 2011 Walter Zimmerman
Friday, December 2, 2011
What We Can Do, and How We Can Do It
(The following unexpurgated journal entry leads into the main theme under investigation, which was mentioned yesterday. Consider this a kind of back-stage peek)
December 1, 2011 Sinclair Terrace, South Orange NJ 12:25 pm
Well, I’ve just posted what, as it turns out, will be the first of three blog entries, all sort of linked in a very silly way. I’m sure no one will be interested, but as John says, you can’t hit it out of the park every time. (In fact, in baseball, if you hit the stupid thing once every three times, you’re golden. I’d like to think I have somewhat higher standards…)
Anyway, when last we left blogland, I had just been providing a history lesson, about the underpinnings of the current uptick in human obesity, and then I reluctantly described, in harrowing detail, the approaching harvest of human -- what shall we call it -- nectar perhaps? – by a gang of hungry space aliens. Chilling indeed. But not necessarily inevitable.
My next self-assigned task is to provide the surprisingly handy, and health-inducing, remedy, which will not only help us all avert said ghastly feasting, but will return us all, as a nation, to unprecedentedly radiant health and happiness. Hence…
That Fat Attack: What We Can Do to Fend It Off, and How We Can Do It.
When last we visited, I retailed for you, as delicately as possible, the upcoming events toward which many of our national cultural trends have been taking us. I clarified – and wish to reiterate – that all of us have essentially been helpless victims here. Victims of forces far beyond our individual strength to recognize, or to resist. And yet, practically within our grasp, lie the means to postpone, perhaps indefinitely, that looming indignity. With the monokinis and all. We have, at our very fingertips, the means of restoring ourselves, as a nation, to radiant good health, while still maintaining what is perhaps our central cultural identifier -- our unlimited ability, as Americans, to go wherever we want, however we want, and whenever we want to go there.
Now, perhaps there are other, more benign forces at work in the Universe, and I would be grateful, if I were only the humble conduit for the following realizations. (Need the Dark Side always win?) In any event, these ideas of mine have been simmering for quite a while, arising -- as have many other such revolutionary notions -- from the most mundane of activities. To wit:
I used to drive to Philadelphia and back, once a week. South on Monday, north on Thursday. Week in, week out. In a standard-shift vehicle with, alas, no reliable radio reception. Someone had wedged something inextricably into the DVD player. Perhaps a sweet, sticky snack? On each trip, as a result, I had plenty of time to think.
One of the things I thought about, unsurprisingly, was the act of driving itself. After all, I was on the New Jersey's renowned Garden State Parkway for a large portion of each journey, and when traveling such a popular and in some ways thrilling roadway, the habits and patterns of other drivers quickly absorb one’s attention. In fact, they really must, if one hopes to reach one’s destination in one’s own vehicle, and not strapped, concussed, into the back of an ambulance.
And I couldn’t help thinking, as I edged my way along – most other folks seemed content to travel a mere fifteen or twenty miles over the posted speed limit, but there were always those... special drivers. Those vehicular exceptions, who apparently derived a great deal of additional personal value, from deciding -- at the risk of their own lives and those of countless others -- to depress their gas pedal further toward the floor than strictly necessary for ordinary surface mobility, and then zooming ahead of everyone else, at ground speeds that were thought to be physically damaging only seventy years ago. (And all of this, in spite of the fact that, at no matter what speed they achieved, by the time they decelerated and actually exited their vehicles, the great majority of them would still have been in New Jersey)
And, I couldn’t help thinking, what, strictly speaking, is actually involved here? What really underpins, in the simplest terms, this display of setting hulking shells of deceptively safe metal-and-plastic hurtling through space, at speeds defying usefulness and, really, common sense?
I mean, there I was the other evening, sitting at one red light or another, on Route 1 North, and some hulking driver clad in a sleeveless shirt pulled up beside me, gripping the padded steering wheel of a yellow Mustang. Sitting there, sunglasses in place, revving the engine, and making the car rock back and forth in what must have seemed a maternally comforting manner. And then, perhaps a breath of a second before the light actually turned green, off that Mustang sped, shedding scraps of tire and puffing out exhaust that rose fragrantly into the already pungent air of Edison.
