Animal Thoroughfares

Is Insomnia an Act of Defiance?

Lack of sleep transports me to strange landscapes these days. In the middle of the night wielding my macho Mag-Lite weapon, I open the door to the wild night and rummage under the car seat in search of my debit card, earlier tossed carelessly onto the seat beside me and which I later find in my bed. A poetic and delightful discovery, I think. The neighborhood is a glowing mystery at this hour, a hazy colorless world busy with the rustlings of small animals who crisscross neighborhood yards on their busy thoroughfares. I am groggy and I am trespassing. The Garish People are asleep who detest brush piles have neighborhood meetings detailing the rules by which we must live and hate the invasion of small animals. Insomnia can be a rebel act, I suppose. Living against the grain for as long as I can remember, insomnia is its most basic form. A deep inner refusal to comply, to die. Being the exact opposite of my parents.

What Will Be My Last Thought at the End of Civilization?

My mind in the night surprisingly turns to Al Gore. What will be my last dying thought when civilization finally ends maybe tomorrow? Am I dying now? I make myself motionless, quietly assessing the workings of my inner organs and am left with inconclusive findings. If this is death it is surprisingly calm.

With What Shall I Clothe Myself?

I have thrown my clothes in a pile on the floor I hate them they are all wrong. The pile is heaved onto the bed and later ends up smushed into the closet where I occasionally catch glimpses of colors and fabrics that irritate me. I am cantankerous. Yanking out a tangled shirt I contemptuously throw it in the dryer imagining clouds of steam billowing into the cool darkness of the backyard. I hate to iron. I have always hated ironing. Well, maybe not always. Once upon a time a little girl pushed a heavy iron over her father's shirt for play. Georgia and Willa must have been in school then and my mother was happily cleaning and cooking and ironing and I stayed close to her through the day. She was busy and now she has mentally left me, not aware in her waking time that she still has a daughter named MJ. I exist only in the dreamscape of her past. I am gone. Is Georgia a good mother? How about Willa and good god, what about MJ? Have we stunted our children or have we provided too much freedom too much structure not enough opportunity too much responsibility a love deficit! were we smothering controlling demanding never satisfied did we teach them to engage with the world love learning can they squeeze maximum juice out of a lime in other words can they make a good Marguerita, cook and sew swing an axe build a house fix the plumbing will they thrive will they be happy be adored make money survive our disappearance, I shift position in darkness.

Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep

I am exhausted I think as I peruse the pile of books on my headboard choosing one that can carry me the furthest distance from where I am. I reach for mercy hope tolerance peace generosity courage compassion passion without which I am dead.

So Take What You May