Water Lilies Are Grossly Misunderstood

Fall in New England is inspiring.  Stray cats run across driveways as cars creep along newly cold pavement.  Leaves begin to die and change color--one last hurrah in a world where they're undervalued.  Wood and pellet stoves ignite and spew odorous fumes filled with Cedar and Pine into the neighborhood.  The air moves about with a new chill and squirrels scurry with a sense of impending sleep.  Do not try to catch a squirrel during his or her quest for nuts.  I recently attempted to run about the yard and gather as many acorns as I could.  My intention was to leave the nuts in a pile, a kind of gesture of aide and good will; however, my actions were met with screams from my furry friends, and I quickly disbanded the hunt.  

I found a pond in New England and launched my kayak into its undisturbed water.  I paddled against the wind, a task reserved for the determined.  I reached one end of the pond and ventured upon fields of lily pads.  I looked down into the water and little circles of dead peat swirled about the pads.  The tiny circles of decayed leaves looked like stars, an infinite amount, against the blackness of the cold water.  All of the lily pads seemed to be connected by miles of tubes, arms, and weeds.  The entire pond must have been one gigantic lily pad ecosystem, a few million leaves rose to the top to absorb sun, bugs, and air.  A flowering lily pad is grossly misunderstood.  Among the silence there rose an orchestra of crickets, birds, and little splashes of water.  A truck downshifted on a near-by highway, and was I annoyed that humans could interrupt such beauty.  The flowers that rested on top of the lily pad were white, dotted with tiny black insects, and existed among the frenzy of a world hidden behind a narrow barrier of trees.  I rested my paddle on the kayak and the pads acted as an natural brake.  My boat was swallowed among the peace of these floating green plants.  They asked me to stay, prohibited my boat from leaving, and shared the power of silently existing.  A gust of wind came along and gently pushed my kayak down stream.  The boat slowly glided on top of the field of pads.  I was a concert goer, the performers were singing their praises, and the lily pads carried me above their heads-a kind-of gentle crowd surfing.  

Yellow Jackets buzzed me in teams of four or five.  Do they nest in the lilies?  I think they do.  I'm sure somebody will contend the statement that Yellow Jackets nest among with water plants, but in the middle of the field of lilies I realized we know very little about our plant and animal friends.  "Experts" post pictures at the pond's entrance: "You might find these little creatures on your travels."  The pond's ecosystem was reduced to four creatures, all of whom I did not encounter, but I'm sure I didn't see them as a result of their careful watch of me.  I noticed a dozen wooden bird houses that dotted the pond's perimeter.  The houses were beyond fields of lilies, and I wondered how and when a human managed to drudge through the muck to the perfect spot.  My venture into the lily ecosystem reminds me of a friend's words.  A young and knavish sprite from the wood addresses mortals:

If we shadows have offended, 

Think but this, and all is mended, 

That you have slumber'd here

While these visions did appear.

And this weak and idle theme, 

No more yielding but a dream,

Gentles, do not reprehend:

If you pardon, we will mend.

And, as I am an honest Puck,

If we have unearned luck

Now to'scape the serpent's tongue, 

We will make amends ere long;

Else the Puck a liar call.

So, goodnight unto you all.

Give me your hands, if we be friends,

And Robin shall restore amends.

Where The Heart Is

There is a road close by that time forgot.  A family passes through the archaic wooden home.  Children take the place of their parents and then grandchildren push them away even further.  The neglected barn begins to invite ivy, dandelions, and critters.  A skunk finds residence and the old horse poop becomes a permanent fixture.  The horse has been dead for quite some time, but his poop lasts, leaves a legacy, marks what the body cannot: infinity.  Plants will grow on the mound of poop, and the horse will once again prove that only he can transcend time.  On this road that time has forgotten, a bridge is touted for its historical significance.  There isn't enough money to fix it, though, and it begins the disintegration like many other things that time has forgotten.  An old brownstone archway marks the entrance to this road.  Contemporary politicians mark the archway with a yellow iron gate--their attempt at pointing out something old that should not be touched.  High school students get lost on the road, find the river below it, and fasten the rope swing to a Red Wood along its bank.  The trees hide the secrets, the river washes away impurity, and the students pass down the secret to the next group.  Time has forgotten the family that lives in the old wooden house at the road's end.  On the other side of the river, there is the aunt.  She has a larger home.  The river, fast moving with its ability to cut and drown, separates the disappointed from the home that time has forgotten.  Builders survey the road that time has forgotten, and they leave just a quickly as the thought of gold appeared.  