Only three minutes later, to pull, squealing, into a strip mall anchored by a Chuck-E-Cheese®.
Now what, I wondered, has just happened? What, in strictly real, human, physiological terms, had taken place?
That hulking driver had depressed the accelerator. With one ankle.
Oh, I'll grant you, there was the gripping of the wheel, the tensing of the jaw, and the slight turning of the head, to look in the rearview mirror for cops. But most of the actual physical effort was strictly and narrowly limited, focused below the right calf, and well above the toes. Right at the ankle. Push.
Wow.
Privately, I'm willing to bet that the average (alright, the average 99% average) New York apartment dweller has exerted just as much effort, without even thinking about it, to extinguish the life of a… we’ll call it a water bug, because there’s company, and they can hear everything that happens in the bathroom. Thank God it's in the tub. Flex ankle, job done. It takes more effort to get the paper towel and wipe the porcelain.
And then – possibly because, at about that same time, I had just been made keenly aware of the dire, alien-centric events awaiting our Nation – it struck me. It struck me like one of those Lexus Supremes, or whatever they are, that drop from airplanes over the Nevada desert, to make me want to buy a Lexus Supreme that hasn’t dropped from an airplane over the Nevada desert:
This very ease of transport itself, with the delusional sense of personal involvement in, and responsibility for simple locomotion, has all along been part of The Big Plan. The Giant Chubby-Making Plan. The Human-to-Aphid Redesign Plan. Operation How Big Can They Get?
Well think about it. Not only are we awash in limitless sources of superfluous calories, we also go gliding about, on padded seats, with so little effort as to amount to no exertion at all, and for what? To waft up the street to the grocery store, or to go out to dinner, or to stop for an ice cream -- and often enough, my Fellow Americans, with some fat-laden sandwich or silky milkshake or caramel-infused candy bar actually held, poised for consumption, at our very lips!
Of course it fits. All of it. Like the well-laid plan which, in fact, it is.
But now we know.
And more importantly, now that we see the full extent of the plot, we must put our creative ingenuity to better use than the perfection of a new tart-grape flavored, turquoise-tinted Sno-Ball ®. We must now, as a Nation and a People, develop our own sure salvation. And it goes like this:
The Radical Re-Design of the Automobile.
We implore – no, we demand that those clever engineering minds in… wherever they design and build cars today… rethink and refit our chief mode of transportation, the personal automobile, so that a certain set, unambiguous and appreciable percentage of said vehicle’s motion be supplied by… the human beings actually inside the car itself! The driver, of course, from a sort of locomotive noblesse oblige, provides most of the energy. (See disclaimers below) Passengers chip in too, both front seat and back. Those teeny ones in the kiddie seats as well, I think it’s safe to say -- it's never too early to learn to contribute to the family good. Besides, there may be a free lunch somewhere in this universe, bunnykins, but we are not going to be it.
Personally, I would aim for, maybe 20% muscle contribution toward forward thrust? (Is that too much? Too little?) Maybe 25%, if the car is clad chiefly in papier mache (don’t laugh – in a showroom near you, next spring)? Definitely as much as 40%, in the smaller, sportier models. But these details can always be worked out -- that’s what the engineers get paid for, anyway.
But just think. Legs engaged. Shoulders and arms involved. Glutes in gear. Lats and delts and whatever other parts there are, finally pulling together. We need to ensure that the prosaic trip to the supermarket for a quart of milk really gets the blood going – that a casual jaunt across town raises a sweat. Visiting the inlaws is a new kind of workout. And a drive to Philadelphia? The equivalent of three marathons, in a row. There’ll be cheering and confetti and vitamin water at the Ben Franklin Bridge, every morning.
Then picture, it you will, the surge of real, solid, red-blooded and justifiable pride that driver of the yellow Mustang will have, when there's some real effort behind that squealing burst of power and speed. Some real accomplishment in moving that metal, and all those decals. The sweat. The brawn. The pump. That’s something to put on the mantelpiece, or hang from the rear-view mirror. Instead of… flexing your ankle? Please...
