Showing posts with label critters. Show all posts
Showing posts with label critters. Show all posts
Friday, December 18, 2009
spider
As I was typing, looking into the distance of the computer screen, my eyes began to slowly focus on a strange critter right in front of my eyes—like, two inches right in front of my eyes. It was a tiny golden red spider, who had weaved and weaved and lowered itself five feet from the ceiling. The web is so thin it is invisible to me, but I know that delicate strand exists because I blew and blew gently on the spider and it spun and spun gently further from my face, and I blew softly, directing, until the spider happened onto the cup of pens on my desk, and the spider’s legs danced and danced until it grasped the side of the purple cup, and it lowered itself away from my sight.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
My siblings and I each have a hamster. Today, my brother’s hamster died. We have only had her for a week. When I came downstairs, she was lying on her side. Now, usually, when hamsters sleep, they lie on their stomachs, curled as tight as possible, and their breathing in sleep is a rapid fluttering. My brother’s white hamster, whom he named Ariel, was not breathing. I opened the cage door and put my fingers on her, trying to startle her awake, but she did not move. I’m waiting until my brother wakes up and then I’ll tell him.
How easy death is. And how sudden. Ariel was fine yesterday night. There is no sign of sickness on her. No wounds.
Update
My brother was shocked to find Ariel dead, but he buried her, went back to PetCo, and got a gray hamster. He also asked about what might have caused Ariel to die, and he thinks it’s because Ariel had been sleeping in her own urine and got sick from it. We’ll be more careful in the future.
This morning, I had to wait for four hours before my brother woke up. Those hours were a little scary. I sat in the dining area at my computer, knowing that Ariel was dead in the living room a few feet away. I didn’t know what to think. I shut my thoughts down for awhile. I feel sad, but better now, knowing that she is properly buried in our backyard. We tried to treat her well, and I think she lived a good hamster life with us. R.I.P. Ariel.
How easy death is. And how sudden. Ariel was fine yesterday night. There is no sign of sickness on her. No wounds.
Update
My brother was shocked to find Ariel dead, but he buried her, went back to PetCo, and got a gray hamster. He also asked about what might have caused Ariel to die, and he thinks it’s because Ariel had been sleeping in her own urine and got sick from it. We’ll be more careful in the future.
This morning, I had to wait for four hours before my brother woke up. Those hours were a little scary. I sat in the dining area at my computer, knowing that Ariel was dead in the living room a few feet away. I didn’t know what to think. I shut my thoughts down for awhile. I feel sad, but better now, knowing that she is properly buried in our backyard. We tried to treat her well, and I think she lived a good hamster life with us. R.I.P. Ariel.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
Saturday
On Saturday, my father and I planted my garden. We dug trenches and placed large wooden blocks into a high barrier on all sides of our long garden. I cut open seven 40-pounded bags of soil and laid it out and pounded it down into our rectangular garden patch. In the middle of the garden patch, we tied together white wooden stakes and trellises onto which the vines of morning glory will climb. We tied small white platforms onto which humming birds can rest between their sips from our blossoms. On the left side of the stakes, we planted lantanas, flower clusters with yellow on the interior and pink on the outside and leaves emerald green. On the right side of the stakes, we planted basil and mint and purple leaved herbs. We sprinkled seeds everywhere. Exhausted, we went inside to rest and nap.
I woke up at 7:00 PM and we went to Stephens Lake Park, strolled around with my father, older brother T, and little sister Kim. We sat on white yellow speckled rocks with our feet in the water. Kim asked—Are there fishes in here? I said—Yes, and octopuses and sharks, and look there, a giant blue whale. Kim—Really? T and Kim climbed a small tiered cliff. Father and I walked and looked at the ducks as they crossed the calm lake. There were four adult ducks and fifteen little ducks. We all walked closer to the ducks. Father said—Look at how long and graceful their necks are. These are swans. That’s the leader. Look how big he is. The children and really big too. Duck children are smaller. These are swans. Or maybe geese. I looked closely. Their feathers were black, their necks were gray, and they have the majesty of swans. I said—Yea, I think you’re right. We waited and waited for the lights to come on and light up the lake, but we finally left. I said—Next time, we’ll see the lights.
