Rain, rain go away, come again some other day...
No fun at all: rain-riddled slumber in an attic besieged by sudden noises and creatures sneaky. Last night, something growled behind the walls. Humph. All I can do, so far, is construct makeshift blockades out of old newspaper, spent beer cans, and corkboard. Maybe the raccoons will finally go away. Can’t really hand out eviction notices, you know?
But the spiders are another matter, yes, these eight-limbed milky wonders, abdomens dinner-swollen. Are they the ones leaving behind globs of an enigmatic substance, gleaming ivory and sticky on my walls? Henceforth, I should probably include pre-party liability pacts with my invitations: The host may not be held responsible for any mysterious diseases contracted at her parties. Sign here.
After peeling off the stubborn clumps with a pair of tweezers, I settle for an owl-eyed session with my roommate’s television, throwing shoes at the screen during those atrocious game shows that revolve around Men Are From Mars, Women Are From Venus-style romance. Gag.
Not like I’m gonna turn off the television. I hafta guard the fort. And it is mildly fascinating, the ways the Hollywood Machine has framed these hetero mating encounters, so coldly Darwinist (ElimiDate?!?) and not so visually dissimilar from public television’s unabashed observation of the pre-copulation habits of otters. Close-up of tongue/tail in action, please.
. . .
Small gestures, indeed, are necessary: an unsolicited massage of belabored back; laughter shared with a stranger; our eyes, rolling in unison, at George Bush’s demands for democracy in Cuba, at a rally in Florida. And you tsking over my shoulder as we scan a local newspaper’s article on the independence celebration in East Timor.
Somehow, the reporter has forgotten to mention the US dollars that had supported the Indonesian army’s decades-long terror campaign--more like a very slow and inexorable genocide--against the East Timorese. Tsk, indeed.