[Disclaimer voice: Modifications available for several human body types and physical limitations. Requirements may vary, according to automotive model and local ordinance. Road conditions excluded. Canine adaptations mandatory – carrying more than one canine per vehicle may require additional license fees. Discounts available for drivers and passengers over age 55, the blind, and those currently holding elective office. Temporary adjustments possible for those suffering the flu, seasonal allergies, women who are pregnant or may become pregnant, drivers with OCD, OPF, LR5, BEAN syndrome, and other situations and complaints too numerous to mention. Doctor’s note strictly required. Not valid in all areas)
I would estimate, my Fellow Americans, that as a Nation, in under one calendar year (perhaps longer, if this winter is as bad as the last) we would see a corporate loss of body mass, a shedding of unnecessary expanse, that will bring complete despair to the innards of those wily alien masterminds who’ve been toying with us for far too long. Imagine their surprise when, as they stretch their photogenic limbs after their interstellar voyage, metaphorically licking their alien chops, ready for a nice protracted feed at our expense, they find themselves facing a host -- an expanse -- a Nation -- of well-toned, trim and alert Americans, each one of whom knows the score.
‘Retract your palps, guys,’ we can all say, telepathically, on that great day, ‘This country, this America, is no longer on the menu.’
(Cue flag, and eagle, and short shot of aphid)
(Go to commercial) (BTW -- it's not clear -- is Jack-in-the-Box ® or Reddi-Whip ® taking this hour? Let me know. Thanx)
© 2011 Walter Zimmerman
Thursday, December 1, 2011
Making Good on a Promise, or Approaching a Unified Theory...
Well, a couple of days ago, I mentioned, at the end of an entry, that I had some ideas about the current Epidemic of Obesity in Our Country, and how this might be remedied by a Change in Automobile Design. Then I thought -- nah, too boring -- maybe I shouldn't. But then someone (you know who you are) said something (you know what it was), and because it's Thursday, about which I have no special associations (well, there is the whole Thor thing...), I think that, possibly...
Approaching a Unified Theory, or How We Can Help Those With Perceived Weight Issues, Redesign Our Automotive Experience, and (if I Don't Run Out of Steam) Eliminate the National Debt.
My Fellow Americans, as so many of us know all too well, more and more of our citizens today are struggling (or not) to maintain what is believed to be a healthy body weight. This is a serious issue, but I am here to shed some light on the topic, and to propose a solution which will solve not only height/weight ratios, but a number of other problems as well.
First, and most importantly, let me emphasize, for all those out there who may be struggling -- and perhaps failing -- to conform to the media-centric standards of the physical 'ideal': It's Not Your Fault.
Next, let's eliminate a whole host of misconceptions, by revealing, probably for the first time, the true underlying causes for this dire state of affairs.
It started, in fact, in Roswell New Mexico, in 1947. Many of you will recall the brouhaha surrounding the alleged crash of an alien space craft (with, it seems, another, similar event, at about the same time, in Corona NM, just a few mesas west). It was, it wasn't; it was this, it was that. The US Army Air Force was in a tizzy of its own making. But, without revealing my sources, I am here to tell you that, indeed, there was a crash, of a vehicle of extra-terrestrial origin, and that this accident has led to the very issue we must address.
You see, unlike the fear-drenched cinematic portrayals of space aliens with which we are all so familiar, these 'visitors' were, in fact, just a bunch of what would be, for them, college-aged kids, who'd had just a little too much of the good stuff and were out searching for the galactic equivalent of take-out Chinese. They got into a drag race with another similarly-occupied craft (some things are truly universal), both drivers lost control at that weird place in the space-time continuum, just west of Phoenix, and 'presto', call the gecko.
Contrary to popular belief, however, no lives were lost, and the damaged craft were quite readily repaired, at a local Maaco (whose employees would have been sworn to secrecy, had they not been scared incontinent). The US Military's feeble, seemingly never-ending cover-up attempts (to quote someone who knew, 'That balloon story was a damned lie then, and it's still a lie.') speak for themselves. And so, one would think, the story ends.
But no. One of these enterprising visitors -- perhaps an intergalactic cross between our own Mark Zuckerberg and, say, Julia Child -- had an idea, while lounging around the officer's club, waiting for the ride to be fixed. He/she/it was still having something like the munchies, of course, and it seemed to him/her/it that these Earthlings had some interesting potential, gastronomically speaking. With perhaps just a little tweaking...