At home, we all showered and got ready for a movie--The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I went out to water my garden and admire it. As I watered the central part, I saw someone grayish and dark move awkwardly sideways. A frog? No, on closer inspection, it is a bird, and its feathers are disorderly and fluffed. I had accidentally watered it and it weakly cleaned itself. I watered around the bird and dashed inside, telling everyone about the bird in my garden. My father nodded and smiled solemnly. I go outside and sit with the bird for a while. It does not mind my presence. It sits with eyes closed.
Finally, we settled down, sprawled on various parts of our long couch, and turned on the movie. I watched a baby born old, abandoned by his father onto the steps of an old persons’ home. I watched him grow up in a wheel chair, beset by arthritis. I watched him grow younger old, his legs straightening, walking across the stage, his back straightening, his wrinkles disappearing, his eyes clearing, his saggy, skinny chest and limbs growing strong, muscular. I watched him befriend a young girl. I watched them fall in love, she growing older, maturing, dancing, graceful, he growing younger, more clear eyed, face more defined and strong. I watched them separate, the time not being right for them to love each other fully. I watched them close their eyes each night, saying, in their separate beds—Goodnight Benjamin. Goodnight Daisy. I watched them meet again, finally, in the right time, and I watched them buy their house, dance on their mattress, have a daughter. I watched him leave, because he is growing younger, and one day, his lover will have to raise him, and he does not want that. I watched him leave, I watched her grow older. I watched her meeting him again, she older, sagging, he young, handsome, a beautiful teenager, with a face unsure and bewildered, a young face with decades of life to look forward to, but I watched his eyes, which tell the truth, the truth that his young body hides. I watched her grow older still and meet again with a young boy, a young boy that becomes a little boy, who becomes a baby, who becomes an infant. I watched as she—wrinkled, feeble—holds an infant in her arms. The infant has deep black eyes that look up into her face one final time before he closes his eyes. I watched her cover the infant’s face. Goodnight Benjamin. Goodnight Daisy.
In the morning, my sister woke me up and told me that the bird had died. I walk outside, and my father is burying the bird in our newly planted garden. My father said—I knew there was something wrong. It is not right for a bird to come down here to us unless it is hurt. Still, I am glad that the bird found our garden a good enough place to die in.
I woke up at 7:00 PM and we went to Stephens Lake Park, strolled around with my father, older brother T, and little sister Kim. We sat on white yellow speckled rocks with our feet in the water. Kim asked—Are there fishes in here? I said—Yes, and octopuses and sharks, and look there, a giant blue whale. Kim—Really? T and Kim climbed a small tiered cliff. Father and I walked and looked at the ducks as they crossed the calm lake. There were four adult ducks and fifteen little ducks. We all walked closer to the ducks. Father said—Look at how long and graceful their necks are. These are swans. That’s the leader. Look how big he is. The children and really big too. Duck children are smaller. These are swans. Or maybe geese. I looked closely. Their feathers were black, their necks were gray, and they have the majesty of swans. I said—Yea, I think you’re right. We waited and waited for the lights to come on and light up the lake, but we finally left. I said—Next time, we’ll see the lights.
At home, we all showered and got ready for a movie--The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I went out to water my garden and admire it. As I watered the central part, I saw someone grayish and dark move awkwardly sideways. A frog? No, on closer inspection, it is a bird, and its feathers are disorderly and fluffed. I had accidentally watered it and it weakly cleaned itself. I watered around the bird and dashed inside, telling everyone about the bird in my garden. My father nodded and smiled solemnly. I go outside and sit with the bird for a while. It does not mind my presence. It sits with eyes closed.
