Destination: South Pole
Something I am blessed with is the ability to know what I want. I'm not really the I don't know. What do you want to do? type person. This does not translate to knowing what I want long-term. I just know exactly what I feel like for dinner and exactly what I'm looking for in a movie, say. In this state I feel in greater harmony with myself. If I need something I will support the proper nourishment.
Like the occasional bout of the very fine Chester Fried Chicken, located 100m from my house.
Obviously my body is missing the essential minerals and fats found in these battered (in every sense of the word) and fried little parts of Heaven.
With a sprained ankle on the anniversary of bombs bursting in air, gave proof that I needed to watch movies that had nothing to do with humans. I am of the small percentile that actually likes humans, but there are times that I feel they lose focus on their objectives. Their vocations. Why they've been placed on this Earth. They have no meaning. Subsequently they create wars on any scale almost to validate their existence.
My left ankle is partially pooched. It's not the worst sprain I've experienced. What I consider the worst is not being able to touch big toe to the ground without Tchaikovski's tympani punctuated overture bursting from my left stump. That's bad. The last time that happened was around the tender age of 21. Who knew whole melons could be stuffed into the thin skin around a joint? This time it's not epic nor grande. It doesn't feel like someone has shot my foot off, or that I wish that someone would shoot my foot off. I've got the kind of sprain that makes me hyperaware. It's there beckoning me to be careful. More considerate. Please take your time, young lady. Weigh all angles. Consider all sides. Physical pain has always done that for me. It's sometimes been a gift.
It's a real feeling that the mind, this time, doesn't create. Well, I guess if you're talking biologically or scientifically, yes, the mind does create all that we feel, but when a tendon is stretched beyond its capability, really quickly, it is genuine physical pain. What's curious to me is how I am at my best at these times.
There is almost a sweetness that is attached.
I feel more for humanity.
I feel more for myself because I see beyond myself.
I become more deliberate, yet shyly tentative.
All the thoughts of feeling the need to do more... vanish.
In its place is a slower pace. A careful step. A reach for an arm nearby.
Real pain can make people better.
This one anyway.
But then sometimes a person feels trapped inside her home and needs to step out. To find nature based documentaries because it is with single-minded, near obsession that she needs to watch, say, Microcosms right then. Right there. Sometimes the world doesn't allow the things we really think we need at exactly when we think we need them. Out of freakish obstinance, however, some (okay, me) will do all they can to make something happen.
But then you park the car directly across the street from a video store. Step into the neon runway lights. Attempt to cross the street. A single voice beckons, but doesn't beckon. Barks at the night sky, more like it. A scratchy, booze and unfiltered cigarette enhanced esophagus straining the voice of an outmoded West Side Story Jet. Too old and grey to dance with switchblades concealed in leather jacket sleeves. Still slicking back hair, but raven is a much fiercer colour than what's left: a combination thin strands of white/grey/tobacco stain.
Former Jet: Why don'tcha PARK A LITTLE CLOSER?!
The Comrade: I'm sorry, are you talking to me?
Former Jet: NO! I'M TALKING TO YOUR BROTHER!
The Comrade: If you would like me to move my car because you can't seem to get out with 1.5' on either side of you, then I would be happy to. All you really need to do is ask.
Former Jet: OH NO! DON'T MOVE IT! YOU INCONSIDERATE (I can't remember the expletive)!
They've got nothing else it seems.
It's confusing sometimes.
Going to 4 separate video stores that night left me a bit disheartened. Why aren't there more video stores that carry fun and educational programming? That does not involve former murderers and Nazi governments? I don't wish to Dismantle the Third Reich. Or find the special formula used in the communion Kool-Aid.
Truth: I was just sore because I'd missed the last screening of The March of the Penguins that night.
Fatty, the love of my life, promised to take me the following night.
Hmph! I wanted to see it right away.
Sometimes I'm a spoiled little girl.
But then sometimes the waiting makes things a little sweeter. Gives you something to look forward to.
Iceberg, iceberg, ice floe.
Just the tip.
Underwater, it's massive in scale.
On deck are
Penguins.
They feed then travel 70 miles by foot to find a mate.
Just one that they will stay devoted to for a year.
One egg
That gets carefully passed to the father
Who balances it on his feet, keeping it warm under belly in temperatures below -80˚C
For months
While the mother leaves,
Trekking back to the spot of origin.
70 miles to feed.
Or she dies.
When the egg is hatched, the father who hasn't eaten in months,
Has one tiny meal (lodged in the back of his throat)
To feed his young.
When the girls return,
Walking or sliding the 70 miles again,
The chick goes back to the mother,
Who just went to the store and will be back in a few minutes.
The chicks now with care,
The males then make the long journey for themselves.
140 miles.
And eventually come back!
To have a little family time.
They do this every year.
The suffering that penguins go through. The elements in which they survive. The complete lack of time saving devices they implement: Their methods are not efficient. Though they work as a collective, they are not the Borg. How they know exactly what they are supposed to do is confounding. To humans. All for the preservation of their species. Born of love.
There's no talk of which school one penguin is sending their child.