At midnight I paddled my kayak out to the middle of a pond in Maine, and I looked up at the sky. Small houses dotted the shore and white lights glowed from low-watt bulbs; I was alone.  The stars above Maine are quite indescribable.  The cool air brushed my kayak with a subtle burst of wind, and tiny waves made me bob in the water like a frog riding on a leaf.  I stowed the paddles on the bow of the boat, and I rested my head on the back of my seat. 

The beauty of the unknown glowed above me, and the trivial worries I had about life evaporated.    

Phat Dadde's Dressing Room

I looked beyond the man standing by the ball room’s main entrance and noticed a large, uninviting boxing ring.  “Here kid, put this on.  Stick with me and you’ll be alright,” Russ said.  I looked down at the pin in my hands and noticed two words in large letters: “Guest Official.”  I thought of everything that was wrong about this situation: I don’t think I’m supposed to follow you back there.  Don’t you think I’ll look a little out of place?  

“They usually try to give me the biggest and meanest one.  Just stick with me and you’ll be alright.”  Russ continued to say that horrible phrase as if it was supposed to allay my fears and bring about a sense of tranquility.  In reality, his insistence of having me by his side only made me more tense.  What if we should become separated?  What if the people looked right through my “Guest Official” badge and knew exactly what I was?-- A terrified twenty-five year old who didn’t even know what boxing looked like.   

Russ was a big-whig in the world of boxing inspectors.   He was the man who taught other inspectors how to do their jobs and what to look for, and as we walked into the room with the ring, it was clear Russ was in charge of it all.  He knew Phil, the security guard, and asked how his kids were.  Russ introduced me as a “young eye,” and I nodded cordially as to not give away our secret.  

“That’s right,” he patted me on the back, “let me do all the talking.”  We walked through the room to a hidden door and plowed through it.  He barged into a large holding room where the “light weights” were suiting up.  

“We’re not going to be in here, but I wanted you to see it all,” Russ said.  He told me about the room as if it were an amusement park ride.  “This is where they new guys change, put their gloves on, and warm up.”  I looked around at various changing cubicles and saw children donning silk boxing shorts, tapped noses, and black eyes.    

“Each fighter has a cubicle.  Once the fight is over, the ones that are still standing come back here, collect a check, and go home.”  Russ made the event sound orderly.  I was too consumed with fear to listen to him.  If we were not going to be inspecting the “light weights,” then who could be left?  Big, scary images of sweaty, overgrown men popped into my head.  These people were okay to observe from the security of a television set, but I couldn’t turn this off.  I had never sat down to a fight, or even wanted to for that matter.  Russ took a piece of crumpled paper out of his pocket and starred at it.  He slapped it with his left hand and turned to me, “Looks like we got the headliner,” he said.  

“The what?” I replied.

“Yeah, the biggest one of the night.  He’s the last fight.  This is the guy ESPN is here for.

I think Russ could see the instant panic his words incited because he patted me on the back and repeated his mantra: “Stick with me, don’t say anything.”  Russ didn’t have to worry about me saying anything because I was choking on my own fear.  

“Phat Dadde is the guy’s name.  Listen, it may get a bit ugly in there, but just stay out of the way and you’ll be fine.”  Russ walked down the long corridor to a closed door at the end of the hall.  I followed closely.  He knocked on the door and yelled: “Inspector.”  The door opened and a room full of large, muscular men fell silent as Russ said, “what’s going on guys?”  He went in and the door closed behind him before I had the chance to step forward.  

“No problem here,” I thought.  I walked down the hallway searching for the exit.  I felt a steady stream of sweat run down my forehead as the “light weights” gawked at me.  What would I do if they decided to use me as a warm-up punching bag?  