Finally, we settled down, sprawled on various parts of our long couch, and turned on the movie. I watched a baby born old, abandoned by his father onto the steps of an old persons’ home. I watched him grow up in a wheel chair, beset by arthritis. I watched him grow younger old, his legs straightening, walking across the stage, his back straightening, his wrinkles disappearing, his eyes clearing, his saggy, skinny chest and limbs growing strong, muscular. I watched him befriend a young girl. I watched them fall in love, she growing older, maturing, dancing, graceful, he growing younger, more clear eyed, face more defined and strong. I watched them separate, the time not being right for them to love each other fully. I watched them close their eyes each night, saying, in their separate beds—Goodnight Benjamin. Goodnight Daisy. I watched them meet again, finally, in the right time, and I watched them buy their house, dance on their mattress, have a daughter. I watched him leave, because he is growing younger, and one day, his lover will have to raise him, and he does not want that. I watched him leave, I watched her grow older. I watched her meeting him again, she older, sagging, he young, handsome, a beautiful teenager, with a face unsure and bewildered, a young face with decades of life to look forward to, but I watched his eyes, which tell the truth, the truth that his young body hides. I watched her grow older still and meet again with a young boy, a young boy that becomes a little boy, who becomes a baby, who becomes an infant. I watched as she—wrinkled, feeble—holds an infant in her arms. The infant has deep black eyes that look up into her face one final time before he closes his eyes. I watched her cover the infant’s face. Goodnight Benjamin. Goodnight Daisy.
In the morning, my sister woke me up and told me that the bird had died. I walk outside, and my father is burying the bird in our newly planted garden. My father said—I knew there was something wrong. It is not right for a bird to come down here to us unless it is hurt. Still, I am glad that the bird found our garden a good enough place to die in.
Update on Squirrel Carcass
Today, I walked to the bus station and thought about the squirrel carcass. In the three weeks I’ve been out of town, everything has changed. The mound of dirt has become a field of grass, blossom-shaped weeds, and tiny yellow flowers on short stems. The carcass is almost invisible, covered as it is under bowing grass stems. Its arms and legs seemed bound by strawberry vines. Its fur is still visible. Where its tail used to be is now a large green blossom-shaped weed.
I wonder how many other people look for that squirrel each time they pass by its resting place. What do they think? Are they curious? Are they afraid? Maybe they think about nature and how life is a complete circle, and that no matter how cruel and painful and bitter the death was, all bodies rot and return to the earth the same way. What I think is—When it is my time to die, it would be nice and peaceful to walk deep into the woods where no one would ever find me, and lay down, go to sleep, and never wake up. It would be wonderful this way because I’ve seen what happens to the squirrel--how worms eat away its insides and how its fur collapses into emptiness once the worms leave. Animals may come and carry pieces of me away. Eventually, however, around what’s left of my body, the grass will grow. Blossom-shaped weeds will surround me. Crimson flowers on long, long stems will bow over me. Rains will wash and polish my bones. Vines will wind around my limbs and over me, crown my head, and tangle around my fingers, holding me tight.
I wonder how many other people look for that squirrel each time they pass by its resting place. What do they think? Are they curious? Are they afraid? Maybe they think about nature and how life is a complete circle, and that no matter how cruel and painful and bitter the death was, all bodies rot and return to the earth the same way. What I think is—When it is my time to die, it would be nice and peaceful to walk deep into the woods where no one would ever find me, and lay down, go to sleep, and never wake up. It would be wonderful this way because I’ve seen what happens to the squirrel--how worms eat away its insides and how its fur collapses into emptiness once the worms leave. Animals may come and carry pieces of me away. Eventually, however, around what’s left of my body, the grass will grow. Blossom-shaped weeds will surround me. Crimson flowers on long, long stems will bow over me. Rains will wash and polish my bones. Vines will wind around my limbs and over me, crown my head, and tangle around my fingers, holding me tight.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Sunny Day
It feels nice to have plenty of time to get caught up in my correspondence and to talk again to the people I stopped talking to a year ago. For the first time in a long time, I feel peaceful and in control of my life. A life out of love is swell, like I’m in my mind and heart again. Like I pulled back the pieces of my soul, glued it back together, and shoved it back in my chest. Pretty soon, I’ll be able to see people again and not feel panicky. I’ll see my friends again, and tell them—Yep, I’ve been out of commission for a whole year, been going through some rough times, but I’m ME again. Well, maybe I won’t be able to see my friends again soon—still have some weak moments—but maybe in a few months.