And so it began. While the final coat of wax was being buffed out on the shiny, practically good-as-new craft, these now sober visitors quickly made a plan. With admirable speed and efficiency (well, think about it), they quite simply planted, telepathically, a few suggestions, in the sadly unguarded, wide-open and unsuspecting minds of men and women all across the country. Then, as the engines were warming up, they made note of our planet's coordinates (probably with a ball-point pen, on the palm of a 'hand'), made nice with their hosts, and left in a flash.
But... they'll be back.
Now, don't get alarmed -- there will be no repeat, in real life, of the famous Twilight Zone 'To Serve Man' episode. That's not how these visitors roll, so to speak. Not at all. For all their external similarities to us, physiologically (actually, they're unnaturally good-looking, and photogenic too. I hate them), their digestive systems work more along the lines of certain insects native to our planet -- specifically, those ants that herd and tend flocks of aphids.
It's true. Protecting their six-legged charges from any outside threats, these ants encourage the aphids to eat, eat, eat. Suck those plant juices. Have a little more. No, no, that exoskeleton doesn't make you look fat. And then, of course, just when the aphids have reached the point where, with one more sip, they'll literally explode, the ants begin to stroke and pet their balloon-like charges, patting swollen aphid tummies with tender ant antennae, and harvesting the pre-digested aphid-milk, fresh from.. wherever it comes from on an aphid. Yum.
So, you see, getting back to those visitors in 1947, what they implanted, telepathically, in the receptive minds of Americans far and wide, was an unusual degree of creativity -- to be focused mainly in the production and distribution of high-sucrose, low fiber food items, but also on the means of reducing the need for any activities requiring the expenditure of any energy, plus the emergence of forms of entertainment guaranteed to keep audiences seated and, it was to be hoped, eating (Dancing with the Stars? Get it?). They also arranged, those devils, for a similar spike in the appetite for Ding Dongs ® and Ho Hos ® and Twinkies ®, whether fried or plain, among the general population. (We need not mention ribs, and cheese-flavored food products -- they speak for themselves)
Slowly, but surely, we grew and grew. A generation has passed, and we -- most of us at least -- have grown and grown. (Anorectic teenagers, while surely no joking matter, will serve, I believe, as garnish. Parsley, as it were) Grown and grown and grown.
Then, just when there seems to be no more spandex available, to allow us to go out in public, they come back.
Well, of course, given the relativity of time and space, for these guys it could be later the same day, or just after mid-terms. And of course they'll be just as stoked as the first time, only now they'll have something more... appetizing to look forward to. Which is... us.
Here's how it will go down, when the time is right (I'm thinking, oh, 2012, 2013...). (And, by the way, trust me on this -- I've seen highly-classified footage, smuggled in at great personal cost, from other sites where these guys have their keggers. I'm not making this up)
Picture, if you will, hundreds, if not thousands, of portly Americans, of every age and condition, making their way, as if in a dream, to public arenas, sports facilities, and other large open spaces, all over the country. Slowly -- so as not to waste any precious preciousness -- they make their collective way to their telepathically assigned places. They modestly exchange their garments for a kind of polyester, one-size-doesn't-quite-fit-all sling bikini, provided beforehand by our visiting gourmands. (And if this alone doesn't emphasize the gravity of the situation, I don't know what will. These alien guys may know their snacks, but they've got terrible taste in garments, and have been know to mix paisley with plaids. For them, it's all just napkins and tablecloths)
When properly (?) garbed, these, our fellow Americans, will climb laboriously onto the suspension devices -- think of those upside-down anti-gravity thingies Sharper Image ® used to try to sell -- provided for the purpose (don't you love a replicator?), and, when all strapped in, the feeding begins.
Well, really, it looks less like eating, and more like tickling, (the camera focus on this part really could have been better), but there were the visitors, with their feeding palps extended (you'd never know), caressing and petting and patting and...
(As it happens, by the way, the 'aphids' in the video I saw were from another place, and splotchier in color, and had a different configuration of limbs, but the general picture was pretty obvious. I'm pretty sure that humanoids are new to the menu. Think: cannolis?)