I found the main arena and sat in the last row of seats.  Twenty-five minutes later Russ languidly walked into the arena and found me pretending not to notice him .  “Phat Dadde is about to tape up,” he said.  “We gotta watch him.”  My heart raced.  “This time, stick right with me.”

Russ knocked on the door once again, and we both walked into Dadde’s dressing room.  Phat Dadde’s arm muscles were the size of my body.  Russ barged into the room and found a comfortable seat on the couch next to Dadde’s manager.  I found a comfortable corner in the room to stand in.  My eyes did not leave the floor for forty-five minutes.  The group of men started blasting rap music that instilled fear in my barely breathing 125-pound skeleton.

ESPN entered the room and starting taking footage of Phat Dadde “relaxing.”  I stayed out of the camera’s line because anybody who was watching ESPN would have questioned the lifeless, pale me standing in the corner. 

Russ announced that it was time to “glove up.”  I was relieved to find out that  “glove up” simply means taping large boxing gloves to the hands of the wrestler and was not some archaic medical exam that the words naturally lend to.  Phat Dadde stood up and noticed me in the corner of the room.  “What’s the matter with him?” Dadde said.  “You look nervous or something.”

I started seeing stars.  One of the largest, strongest men I have ever seen spoke to me and accused me of being “nervous.”  I was terrified; nervous didn’t come close to the reality of the situation.  I felt blood drain from my face as I forced a smile.  I let out a release of air from my parted lips and clenched teeth.  I tried to laugh, but the resulting sound was a mix between crying and choking.  

Phat Dadde walked over to me, introduced himself, and also introduced me to the other men in the room: family members, his father, agent, manager, and friends.  Russ beckoned me to watch him cover Phat Dadde’s monstrous hands with large, shinny gloves.  Russ taped the gloves to the Dadde’s arms and then signed them with his initials.  

Dadde stood and began to warm up.  His eyes changed from a dormant lion to a blood thirsty animal.  Phat Dadde was no longer the inviting fighter who had introduced me to his closest confidants.  He was whirling about the room, jabbing the air with his lethal arms, and making terrifying noises.  A man barged into the room and screamed, “It’s time!”  ESPN rushed a camera in front of Phat Dadde’s body and led him down the corridor to the fighter’s den.  We entered the massive arena, and thousands of people were screaming.  The room was no longer the refuge I found earlier in the night.   I stood in the back of the arena and watched Phat Dadde demolish his competition.  Sweat turned into blood, and blood turned into money.  As I watched Phat Dadde both take and receive seemingly lethal blows, I couldn’t help but think about what lied below the taped gloves of a man-eating boxer.               

Short, Fat Elevator Ride

I typed the words, "cheap hotel rooms NYC," into a search engine and found my match.  

The short, fat lady in the elevator was wearing a blue moo-moo, no shoes or socks, and swore at me under her breath when the elevator stopped to pick me up.  The doors opened, and she mumbled a profanity just loud enough to ensure I heard it but soft enough to leave the possibility for denial.  There wasn’t away way this lady would deny the profanity, though.  We rode the elevator down from the eighth floor.  When we passed the third floor, she grabbed onto the walls, spread her legs, and started to moan in pain.  I thought, Oh my God, she’s going to give birth.  The short, fat lady started to sway a little bit and proceeded to utter racial slurs.  I started to focus on my breathing.  I hoped that the elevator wouldn’t break down, and I transferred all of my positive energy toward the elevator’s ability to speedily descend floors.  The elevator stopped.  I had a brief moment of elation, but that feeling of relief was short- lived, as I realized we stopped on the second floor and not the lobby.  

A tall, blond, and seemingly nice young man was standing beyond the elevator’s doors, and I tried to make eye contact with him.  I attempted to open my eyes wide enough for him to detect a sense of panic or receive the message that he should wait for the next one or take the stairs.  He smiled, walked in, and in a British accent said, “hello, good morning.”  The young man was wearing a bright blue T-shirt, plaid shorts, and a camera around his neck.  His appearance stood out in sharp contrast the the old, fat lady’s dull blue moo-moo.  I think he realized something was amiss in the elevator because he positioned himself directly in front of the closed doors and didn’t move.  The short, fat lady began to mumble disturbing things about “foreigners, the color blue, and tourists.”  The young man didn’t acknowledge the lady’s attacks, as he remained stoic for the rest of the ride.  I wanted to reach out and inform him that we, New York, are not like this lady, but the very thought of simply breathing without the short, fat lady’s permission terrified me.  