This is the person I like being. Not that love-sick, pathetic other creature. I hate being crippled by my emotions.
We three are sitting outside half in shade and half in sunlight. Me, little sister Kim, and bunny. Bunny is on loan to us for a few weeks—we are bunny-sitting. I will miss bunny when she is gone. She is tawny and feisty, but there are times when she lays quietly in my arms with her head tucked into the crook of my right elbow.
I’m tanning my legs. It’s embarrassing when my legs are so white, they glow. Flies and bright yellow bugs are landing on the white expanses and walking around. Kim is next to me drawing trees, honeycombs, and sunlight. In between some grass blades, the sizeable torso of a worm glistens. Maybe the worm is sunning too? The worm arches its torso, and I wonder what would happen if I slice it perfectly in half. A fly has landed on the heel of my right foot. The calluses on my heel make it strange to watch the fly walk along the side of my foot.
In the distance, bees are hovering, dashing down from flower to flower. The fly walks nearer my big toe. I flex my foot. The fly doesn’t mind. The ice cream truck is making its rounds—absolutely stupid music—a few trumpet blasts every few seconds. Most annoying. Tawny bunny is feasting on strawberry leaves. Kim and I stand up and play kick ball. Every time I glance over at bunny, she glances at us between the strawberry leaves.
A red-breasted bird hops about on the grass. Should I tell bird about fat worm? I think not. The shadows of larger birds pass overhead. The trees are dancing in the breeze. Sounds like the pitter patter of gentle rain. The sunlight sparkling on the leaves makes me think that it’s a party and the trees are waltzing with each other.
There’s so much life in a trailer park on a warm summer day.
This is the person I like being. Not that love-sick, pathetic other creature. I hate being crippled by my emotions.
We three are sitting outside half in shade and half in sunlight. Me, little sister Kim, and bunny. Bunny is on loan to us for a few weeks—we are bunny-sitting. I will miss bunny when she is gone. She is tawny and feisty, but there are times when she lays quietly in my arms with her head tucked into the crook of my right elbow.
I’m tanning my legs. It’s embarrassing when my legs are so white, they glow. Flies and bright yellow bugs are landing on the white expanses and walking around. Kim is next to me drawing trees, honeycombs, and sunlight. In between some grass blades, the sizeable torso of a worm glistens. Maybe the worm is sunning too? The worm arches its torso, and I wonder what would happen if I slice it perfectly in half. A fly has landed on the heel of my right foot. The calluses on my heel make it strange to watch the fly walk along the side of my foot.
In the distance, bees are hovering, dashing down from flower to flower. The fly walks nearer my big toe. I flex my foot. The fly doesn’t mind. The ice cream truck is making its rounds—absolutely stupid music—a few trumpet blasts every few seconds. Most annoying. Tawny bunny is feasting on strawberry leaves. Kim and I stand up and play kick ball. Every time I glance over at bunny, she glances at us between the strawberry leaves.
A red-breasted bird hops about on the grass. Should I tell bird about fat worm? I think not. The shadows of larger birds pass overhead. The trees are dancing in the breeze. Sounds like the pitter patter of gentle rain. The sunlight sparkling on the leaves makes me think that it’s a party and the trees are waltzing with each other.
There’s so much life in a trailer park on a warm summer day.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Raccoons
I didn’t go to sleep until 7:00 AM this morning. Before I went to sleep, I packed for the bus trip at 1:30 PM, emptied the fridge, and took out the trash—listening to PokerFace all the while. When I opened the front door, lunging upwards of fifty pounds of filth, I looked over and saw a raccoon, about the size of a small dog. It had seen me half a second before I had locked eyes with it.
There’s a six foot tall reddish brown wooden fence surrounding our row of townhouses—no way to climb or dig a hole quickly.
The raccoon, utterly shy and panicky, kept glancing my way as it clawed and pushed at the fence, as though by the sheer force of its jumpiness, it could scale the heights. Of course fascinated, I stood there gripping the trash bags, wondering how to offer it choice pieces of refuse. Raccoon finally gave up on the wall and—I don’t know how else to describe this—sneaked towards the side of the end-townhouse. It wasn’t scurrying. It was sneaking, as though by putting itself into sneak mode, it would render its body invisible to my human eyes.