Or where they can find their child on the height chart.
There's no doubting their partner is going to cheat on them,
Or never return.
They are penguins.
God, I want to be a penguin when I grow up.
Like the occasional bout of the very fine Chester Fried Chicken, located 100m from my house.
Obviously my body is missing the essential minerals and fats found in these battered (in every sense of the word) and fried little parts of Heaven.
With a sprained ankle on the anniversary of bombs bursting in air, gave proof that I needed to watch movies that had nothing to do with humans. I am of the small percentile that actually likes humans, but there are times that I feel they lose focus on their objectives. Their vocations. Why they've been placed on this Earth. They have no meaning. Subsequently they create wars on any scale almost to validate their existence.
My left ankle is partially pooched. It's not the worst sprain I've experienced. What I consider the worst is not being able to touch big toe to the ground without Tchaikovski's tympani punctuated overture bursting from my left stump. That's bad. The last time that happened was around the tender age of 21. Who knew whole melons could be stuffed into the thin skin around a joint? This time it's not epic nor grande. It doesn't feel like someone has shot my foot off, or that I wish that someone would shoot my foot off. I've got the kind of sprain that makes me hyperaware. It's there beckoning me to be careful. More considerate. Please take your time, young lady. Weigh all angles. Consider all sides. Physical pain has always done that for me. It's sometimes been a gift.
It's a real feeling that the mind, this time, doesn't create. Well, I guess if you're talking biologically or scientifically, yes, the mind does create all that we feel, but when a tendon is stretched beyond its capability, really quickly, it is genuine physical pain. What's curious to me is how I am at my best at these times.
There is almost a sweetness that is attached.
I feel more for humanity.
I feel more for myself because I see beyond myself.
I become more deliberate, yet shyly tentative.
All the thoughts of feeling the need to do more... vanish.
In its place is a slower pace. A careful step. A reach for an arm nearby.
Real pain can make people better.
This one anyway.
But then sometimes a person feels trapped inside her home and needs to step out. To find nature based documentaries because it is with single-minded, near obsession that she needs to watch, say, Microcosms right then. Right there. Sometimes the world doesn't allow the things we really think we need at exactly when we think we need them. Out of freakish obstinance, however, some (okay, me) will do all they can to make something happen.
But then you park the car directly across the street from a video store. Step into the neon runway lights. Attempt to cross the street. A single voice beckons, but doesn't beckon. Barks at the night sky, more like it. A scratchy, booze and unfiltered cigarette enhanced esophagus straining the voice of an outmoded West Side Story Jet. Too old and grey to dance with switchblades concealed in leather jacket sleeves. Still slicking back hair, but raven is a much fiercer colour than what's left: a combination thin strands of white/grey/tobacco stain.
Former Jet: Why don'tcha PARK A LITTLE CLOSER?!
The Comrade: I'm sorry, are you talking to me?
Former Jet: NO! I'M TALKING TO YOUR BROTHER!
The Comrade: If you would like me to move my car because you can't seem to get out with 1.5' on either side of you, then I would be happy to. All you really need to do is ask.
Former Jet: OH NO! DON'T MOVE IT! YOU INCONSIDERATE (I can't remember the expletive)!
They've got nothing else it seems.
It's confusing sometimes.
Going to 4 separate video stores that night left me a bit disheartened. Why aren't there more video stores that carry fun and educational programming? That does not involve former murderers and Nazi governments? I don't wish to Dismantle the Third Reich. Or find the special formula used in the communion Kool-Aid.
Truth: I was just sore because I'd missed the last screening of The March of the Penguins that night.
Fatty, the love of my life, promised to take me the following night.
Hmph! I wanted to see it right away.
Sometimes I'm a spoiled little girl.
But then sometimes the waiting makes things a little sweeter. Gives you something to look forward to.
Iceberg, iceberg, ice floe.
Just the tip.
Underwater, it's massive in scale.
On deck are
Penguins.
They feed then travel 70 miles by foot to find a mate.
Just one that they will stay devoted to for a year.
One egg
That gets carefully passed to the father
Who balances it on his feet, keeping it warm under belly in temperatures below -80˚C
For months
While the mother leaves,
Trekking back to the spot of origin.
70 miles to feed.
Or she dies.
When the egg is hatched, the father who hasn't eaten in months,
Has one tiny meal (lodged in the back of his throat)
To feed his young.
When the girls return,
Walking or sliding the 70 miles again,
The chick goes back to the mother,
Who just went to the store and will be back in a few minutes.
The chicks now with care,
The males then make the long journey for themselves.
140 miles.
And eventually come back!
To have a little family time.
They do this every year.
The suffering that penguins go through. The elements in which they survive. The complete lack of time saving devices they implement: Their methods are not efficient. Though they work as a collective, they are not the Borg. How they know exactly what they are supposed to do is confounding. To humans. All for the preservation of their species. Born of love.
There's no talk of which school one penguin is sending their child.
Or where they can find their child on the height chart.
There's no doubting their partner is going to cheat on them,
Or never return.
They are penguins.
God, I want to be a penguin when I grow up.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
11:12 a.m.
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