a distant memory
The sun has been out and it is getting warmer, so memories of summer fill my head. now as you'll recall most of my memories are not in the form of narrative or language, most are just smells. but the event, that i'm about to tell you about, was so amazing that i not only remember the smells and the images, i remember this story. does this make me a bit human? i don't have the mental capacity to answer that. i'm sure kierkagaard the cat would have something to say about that. but me....too much for my half golden retriever brain.
so here is my story. in the summer here in vail we have a weekly farmer's market. i love the farmer's market. so many smells. all the fresh produce. all the prepared food. all the people dropping snow cones on the ground. it really is a heavenly event. i can't wait for the summer...except for the grass allergies....but that is another post.
so this one day the whole family is walking around the market. beautiful sunny day. probably 78 degrees farenheit. not a cloud in the sky. a stereotypical vail blue sky day. by the way we have 300 of those each year....envious? so anyway.....we are walking. the littlest one just finished his snow cone. of course most of the cherry flavoring is on his shirt and not in his stomach. but i don't mind because the smell is overwhelming. and if there is one thing i really like it is an overwhelming smell. so we continue walking.
before i have a chance to figure out what is going on, the littlest one is laying on the ground in the middle of the street. he is screaming like someone is attacking him. i'm trying to make myself scarce. i'm actually a little embarrased by this display of attention getting behavoir. i hate this kind of stuff. so the little one is kicking and screaming. i can make out that he is saying that he wants to go on the pony ride. the big ones have dread on their faces. i start pulling the leash, trying to leave the scene of the transgression. the biggest one pulls back on the leash and yells, "don't you start too kafka!" what the fuck? why am i getting yelled at for something i had nothing to do with? just figures. the innocent always suffer, right jesus?
so now here we are. i'm pulling the leash. the little one is screaming bloody murder. the female one is nowhere to be found. and the big male is yelling at me to stop pulling. then right before my eyes something incredible happens. something that you could only attribute to the drug addled mind of a mediocre writer. the big one begins to punch himself in the head. he yells, "stop pulling kafka." then bam, punch to his own face. he yells, "sasha, stop the drama." then bang, punch to his own eye. i'm mortally mortified. so of course i start pulling more, just to get out of this place. "i said stop pulling, can't you hear?" then ouch...upper cut to his own nose.
by this time a crowd is starting to gather. the little one is still carrying on. the big one is punching himself repeatedly in the face. in fact his nose starts to bleed at this point. i'm just trying to hide my head and get out of there. the little one notices the bloody nose on his father. this scares him but doesn't stop him. he starts rolling around and screaming louder. the big one keeps punching himself even harder. sort of reminds me of the scene from fight club.
this continues for what seems like an eternity to me. my head is hurting. the pressure of the situation is making my ears ring. i have tunnel vision and tunnel smell. all i smell is the cherry flavoring covering the shirt of the little one mixed with the smell of fresh blood coming from the big one's nose. the heat now feels oppressive. the hot asphalt is burning my pads. a beautiful day has turned into a scene from a gothic novel. i expect boo radley to come around the corner arm in arm with madame bovary. this must be fiction. this must be a dream. oh please tell me i'm back in my cage just dreaming. but alas this is the real thing. humans call it non-fiction.
everything is all bad at this point. we are stuck in a situation that no one knows how to get out of. even i, the author/dog can't figure out how to solve this intractable scenario. we are all stuck here. at least we are together, and that counts for something, doesn't it? together we have gotten ourselves stuck. some of us have enjoyed and even profited from the path that led us to this place. others have been warning that this is the wrong path and it will only lead us to exactly where we are right now, in a ring of hell. neither opinion helps us right now.
what we need is an ur author. someone to write us out of this place. someone who can create a happy ending or at least a plausible scenario that will be believable. someone who will take an incredible real life situation and make an equally dramatic ending. but life doesn't work that way. things just sort of fizzle out. or another equally improbable event takes our attention away and distracts us long enough for the original actors to quickly get off the stage and wipe up the fake blood. and somewhere months later when the memories come back, we only remember the parts that affected us. we are open to the shaman story teller to place memories into our heads. to create a reality that never existed, but one we will remember as if it did. tell me a story with enough details and it will become a cherished memory. claim that the story is the "truth" and you'll have me eating out of your hand, a position that this dog is very familiar with. feed me.