I went on my way, walking towards the other end of the townhouses, towards the parking lot where the dumpster sits on one corner. Now, I despise lunging trash to the dumpster, so I was looking around, trying to entertain myself, thinking—ah, the magnolias are still in bloom, a bit brown around the petal edges, but still deeply pink . . . hmm, my violet irises are all dead, stupid darn lawn mower guy plowed into them . . . yellow irises are still looking lively, better water them before I leave . . . darn stupid college kids and their parties, looks like beer cans everywhere, gotta complain one of these days . . . here we go, almost ther—Holy moley!!—
Remember Raccoon? Seems like its target, before I interrupted its peaceful dawn prowling, was the same dumpster where I was headed. I, burdened by the heaviest trash bags on earth, was slow enough to intercept it as it made its way around the end-townhouse and through six backyards and towards me. I don’t know who was more shocked. Raccoon recovered sooner and scurried under a hole in the wooden fence. I blinked a few times, dumped my trash, went back inside, sat for awhile thinking about Raccoon, and finally collapsed into bed.
I like raccoons. I know they bite, and they’re dirty, and they’re trash-pickers, but so am I when I’m in my natural state. If I could talk to a raccoon, I know it would understand me. There’s something indescribably appealing about the way a raccoon looks at you. Maybe it’s the bandit eyes, but that doesn’t account for how it can express embarrassment and shyness with its whole body.
Two years ago, when I was still living in an apartment complex on the edge of campus, one day, I was crossing the street, and there was a large raccoon crossing the street—crossing a busy, busy street, with cars honking and dozens of college kids everywhere. It was a beautiful raccoon, very large—size of a large dog, and finest fluffy tail I have ever seen. The poor dear was obviously scared out of its wits. It looked like it was surprised to discover itself in such circumstances and that all of us were being inexpressibly rude by gawking at it. It was ambling sideways, or maybe moving diagonally—imagine a large creature trying to glance on all sides—trying to keep its eyes on everyone as it tries to also move in one direction—hopefully a direction away from everyone. Also, if you please, imagine a ballet dancer—a large, furry, overweight ballet dancer—slowly trying to pirouette, but not succeeding, and so trying again and again. Or maybe imagine a furry train falling off its tracks and skidding sideways . . . It was the most painful, awkward gait I have ever seen. I don’t remember what happened to Raccoon-Crossing-the-Street. I was too busy cataloging its expression.
Raccoons look the way I imagine I do when I’m caught leaning on my tiptoes with my two arms dug deeply in a dumpster.
There’s a six foot tall reddish brown wooden fence surrounding our row of townhouses—no way to climb or dig a hole quickly.
The raccoon, utterly shy and panicky, kept glancing my way as it clawed and pushed at the fence, as though by the sheer force of its jumpiness, it could scale the heights. Of course fascinated, I stood there gripping the trash bags, wondering how to offer it choice pieces of refuse. Raccoon finally gave up on the wall and—I don’t know how else to describe this—sneaked towards the side of the end-townhouse. It wasn’t scurrying. It was sneaking, as though by putting itself into sneak mode, it would render its body invisible to my human eyes.
I went on my way, walking towards the other end of the townhouses, towards the parking lot where the dumpster sits on one corner. Now, I despise lunging trash to the dumpster, so I was looking around, trying to entertain myself, thinking—ah, the magnolias are still in bloom, a bit brown around the petal edges, but still deeply pink . . . hmm, my violet irises are all dead, stupid darn lawn mower guy plowed into them . . . yellow irises are still looking lively, better water them before I leave . . . darn stupid college kids and their parties, looks like beer cans everywhere, gotta complain one of these days . . . here we go, almost ther—Holy moley!!—
Remember Raccoon? Seems like its target, before I interrupted its peaceful dawn prowling, was the same dumpster where I was headed. I, burdened by the heaviest trash bags on earth, was slow enough to intercept it as it made its way around the end-townhouse and through six backyards and towards me. I don’t know who was more shocked. Raccoon recovered sooner and scurried under a hole in the wooden fence. I blinked a few times, dumped my trash, went back inside, sat for awhile thinking about Raccoon, and finally collapsed into bed.