So, to refresh: We Are in Peril Here. Unless something is done -- and done soon -- it will be our own Fellow Americans -- perhaps I myself (where did that Devil Dog ® come from?) -- writhing in something not quite like ecstasy, being massaged and poked, scraped and wiped, while simultaneously being replenished with a melange of Hostess ® products, administered intravenously. (Oh, did I mention -- these banquets go on for decades, and the proceedings are both recorded and broadcast, especially to school auditoriums. Imagine trudging home for a day off, after a week of hanging upside down and being tickled in public, while wearing a plaid monokini, only to confront your sullen, spindly teenager, who has been watching the whole thing. With everyone else. In public. Before lunch. Gross)
But there is a solution, if we act swiftly and decisively. How, you may ask, can we possibly stop this otherworldly picnic from happening in our own backyard? Let us examine this surprising, yet gratifying simple set of options... tomorrow.
© 2011 Walter Zimmerman
Approaching a Unified Theory, or How We Can Help Those With Perceived Weight Issues, Redesign Our Automotive Experience, and (if I Don't Run Out of Steam) Eliminate the National Debt.
My Fellow Americans, as so many of us know all too well, more and more of our citizens today are struggling (or not) to maintain what is believed to be a healthy body weight. This is a serious issue, but I am here to shed some light on the topic, and to propose a solution which will solve not only height/weight ratios, but a number of other problems as well.
First, and most importantly, let me emphasize, for all those out there who may be struggling -- and perhaps failing -- to conform to the media-centric standards of the physical 'ideal': It's Not Your Fault.
Next, let's eliminate a whole host of misconceptions, by revealing, probably for the first time, the true underlying causes for this dire state of affairs.
It started, in fact, in Roswell New Mexico, in 1947. Many of you will recall the brouhaha surrounding the alleged crash of an alien space craft (with, it seems, another, similar event, at about the same time, in Corona NM, just a few mesas west). It was, it wasn't; it was this, it was that. The US Army Air Force was in a tizzy of its own making. But, without revealing my sources, I am here to tell you that, indeed, there was a crash, of a vehicle of extra-terrestrial origin, and that this accident has led to the very issue we must address.
You see, unlike the fear-drenched cinematic portrayals of space aliens with which we are all so familiar, these 'visitors' were, in fact, just a bunch of what would be, for them, college-aged kids, who'd had just a little too much of the good stuff and were out searching for the galactic equivalent of take-out Chinese. They got into a drag race with another similarly-occupied craft (some things are truly universal), both drivers lost control at that weird place in the space-time continuum, just west of Phoenix, and 'presto', call the gecko.
Contrary to popular belief, however, no lives were lost, and the damaged craft were quite readily repaired, at a local Maaco (whose employees would have been sworn to secrecy, had they not been scared incontinent). The US Military's feeble, seemingly never-ending cover-up attempts (to quote someone who knew, 'That balloon story was a damned lie then, and it's still a lie.') speak for themselves. And so, one would think, the story ends.
But no. One of these enterprising visitors -- perhaps an intergalactic cross between our own Mark Zuckerberg and, say, Julia Child -- had an idea, while lounging around the officer's club, waiting for the ride to be fixed. He/she/it was still having something like the munchies, of course, and it seemed to him/her/it that these Earthlings had some interesting potential, gastronomically speaking. With perhaps just a little tweaking...
And so it began. While the final coat of wax was being buffed out on the shiny, practically good-as-new craft, these now sober visitors quickly made a plan. With admirable speed and efficiency (well, think about it), they quite simply planted, telepathically, a few suggestions, in the sadly unguarded, wide-open and unsuspecting minds of men and women all across the country. Then, as the engines were warming up, they made note of our planet's coordinates (probably with a ball-point pen, on the palm of a 'hand'), made nice with their hosts, and left in a flash.
But... they'll be back.
Now, don't get alarmed -- there will be no repeat, in real life, of the famous Twilight Zone 'To Serve Man' episode. That's not how these visitors roll, so to speak. Not at all. For all their external similarities to us, physiologically (actually, they're unnaturally good-looking, and photogenic too. I hate them), their digestive systems work more along the lines of certain insects native to our planet -- specifically, those ants that herd and tend flocks of aphids.