so here is my story. in the summer here in vail we have a weekly farmer's market. i love the farmer's market. so many smells. all the fresh produce. all the prepared food. all the people dropping snow cones on the ground. it really is a heavenly event. i can't wait for the summer...except for the grass allergies....but that is another post.
so this one day the whole family is walking around the market. beautiful sunny day. probably 78 degrees farenheit. not a cloud in the sky. a stereotypical vail blue sky day. by the way we have 300 of those each year....envious? so anyway.....we are walking. the littlest one just finished his snow cone. of course most of the cherry flavoring is on his shirt and not in his stomach. but i don't mind because the smell is overwhelming. and if there is one thing i really like it is an overwhelming smell. so we continue walking.
before i have a chance to figure out what is going on, the littlest one is laying on the ground in the middle of the street. he is screaming like someone is attacking him. i'm trying to make myself scarce. i'm actually a little embarrased by this display of attention getting behavoir. i hate this kind of stuff. so the little one is kicking and screaming. i can make out that he is saying that he wants to go on the pony ride. the big ones have dread on their faces. i start pulling the leash, trying to leave the scene of the transgression. the biggest one pulls back on the leash and yells, "don't you start too kafka!" what the fuck? why am i getting yelled at for something i had nothing to do with? just figures. the innocent always suffer, right jesus?
so now here we are. i'm pulling the leash. the little one is screaming bloody murder. the female one is nowhere to be found. and the big male is yelling at me to stop pulling. then right before my eyes something incredible happens. something that you could only attribute to the drug addled mind of a mediocre writer. the big one begins to punch himself in the head. he yells, "stop pulling kafka." then bam, punch to his own face. he yells, "sasha, stop the drama." then bang, punch to his own eye. i'm mortally mortified. so of course i start pulling more, just to get out of this place. "i said stop pulling, can't you hear?" then ouch...upper cut to his own nose.
by this time a crowd is starting to gather. the little one is still carrying on. the big one is punching himself repeatedly in the face. in fact his nose starts to bleed at this point. i'm just trying to hide my head and get out of there. the little one notices the bloody nose on his father. this scares him but doesn't stop him. he starts rolling around and screaming louder. the big one keeps punching himself even harder. sort of reminds me of the scene from fight club.
this continues for what seems like an eternity to me. my head is hurting. the pressure of the situation is making my ears ring. i have tunnel vision and tunnel smell. all i smell is the cherry flavoring covering the shirt of the little one mixed with the smell of fresh blood coming from the big one's nose. the heat now feels oppressive. the hot asphalt is burning my pads. a beautiful day has turned into a scene from a gothic novel. i expect boo radley to come around the corner arm in arm with madame bovary. this must be fiction. this must be a dream. oh please tell me i'm back in my cage just dreaming. but alas this is the real thing. humans call it non-fiction.
everything is all bad at this point. we are stuck in a situation that no one knows how to get out of. even i, the author/dog can't figure out how to solve this intractable scenario. we are all stuck here. at least we are together, and that counts for something, doesn't it? together we have gotten ourselves stuck. some of us have enjoyed and even profited from the path that led us to this place. others have been warning that this is the wrong path and it will only lead us to exactly where we are right now, in a ring of hell. neither opinion helps us right now.
what we need is an ur author. someone to write us out of this place. someone who can create a happy ending or at least a plausible scenario that will be believable. someone who will take an incredible real life situation and make an equally dramatic ending. but life doesn't work that way. things just sort of fizzle out. or another equally improbable event takes our attention away and distracts us long enough for the original actors to quickly get off the stage and wipe up the fake blood. and somewhere months later when the memories come back, we only remember the parts that affected us. we are open to the shaman story teller to place memories into our heads. to create a reality that never existed, but one we will remember as if it did. tell me a story with enough details and it will become a cherished memory. claim that the story is the "truth" and you'll have me eating out of your hand, a position that this dog is very familiar with. feed me.
posted by kafka at 11:17 AM
1 comments
