I Went Fishing

If I were a fish and I got caught, I would sit in my bucket and think on life. Probably about all the other fish I had eaten and about those times I swam past a rock and didn’t look closer. Maybe other things but those two would take precedence.

Before the death rattle, I would be happy I was no longer able to vampire my way through the ocean. No more mama fish without a baby fish coming home because of me. No more upset stomach because of fish guts and fish tears. I suffered along with you small fish and this is a fitting end. Glob, glob.

As I suffocated slowly I would also consider the many rocks gone unexplored. Adventures in floating and swimming that could have taken place. Rocks perhaps hiding female fish that knew how to have fun but also be serious and help with my issues and baggage. And, oh. Oh, the fish eggs that might have been fertilized. Hidden yes, and now forever hidden, the little Eric fish that would have looked hard through fish eyes and not made the mistakes of their father fish.

To be a fish on this day and to die in a bucket. Sweet irony of the fish world. Funny, sad fish gods! There’s fish blood on your hands humans! And fish in your fish stomachs!

Wedding Hijinks

The problem with throwing centerpiece fruit into the trees at your friends’ wedding reception is that it might get eaten by a horse.  Who the hell knows what happens after that?  Maybe the horse gets a stomachache and falls down dead.  Maybe fruit loving hyenas catch the scent from Africa and attack your friend’s horse, who is now sweating citrus.  Maybe a girl horse gets frightened by the bright colors and some well-meaning boyfriend horse sees the fear as a weakness and forces the other horse to eat the fruit as a means of overcoming her phobia thereby cementing what was once at most a wariness into a full blown experiential terror at the sight, smell or taste of papaya. 

I don’t know about any of this; it’s all just possibilities.  All I know is drop kicking a lemon is just about the worst way to not get your pants dirty.

Space Dream

My dream last night was a winner.  I had built a space ship out of I don’t know what and set it up in the backyard of my old house.  It looked a lot like a NASA shuttle but was not so sturdy or well designed.  Maybe it was just the matte paint on what looked like cardboard.  There was a big assembly of my family and friends there to watch me blast off and they were all standing much too close.  I didn’t say anything.  I was more concerned about the durability.  For instance, when my dad jumped in the strange sack-like compartment meant to hold a passenger and which trailed like a handkerchief at the end of a stick slung off a hobo’s back, I thought the thing might break off.  The ship lurched and moaned but it held up. 

 

While I was preparing to leave, I was mighty worried about the fire situation too.  My paper mache-like craft seemed indeed strong but could it make it into space with the force needed to get through the atmosphere?  And not burn up by the fire it created or the heat it encountered?  I didn’t know.  That’s what worried me most.  I supposedly had built this thing there in my backyard but I didn’t remember building it at all.  The worst was when I finally got into the hanging hobo sack thing and couldn’t figure out how to close it.  No zipper or ziplock or buttons or rubber seal.  No nothing.  I fiddled with the uneven seams for a little and then just gave up on it.  They hung there flapping in the wind.  It didn’t stop me from wanting to take off though.  Either I didn’t think I’d make it into space or I wanted to save face in front of everybody and pretend I designed it that way. 

 

I guess this dream means I’m really determined?

Perhaps No Postcards

There’s a website called www.PerhapsPostcards.com where I make art, shrink it onto stationary of all kinds and then try to sell it.  I’m satisfied with it generally, despite its lack of sales or tangible results.  Yesterday, I had an idea about naming another website www.PerhapsNoPostcards.com where there would be no selling of anything but instead, general attempts at humiliation and put-downs about nobody ever buying anything from Perhaps Postcards.  I would enjoy pitting the two against each other (it would satisfy my need for balance) and then riding the tide of battle, sprung from my own conceit, out into the murky waters of the unknown. 

I would give control of the new website over to the evil genius side of my personality whose petty insults and unhappy terrorism would both oppress and disturb.  The bright and cheerful simpleton now running Perhaps Postcards would be hard pressed to respond, patiently enduring then finally erupting in a terrible and uncontrolled onslaught where nothing is sacred, postcard or otherwise, and where none could wish to escape unmarred.  There would be war between the two sides, yes war, and the small part of me that retained any notion of decency would sit uncomfortably, alone and lonely, in a cave of doubt and regret contemplating, waiting. 

Barbs of wrath would sing like shrapnel.  Shards of misery would fly unmercifully.  Destruction becomes self. 

Exhausted and encumbered from the toil of attack, my consciousness would look upon the strife, seeking no repose, and fight.  Unbidden, some small important part of myself would undoubtedly slip and a small spontaneous giggle would titter forth from some depth, some vein of disorder buried within, that would build to frenzy.  My body would involuntarily take up this mania and from my lips would spring a howl of laughter so saturated with wretchedness and rife with hatred that the last breath of life and promise I held within would be stolen away with it.  My empty and wrecked body would crumple down, near-silently, to the floor and lay solid, never again to feel the blows that killed it.