I like raccoons. I know they bite, and they’re dirty, and they’re trash-pickers, but so am I when I’m in my natural state. If I could talk to a raccoon, I know it would understand me. There’s something indescribably appealing about the way a raccoon looks at you. Maybe it’s the bandit eyes, but that doesn’t account for how it can express embarrassment and shyness with its whole body.
Two years ago, when I was still living in an apartment complex on the edge of campus, one day, I was crossing the street, and there was a large raccoon crossing the street—crossing a busy, busy street, with cars honking and dozens of college kids everywhere. It was a beautiful raccoon, very large—size of a large dog, and finest fluffy tail I have ever seen. The poor dear was obviously scared out of its wits. It looked like it was surprised to discover itself in such circumstances and that all of us were being inexpressibly rude by gawking at it. It was ambling sideways, or maybe moving diagonally—imagine a large creature trying to glance on all sides—trying to keep its eyes on everyone as it tries to also move in one direction—hopefully a direction away from everyone. Also, if you please, imagine a ballet dancer—a large, furry, overweight ballet dancer—slowly trying to pirouette, but not succeeding, and so trying again and again. Or maybe imagine a furry train falling off its tracks and skidding sideways . . . It was the most painful, awkward gait I have ever seen. I don’t remember what happened to Raccoon-Crossing-the-Street. I was too busy cataloging its expression.
Raccoons look the way I imagine I do when I’m caught leaning on my tiptoes with my two arms dug deeply in a dumpster.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Ants
Before my sister set poison, our townhouse was crawling with ants. Set out a cup with residual soda in it and minutes later, there are ants crawling all over it. Set out a cup of water, and minutes later, all the ants in the vicinity have decided to go swimming. And just because the ants are floating still on top of the water does not mean that they’re dead.
I kinda miss them.
Ants would crawl around on my desk. During my morose, listless moods, I would sprinkle bread crumbs across my desk and watch the ants lug the crumbs around in their orderly little lines. Sometimes, there would be an ant crawling on the page I was reading, and when I needed to turn the page, I would have an unholy need to slam the book on the ant, but I never gave into my killer instinct, and more often than not, I would not turn the page and just reread, which is not a bad option if the book is good and I want to linger on the anticipation.
Sometimes, (well, quite a few times really) I would carry a few ants around in my bag. I would take my books out during class or at work and see the ant crawl out and crawl across the table. Now, when ants are a common sight to you, and you are so used to being friendly to them for so long, you can forget that squishing ants is an automatic human habit. At work one day, after I reached into my bag to get a pen, and saw an ant crawling along the length of it, I placed it gently on the table—on the table where two other tutors (I tutor) were sitting too. I set it gently down and thought—how about you go play while I finish writing this sentence. The ant crawled across my paper and I gently brushed it toward the center of the table, thinking—no, no, honey, go play. A few seconds later, I see the tutor across from me slam down her hand really hard and sweep it quickly off the table. I said (or yelled quietly, since this was the library)—Noo!! You killer! You killed my ant! I explained, but I guess my explanation sounded a little crazy, because she felt no remorse.
Sometime, when I get annoyed, I flick the ant away, and imagine the ant flying away on wings of glory. My sister, in her ant-killing craze, would stand next to my desk and squish my ants. No! I usually cry in alarm, My desk is an island of refuge! Get your killer hands away!!
Ants aren’t bad. They bite, but—this sounds gross, but it works—I lick the bite and it disappears in a few hours. It really works. For mosquito bites too. Hey, cats and dogs and other animals with tongues lick themselves better. Why can’t Homo sapiens? I’m not stupid enough to lick myself if I have a gun shot wound, but for bites, there’s no harm in licking myself better.
I need to go steal some ants from an ant hill, because our townhouse is sadly ant-free right now.
I kinda miss them.