It's true. Protecting their six-legged charges from any outside threats, these ants encourage the aphids to eat, eat, eat. Suck those plant juices. Have a little more. No, no, that exoskeleton doesn't make you look fat. And then, of course, just when the aphids have reached the point where, with one more sip, they'll literally explode, the ants begin to stroke and pet their balloon-like charges, patting swollen aphid tummies with tender ant antennae, and harvesting the pre-digested aphid-milk, fresh from.. wherever it comes from on an aphid. Yum.
So, you see, getting back to those visitors in 1947, what they implanted, telepathically, in the receptive minds of Americans far and wide, was an unusual degree of creativity -- to be focused mainly in the production and distribution of high-sucrose, low fiber food items, but also on the means of reducing the need for any activities requiring the expenditure of any energy, plus the emergence of forms of entertainment guaranteed to keep audiences seated and, it was to be hoped, eating (Dancing with the Stars? Get it?). They also arranged, those devils, for a similar spike in the appetite for Ding Dongs ® and Ho Hos ® and Twinkies ®, whether fried or plain, among the general population. (We need not mention ribs, and cheese-flavored food products -- they speak for themselves)
Slowly, but surely, we grew and grew. A generation has passed, and we -- most of us at least -- have grown and grown. (Anorectic teenagers, while surely no joking matter, will serve, I believe, as garnish. Parsley, as it were) Grown and grown and grown.
Then, just when there seems to be no more spandex available, to allow us to go out in public, they come back.
Well, of course, given the relativity of time and space, for these guys it could be later the same day, or just after mid-terms. And of course they'll be just as stoked as the first time, only now they'll have something more... appetizing to look forward to. Which is... us.
Here's how it will go down, when the time is right (I'm thinking, oh, 2012, 2013...). (And, by the way, trust me on this -- I've seen highly-classified footage, smuggled in at great personal cost, from other sites where these guys have their keggers. I'm not making this up)
Picture, if you will, hundreds, if not thousands, of portly Americans, of every age and condition, making their way, as if in a dream, to public arenas, sports facilities, and other large open spaces, all over the country. Slowly -- so as not to waste any precious preciousness -- they make their collective way to their telepathically assigned places. They modestly exchange their garments for a kind of polyester, one-size-doesn't-quite-fit-all sling bikini, provided beforehand by our visiting gourmands. (And if this alone doesn't emphasize the gravity of the situation, I don't know what will. These alien guys may know their snacks, but they've got terrible taste in garments, and have been know to mix paisley with plaids. For them, it's all just napkins and tablecloths)
When properly (?) garbed, these, our fellow Americans, will climb laboriously onto the suspension devices -- think of those upside-down anti-gravity thingies Sharper Image ® used to try to sell -- provided for the purpose (don't you love a replicator?), and, when all strapped in, the feeding begins.
Well, really, it looks less like eating, and more like tickling, (the camera focus on this part really could have been better), but there were the visitors, with their feeding palps extended (you'd never know), caressing and petting and patting and...
(As it happens, by the way, the 'aphids' in the video I saw were from another place, and splotchier in color, and had a different configuration of limbs, but the general picture was pretty obvious. I'm pretty sure that humanoids are new to the menu. Think: cannolis?)
So, to refresh: We Are in Peril Here. Unless something is done -- and done soon -- it will be our own Fellow Americans -- perhaps I myself (where did that Devil Dog ® come from?) -- writhing in something not quite like ecstasy, being massaged and poked, scraped and wiped, while simultaneously being replenished with a melange of Hostess ® products, administered intravenously. (Oh, did I mention -- these banquets go on for decades, and the proceedings are both recorded and broadcast, especially to school auditoriums. Imagine trudging home for a day off, after a week of hanging upside down and being tickled in public, while wearing a plaid monokini, only to confront your sullen, spindly teenager, who has been watching the whole thing. With everyone else. In public. Before lunch. Gross)
But there is a solution, if we act swiftly and decisively. How, you may ask, can we possibly stop this otherworldly picnic from happening in our own backyard? Let us examine this surprising, yet gratifying simple set of options... tomorrow.
© 2011 Walter Zimmerman
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)