Finally, we reached the lobby.  The young man dressed in blue exited right away, I followed immediately, and the short, fat lady wandered out of the elevator.  She moved at a pace that could only be equated to that of a pained snail.  She was eager to exit the elevator.  There were two people waiting to board and ascend the floors of the Carter Hotel in the warped mechanical box.  The short, fat lady waddled about a eighteen inches into the lobby’s main area, grabbed her lower gut, and ran back into the elevator as the doors were closing.  I stood in the Carter’s lobby, watched the little numbers above the elevator’s doors light up...2....3....4....  I turned, looked for the man with whom I shared a priceless ride, and ventured onto the street.    

Plastic People HOLLER(ster) At Me

Yesterday I had a panic attack in little store I refer to as HOLLERster.  Just now, as I sit here and write about the experience, the very utterance of the store's name insights dark flashbacks of children laughing at me.  Sure, the outside of the store looks inviting, after all, that's the reason I stepped into it in the first place.  The nice, tan plastic men and women give the illusion, "Hello, you look trendy, we're trend too, why don't you come in, the water is fine!" The store's exterior encourages the average passer-by to escape into a land of tropical goodness.  The windows have shutters over them, as if to protect the store from off-shore hurricanes.  There are palm trees adorning the entrance, and racks of clothes on the promenade suggest the boutique is reserved for any individual looking for a simple shirt adorned with pineapples and palm trees.  

I walked into the store.  The nice plastic men and women seemed convincing, but the thing that really got me was the smell.  An occasional wisp of something delicious smacked me, and I had to find out what HOLLERster was all about.  

I was okay at first.  There was one path in the store, so I couldn't really get lost.  I ventured further into the jungle/beach-like atmosphere, but I did not stray from the path.  There were little alcoves along the way, but as I did not have bread to leave a trail, I decided against exploring the dark, unpredictable corners.  As I walked, the store got darker and the music got louder.  I enjoy loud music, especially when I'm listening to my African chants, but this was not comforting music.  It reminded me of some documentaries I've seen of human sacrifice.  A man, who always wears a bone through his nostrils, rips the beating heart out of the "lost" tourist.  As I thought of the tourist, I realized that I was getting lost, and I did not want to be fed to the HOLLERster breed, so I decided to turn around.  I did.  I turned around.  There were people behind me, so I turned back around, as this path was reserved for one-way traffic only, and it was at this moment that panic began to set in.  I could not find any exit arrows, lights, or paths.  I began the game I often play in large, uncomfortable places: Let's look for the (pretend) person I came with.  I started to make sure everyone around me could see I was looking for somebody.  In reality, that person was the exit, and I was desperate to find him/her.  

I continued on the main path.  I ventured off on one of the smaller paths and happened upon a dark alcove.  There was a nice person in it gathering errant hangers.  I assume the person worked in this confusing horseshoe, but I don't really know.  I was sweating, my heart was pounding, I was raising my arms up to my face and away and up and away, and I could feel the "fake" smile I often use to mask extreme discomfort.  The nice person looked at me and said, "Hi dude, can I help you?"  

"Dude" increased my panic, as I never really know how to respond to people who use "dude" freely, so I took in one deep breath and vocalized the only word I could push out, "EXIT."  

The nice man told me to follow the path, as it would eventually lead to the store's one entrance/exit.  I did.  I followed the nice man's advice, and I eventually made it out of the land of plastic palms, dark crevices, sacrificial music, and distinct odors.  

On the way out, I passed by the same plastic people who welcomed me.  I thanked them for the journey and informed them that I would be seeking out my own tropical paradise.   

       

My Theory on Spiders

My philosophy of spiders is very simple: I do not kill them because I'm convinced their family members, and friends, will know I committed the murder and then will try to seek revenge on me when I least expect it.  

Now that I have made my "spider philosophy" clear, I must confide that yesterday was fraught with spider anxiety.