Ants would crawl around on my desk. During my morose, listless moods, I would sprinkle bread crumbs across my desk and watch the ants lug the crumbs around in their orderly little lines. Sometimes, there would be an ant crawling on the page I was reading, and when I needed to turn the page, I would have an unholy need to slam the book on the ant, but I never gave into my killer instinct, and more often than not, I would not turn the page and just reread, which is not a bad option if the book is good and I want to linger on the anticipation.
Sometimes, (well, quite a few times really) I would carry a few ants around in my bag. I would take my books out during class or at work and see the ant crawl out and crawl across the table. Now, when ants are a common sight to you, and you are so used to being friendly to them for so long, you can forget that squishing ants is an automatic human habit. At work one day, after I reached into my bag to get a pen, and saw an ant crawling along the length of it, I placed it gently on the table—on the table where two other tutors (I tutor) were sitting too. I set it gently down and thought—how about you go play while I finish writing this sentence. The ant crawled across my paper and I gently brushed it toward the center of the table, thinking—no, no, honey, go play. A few seconds later, I see the tutor across from me slam down her hand really hard and sweep it quickly off the table. I said (or yelled quietly, since this was the library)—Noo!! You killer! You killed my ant! I explained, but I guess my explanation sounded a little crazy, because she felt no remorse.
Sometime, when I get annoyed, I flick the ant away, and imagine the ant flying away on wings of glory. My sister, in her ant-killing craze, would stand next to my desk and squish my ants. No! I usually cry in alarm, My desk is an island of refuge! Get your killer hands away!!
Ants aren’t bad. They bite, but—this sounds gross, but it works—I lick the bite and it disappears in a few hours. It really works. For mosquito bites too. Hey, cats and dogs and other animals with tongues lick themselves better. Why can’t Homo sapiens? I’m not stupid enough to lick myself if I have a gun shot wound, but for bites, there’s no harm in licking myself better.
I need to go steal some ants from an ant hill, because our townhouse is sadly ant-free right now.
Depression
I should be studying for my poetry final on Friday, but I don’t want to. It’s storming outside. My desk is in our dining area, pushed back against a window, which I open sometimes when it’s dark and I’m writing. The pitter-patter of rain is soothing. The rumbles of thunder are . . . ominous. A nice kind of ominous, because I know I am safe. Depression has been on my mind lately, because for the first time in three months, I feel like I’m not depressed.
My symptoms of depression: can’t get up before noon, shun the world, hide away from friends, no energy, no incentive to do anything, always feel like I’m on the edge of tears. I give up. I do not pursue Death, but if she did come for me and kissed me on the lips, I would not mind. I would lay down my pen, fold my hands demurely, and say, Ah, so you are indeed my one and only true love. I should have guessed it. All right then, let us dance away to thy kingdom of sweet oblivion. Or some such nonsense. I should say that when I am depressed, I don’t write. When my depression is on remission, one of the first things that happen is that I write. Hence, I’ve been writing a lot lately. Also, the tiny humorous tone of some of my sentences lets me know I still have a sense of humor. My writing is what lets me know that I am returning from my half-death. Years ago, I thought, ignorantly, that admitting to myself my love for women would mean an end to my cyclic bouts of depression, but no, I’ve realized that my depression is a constant companion, waiting for me. See that shadow behind the door? Yes, that’s her. She is a sorceress and her spells are lethal. Will I ever find the antidote to her poison? I don’t know. I don’t take pills, I don’t go to counseling, I don’t do anything to try to break the vicious cycle. Coward? Yes. Also, I have a sense that I don’t want to bother anyone with my problems. Comes from my Asian culture.
