Month: July 2007

The Human Sidewalk Hotdog

The human sidewalk hotdog is really excited today, jumping up and down so much his loosely attached fabric smile is flopping about on his meat face. His eyes remain hollow and unconvincing. The two stripes of mustard down his belly also unconvincing. Sometimes the human sidewalk hotdog puts one or both of his arms inside his outfit and the outfit begins to undulate. This can go on for prolonged periods. This of course leads one to wonder what he’s doing in there, if he’s making adjustments to his own hot dog, and if anyone else has to wear that getup after him.

If I had four arms and two brains, I would get a lot more done.

Lilting is not something that comes naturally to me.

Today the human sidewalk hotdog is spazzing out. Kicking, screaming, flailing about doing something sort of like jumping jacks, although he is rather constrained by his hotdog outfit. The human sidewalk hotdog is so hot he’s bound to melt the mustard right off his meaty self. He’s an amazing sight to behold. Oh, he’s lying down on the ground! He’s back up! He’s down again! I think he’s trying to breakdance!

The human sidewalk hotdog is boring today. His suit isn’t on all the way and I think it’s inside out. He’s not even moving or holding his sign. I know it is hot out, but that is no excuse for the human sidewalk hotdog to stand still, halfway out of his meat-bun casing. Dance, hotdog, dance! Oh, my mistake. That is just a regular human sidewalk person with his clothes half on and half off. My bad. Sorry hotdog.

What I want everyone to know: Any negative reaction you may have upon meeting me is entirely temporary and will not likely cause any long-term adverse effects. If you do have long-term adverse effects you feel are associated with me, please see your primary care physician. Be sure to mention your exposure to me, duration and frequency of exposure, and cumulative dosage. So far, there have only been five or so documented cases of irreparable damage. There is as of yet no cure. Palliative care is indicated.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream

Yesterday Jon and I stood on a pier at Juanita Beach Park for a long, long time, waiting for the beavers to return to their den. We’d seen one of them bobbing along the far edge of the water, its wet furry head above, then below, then above, then below the surface. With only the head intermittently in sight, I had to imagine the rest of the creature, its chunky body and short legs, I supposed, paddling awkwardly beneath.

Sometimes the head would come up under a lily pad, which would become an impromptu hat for a foot or two before the plant’s tether would pull the leaf away and the wet furry head would again be revealed.

This is how night should come, I thought.

Jon asked if I was ready to leave yet. He becomes impatient with nature just as nature is about to reveal something to or about him. He likes to move briskly through landscapes because that keeps him in his safe, usual thoughts. Stopping poses a risk because that is when nature can change a person.

But stopping is important. We need to allow ourselves to let nature have a say in how we think about and move through the world. Just ask William Stafford, who urges us to let your whole self drift down like a breath and learn / its way down through the trees … Stand here till all that / you were can wander away and come back slowly, / carrying a strange new flavor into your life.

The beaver was nowhere in sight but we located a mother duck with six ducklings beneath her. She looked like an upside-down Easter basket with all its goodies underneath. She had found a nice spot to camp out for the night and was drifting in and out of sleep, opening her eyes whenever the grass moved, a small bird came near, or a firecracker was set off. I wondered then to what degree wildlife across the United States collectively worries on the Fourth of July. It must sound like the end of the world. Or hunting season.

Jon asked several more times if I was ready. “You ready yet, Bud? Ready now?”

This is how night should come, I thought again. It should come slowly over the trees, above the grasses. It should settle on the water just like this. It should guide the beavers gently and slowly through the water until they find themselves at the worn pathway leading to their den, where they pull themselves onto the mud and wriggle across decaying, tamped foliage, making the final turn into their home and out of our sight.

Yes, it should come just like this.

Last night is the first time in weeks I have not felt anxious and panicky as soon as the sun goes down. Since my test results, I have been so worried about what the diagnosis will be, what comes next and how my life could be severely altered or truncated. As soon as the light begins to fade, my heart rate and blood pressure have begun to rise. I have spent every night in a body that hums with fear. Fear has become its own composition with no end, no rests, no shifts in pitch or volume. Just its continual drone, its dissonant multi-tonal vibration.

But last night, night seemed natural. I was not afraid. I did not kick and scream my way into sleep or try to fight my way out of it once I was there. Last night I was a beaver. I was grass. I was water. I was that whole gloppy corner of the world taking up the darkness and whispering, Yes, yes.