I have a digital picture frame that can also act as a digital clock.  I'm unable to figure out how to put a picture into the machine, so I just keep the frame in "clock" mode.  Yesterday the clock feel off an old wooden piece of furniture in the room I'm renting.  As I reached down to pick it up, guess who was waiting?  Yes, A spider.  Not just any spider, a large, black, fuzzy spider.  He, or maybe she, was clinging to one of the many strands of webbing that he/she had put in place.  I jumped back and started to work the catastrophe out in my head.  I could have killed it, but that would mean revenge by spider relatives/friends when I least expect it (when I sleep).  I could have saved it, but that would mean I'd have to get close enough to rescue it.  The possibilities of ways in which the rescue could have gone terribly wrong began to bounce around in my head.  For example, what if he/she jumps?  I've heard some spiders are "jumpers."  This would make my escape virtually impossible.  I would never return to my room again.  I would tell my landlady to drive a nail through my door and never venture into the spider's den again.  Sell my belongings, they're tainted now anyway.  

At any rate, I decided to try and rescue the spider.  I figured if I approach the situation with peace, he/she will somehow telepathically know I'm not going to harm him/her.  I grabbed an old cupcake container and approached the spider.  I took a deep breath and attempted to trap the spider between the container's body and lid.  I failed.  The spider ran to the underside of the piece of furniture.  He/she moved very quickly.  I, too, moved very quickly-away from the spider.  Where did he/she go?  He/she was not in sight any more.  What if he/she was pissed?  The last thing I need is a pissed spider living a few short "crawls" away from my bed.  I grabbed my flashlight and started to search for the monster.  Yes, monster.  I shined the light under the piece of ancient furniture and was terrified at my discovery.  The spider must have been living there for months.  There was an expansive condo-like formation of webbing everywhere.  Among the levels, patterns, and diagonal lines that composed the spider's condo, I found him/her.  The monster was perched upside down looking at me.  I think this was when I first saw the fangs.  They were large and looked to be already dripping of my blood.  I stepped back and once again ran through the possibilities.  The spider was in a very difficult location, making the extraction a bit more tedious for me.  Could I let him/her live there?  No.  I had to retrieve the spider.  So, once again, armed with my cupcake container, I shined the light in the spider's eyes and attempted to scoop him/her from the underside of the furniture to the container.  I poked him/her once.  Nothing!  I poked again and this time I could feel him/her getting angry.  I thought: the monster knows my face.  I can't give up now.  He/she'll be able to identity me, tell his/her family and friends what I look like, and then plot. plot. plot.  I poked again, and this time he/she fell into the container's body.  Yes!  I placed the top on and brought the container eye-level to get a good look at the saved spider.  He/she had morphed into a ball.  It must have been a defense mechanism.  Spiders adapt by becoming small, less imposing, but the venom is really just moments away from a surprise attack.  Humans grab cupcake containers and hope all turns out well, at least this human does.  

I carried the spider outside.  I was in my pajamas; this is probably a sight my neighbors have grown accustomed to.  I walked two and a half blocks away from my home and let the spider out into a patch of forest.  He/she ran away from the frosting-scented container and disappeared in half of a second.  I returned to my digital clock and was surprised at the fact that the ordeal had taken over an hour.  I let him/her go, I announced to the room.  I slept soundly last night.  

Reflecting Jerry

(The following is a letter I've written to the Dog.  You can find the rest of the story in Edward Albee's The Zoo Story.)

Dear Dog, 

  I promised I would not try to reach you again, but maybe this letter will temper any ill feelings you may have of me from our past.   

  I woke up today.  That's the first surprise.  I wasn't expecting to, as I don't really expect much of anything anymore, but I woke up so I have to live with it.

  I've been thinking about you.  Please don't try and understand my rationale behind poisoning you, just as I don't think about why you tried to bite me all those times, I just thought it may help the process along.  Not death.  No.  That's not really a process I'd pretend to know anything about, I just thought it would help our "relationship" process along.  I don't know much about that either, as I have probably proved to you, but here we are.  