Hmm, how to describe my depression? How about a story? There is a dead squirrel on a mound of dirt along the path I walk to the bus stop. The first time I saw it, perhaps a month ago, it was freshly dead, sprawled on its back with chubby belly to the sky. Its arms and legs and fluffy tail sprawled wide, spread eagled, like, if it were human, it had drunk itself to the final stupor, laid down on this side of the road, and given itself up. Last, but not least, just before death, it had shat on itself. There was a wide black spot on its nether regions. You might say at this point in the story—Oh, how tragic! You buried it, right? Well, no. Maybe a heroine in my imagination might weep over it and give it a touching funeral, but I am nothing sentimental. Over these few weeks, I have watched the squirrel decay. First, the black area on its nether regions widened until there was a black hole. Look closer at that black hole and you would see things crawling around, feasting. In the first week, the golden brown fur was lustrous. It was beautiful in life, I’ll bet. April showers have pummeled it for weeks, and the fur has slowly lost its sheen. Its chubby body then became thinner and thinner, until its carcass was flat, its shape lost. Then, one day recently, its face was gone. Not eaten off or decapitated. No, just gone, like it had never had a face in the first place.
Well, this is what my depression feels like. Like I’m road kill, just unconsciously laying there while small creatures chew on my insides until there’s nothing left. There are days when I’ve felt like I’ve lost my face, my identity, my deepest Self. And just like death for some creatures, depression comes on suddenly, for no reason, no explanations, and there’s no way to prepare myself. Every time I pass by that squirrel, I am reminded of how precarious a life spent with depression is.
Well, I think that’s enough morbidity for one night. My depression is over. For now. The next step is a fun, delightful step: I need to remember how to be happy.
My symptoms of depression: can’t get up before noon, shun the world, hide away from friends, no energy, no incentive to do anything, always feel like I’m on the edge of tears. I give up. I do not pursue Death, but if she did come for me and kissed me on the lips, I would not mind. I would lay down my pen, fold my hands demurely, and say, Ah, so you are indeed my one and only true love. I should have guessed it. All right then, let us dance away to thy kingdom of sweet oblivion. Or some such nonsense. I should say that when I am depressed, I don’t write. When my depression is on remission, one of the first things that happen is that I write. Hence, I’ve been writing a lot lately. Also, the tiny humorous tone of some of my sentences lets me know I still have a sense of humor. My writing is what lets me know that I am returning from my half-death. Years ago, I thought, ignorantly, that admitting to myself my love for women would mean an end to my cyclic bouts of depression, but no, I’ve realized that my depression is a constant companion, waiting for me. See that shadow behind the door? Yes, that’s her. She is a sorceress and her spells are lethal. Will I ever find the antidote to her poison? I don’t know. I don’t take pills, I don’t go to counseling, I don’t do anything to try to break the vicious cycle. Coward? Yes. Also, I have a sense that I don’t want to bother anyone with my problems. Comes from my Asian culture.
Hmm, how to describe my depression? How about a story? There is a dead squirrel on a mound of dirt along the path I walk to the bus stop. The first time I saw it, perhaps a month ago, it was freshly dead, sprawled on its back with chubby belly to the sky. Its arms and legs and fluffy tail sprawled wide, spread eagled, like, if it were human, it had drunk itself to the final stupor, laid down on this side of the road, and given itself up. Last, but not least, just before death, it had shat on itself. There was a wide black spot on its nether regions. You might say at this point in the story—Oh, how tragic! You buried it, right? Well, no. Maybe a heroine in my imagination might weep over it and give it a touching funeral, but I am nothing sentimental. Over these few weeks, I have watched the squirrel decay. First, the black area on its nether regions widened until there was a black hole. Look closer at that black hole and you would see things crawling around, feasting. In the first week, the golden brown fur was lustrous. It was beautiful in life, I’ll bet. April showers have pummeled it for weeks, and the fur has slowly lost its sheen. Its chubby body then became thinner and thinner, until its carcass was flat, its shape lost. Then, one day recently, its face was gone. Not eaten off or decapitated. No, just gone, like it had never had a face in the first place.
Well, this is what my depression feels like. Like I’m road kill, just unconsciously laying there while small creatures chew on my insides until there’s nothing left. There are days when I’ve felt like I’ve lost my face, my identity, my deepest Self. And just like death for some creatures, depression comes on suddenly, for no reason, no explanations, and there’s no way to prepare myself. Every time I pass by that squirrel, I am reminded of how precarious a life spent with depression is.
Well, I think that’s enough morbidity for one night. My depression is over. For now. The next step is a fun, delightful step: I need to remember how to be happy.
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