rlbourges

I’d rather stare out the window

In Animals, Food, Irish Mist, Local projects, Revision on October 2, 2014 at 7:36 am

What can I say. Age six or seven. An adult asks: “What do you want to be when you grow up, dear?” This is after a religious instruction class. My answer: “A virgin and a martyr.”

Never too late for the second option, I suppose, although the prospect no longer thrills.

What can I say to a friend who is now on Day thirty-seven of a hunger strike. I’ve said it already. So have others who like him. He forges on with the look of a Christian anticipating his encounter with the hungry lions and the roaring crowd.  Is  this a classic case of what psychiatrists call a transfer? Maybe that’s why Christians love Jesus. Heck, he died for our sins. What’s not to love, except for the fact he forgot to abolish death and taxes for the rest of us. Nobody’s perfect, not even God.

The first heavy fog, this morning. I slept, dreamt, refused to get up when duty said I must. Something of the stubborn mule mood that took over in my final year in boarding school. Maybe my buddy has something of the mule in him too. Except the last time I refused to eat, I was nine years old. I should pass on the opportunity more often, these days? I don’t think so, but I wouldn’t mind a slower pace to the meals.

Even story inspires nothing but a huge yawn right now. (Boy, am I setting myself up for a few barbs here. Go on, take aim, go on! and so on.)

Flat. Bleh. Except for the overwhelming urge to watch the fog lift at its own pace and move the legs again when they so decide.

Maybe the young girl in the story has a donkey, not a pony. Maybe I am the donkey. Maybe my greatest treat is the spiniest thistle, just over the fence, in the neighbor’s backyard.

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