  I'm going for a walk today.  I'm going to walk up Fifth Avenue from Washington Square.  Where better to start, right?  All the NYU people and the top layer of financial garble that lounge around for lunch.  Lunch is only an escape from the walls to the artificial sunlight.  I say artificial because it fades before it can have any lasting effect on the body.  I think I'll begin my walk there and travel up to the park.  I'll probably find an NYU in the park too.  I think I'll share our story.  I don't really know why, we do not try to reach each other any more.  I think it will help, though, get beyond the monotonous routine of typing platitudes on this old Western Union Typewriter.  The last time I walked up Fifth Avenue from Washington Square to the park I almost died.  I was ill-prepared for the jaunt.  This is what I remember:         

  I've been walking up Fifth Avenue all day.  What "they" don't understand is that my shoes are stronger because of the holes and give a little extra support by way of letting the foot move around a bit.  No.  I walk by these people that have the shiny shoes, briefcases, and umbrellas and they could never be as comfortable as I am.  Yeah, my feet are beginning to burn a bit, but that is only a temporary sensation soon to be muscled out by another sensation.  

  When I left the room this morning, one of the children from the Puerto Rican family downstairs had an interesting exchange with me.  I looked at him, he looked at me, and then he threw a marble down the hall.  I'm guessing he wanted me to run down and pick it up, but I don't understand how to do that, so I smiled and carried on as if I could not see, hear, or comprehend.  

  The landlady was listening at her door as I left.  I knew this because she has yet to understand that her awful body makes a large shadow just underneath the door's expansive opening.  To tease her I said in a low, almost secretive tone: "Yesterday and the day before."  We'll play that game when I get home.  When.  What a word.  I'm not going to say "when" anymore.

  I got to the park.  That Zoo.  There is the Zoo.  I'm not talking about the place where people take children and pay to view animals.  No.  I'm speaking about the park: It's a Zoo in pure, untainted perfection.  My favorite places are those shadows under rock crevices, in trees, bushes, or just below the surface of the cloudy water.  What is going on under there?  I know, but I can't tell you.  You'll have to find out for yourself.  Dive in.  Dive into the cloudy water and feel around a bit.  Nothing bites. 

  My feet hurt.  I'm almost to the Zoo.  One more trip.  I think that's all it will take, just one more trip to see if my calculations about the ways in which people exist with the animals, the way that animals exist with each other, and with the people too really is the way I perceive it to be.  I hate the word calculations, I will never use "calculations" again.

  Maybe you want to go for a walk, dog.  I'm afraid your infections will spread though.  What if I don't pick up on the signs?  You can't say, "I need water."  

  Nah, I'll go for a walk.  One more walk to find out what really happens at the Zoo.  I'll find the balance between the artificial sunlight and the alternative.  Me.  Soon I'll know all about the Zoo and so will you.  

  Jerry

My 93 Year-old Roommate

    Rachel is a little over five feet tall.  She moves about with the flair of a former socialite, and her favorite item of accessory is the "Help!  I've fallen and I can't get up" button she wears around her neck.  Rachel celebrated her ninety-third birthday two weeks ago and reminds me every day that her memory is "not what it used to be."  

    I have been renting a room in Rachel's home for a few months, and I'm beginning to piece together the details of her intricate life.  

  "I built this house with my husband," she said.  "He owned a factory in Brooklyn, NY.  We built the house in the thirties."  I walk through the house and make sure not to touch much of anything.  The drapes, wallpaper, furniture, lighting fixtures, artwork on the walls, carpet, vases, and other rare delicacies have not been replaced since the house's initial construction.  

    A garden in the back yard has been fenced off for years.  Last weekend I ventured into the secret garden and was unable to look beyond the majesty of what once was.  Weeds, vines, and withered leafs cover stone walls, walkways, and a dried-up fountain.  An expansive screened-in porch is now guarded by a tree's extending root structure, protecting it from an invasion of modernization.  Rachel is in the house, in her chair, listening to the television while repeatedly reviewing bills that do not make sense. 

"I used to entertain a lot," she said.  "My garden used to be beautiful.  Oh, the time I spent there.  Now, I don't know what to make of it.  My memory is not what is used to be."

I asked Rachel about her life.  She told me that she married her boss.  "How else could I afford all this?" she once said.  Rachel grew up in Brownsville, NY., and her family was poor.  Her family lived in a four bedroom apartment, and while this may seem luxurious, the reality is much different.  Every member of her family lived in one room of the apartment, as the other rooms were rented out to make a little money.  

"When my husband and I started dating," she said, "He would call the drug store across the street.  A little boy would come and tell me I had a telephone call, and I would run to the store to take the call.  You see, we didn't have a phone in our home back then."  Rachel raised her hands to her head.  "I still remember the name of my street."  Rachel smiled, looked at me, and then lowered her gaze to the pile of papers in her lap.  "I don't understand these bills."

Yesterday evening I walked down the stairs and found Rachel in her chair.  "I've been going through my address book."  She was holding a small black book.  The pages were yellowed and the writing was a cursive reflection of what once was.  "I don't know who half these people are.  I'm sure most are dead."

"My husband built this house with the bricks of a factory he tore down in Unionville."  Rachel stopped to admire her home.  "I'll let the next owner worry about fixing it up."

Last night Rachel was in the kitchen.  She had opened a drawer and was picking through the spatulas, can openers, and apple peelers.  "I don't know where all of this came from.  This isn't my stuff.  Can you believe the amount of spatulas we have here?"  I looked at the cooking utensils in question; they looked as worn as the house.  "Why on Earth would I have four spatulas?"  Rachel counted the can openers and apple peelers in the same way she inventoried the spatulas.  "I don't know where it all comes from."  There was a small drop of moisture clinging to the end of her nose.  Perhaps a tear.  " I don't know where it all came from."  

    

Fuzzy Wuzzy

(From June 25, 2008)

Today I watched a large, fuzzy black spider crawl along a rusted railing.  He, perhaps she, I don't know how to tell, was trailing a tiny, thin thread of webbing.  The little bastard stopped and looked at me; we stared at each other, and he/she continued walking.  It's almost as if he/she, from now on IT, knew I wouldn't kill it.  We came to an agreement in the moment of quick reflection.  

"As long as you don't bite me little fuzzy," I thought.

"Agreed," said little spider.  It blinked, that's how big it was.

This is the second time I laid eyes on Fuzzy Wuzzy.  The first time was about a week ago.  It was contently crawling on a large rose vine.  At first I was elated I didn't get too close to the roses, as Wuzzy, as I will now refer to it, most definitely knew I was there.  I'm sure Wuzzy was waiting for me to get close to the flowers.  They are traps in more ways than one.  

  Today, Wuzzy kept gliding along, unharmed by me, and I unharmed by it.  I suppose you can't help but gliding along when you have eight legs.

  Fast little bastard.  I can't find Wuzzy.  There is hope for me in that we have an agreement. 

  No, no little Wuzzy.  Thou shall not bite me while I sit in this chair, outside on your porch.  You shall not wait for me in the roses, or even under the overturned potted plants.  Keep looking for those little crickets and spinning your web, as that is most intriguing to me.  You glide along and behind you a simple little thread is produced.  How?  Do you have miles of little cording wound up inside your body?  Do you produce it as you move along.  Little Wuzzy is more interesting that I thought.  What's the biggest animal/insect you've eaten?  How fast can you move to somebody once they are caught in your little web of truth?  God, please let it be a web of truth, because if it's not, if it's a web of lies, than I am most certainly in trouble.  Little Wuzzy has a sense of humor?  I hope not.  That would be most deadly for me.  Your little eyes haunt me, and your fuzzy body is not comforting.

  This is Brooklyn, NY, who would have known such life existed?  I know he/she's here.  Wuzzy is perched somewhere looking at me, watching me, waiting for me to smell the roses.  No, this is not the time little Wuzzy.  I know, I know.  Hide.  It's is the best option for the both of us.  Rest easy, though, if you take another curtain call in front of me, I won't harm you because if I do, surely your friends will know it was me, and then they will start plotting.  I don't want that and I'm positive you don't either.  Let's exist in harmony.  You can have the roses is I can sit here, in your den of webbing, truth perhaps.  I don't know and don't want to find out.