There's a saying: "Live every day as though it were you last." It's the inspiration for sentimental movies (most recently, one with Morgan Freeman and Jack Nicholson called "The Bucket List": Aaww...), and, as of a couple years ago, a country music song (can't remember the dude's name, but it had lines that rhymed "sky-diving," and "bullriding," you know, the stereotypical stuff a guy's supposed to do in Texas when he's diagnosed with terminal Stage 4 cancer).
People like drama, and that's a dramatic statement... But to be a bit Buddhist, it is EQUALLY important to say and live the reverse of that statement: that is, "Live your last day as though it were every day." There you go. If you lived every day with the appreciation that it was going to be your last (which, in essence, it is: going back to the Greek saying, you can't enter the same river twice, or even ONCE), then how would your actual last day be any different from any other? Death shouldn't make any difference in how you live, if you live authentically (read Martin Heidegger's Sein Und Zeit for a more convoluted expository on "living authentically").
It is, in fact, an interesting practice to reverse common sayings. Some statements seem to contain some kind of paradox or drama... Reversing them nullifies that drama, and sort of brings an equanimity to the whole issue... Truth, after all, shouldn't be dramatic, shouldn't take sides... It's ultimately empty.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Monday, December 3, 2007
Short Story: Got Your Back (Adult Xmas Story)
Again, last year, Advertiser had some corny holiday story contest. Both children and adult categories. You've read the children's entry I submitted. Here is the adult entry... A tale about tail...
GOT YOUR BACK (ADULT CATEGORY)
Lynn is the manager of an Ala Moana store that sells expensive chocolates.
Late in November, right after the post-Thanksgiving rush, Lynn is working at the store, along with a young girl named Ashley.
Things are slow. Very slow. It’s only after Ashley and Lynn have finished cleaning and adjusting the chocolate displays for the third consecutive time, that a customer walks in.
She’s an elderly woman, in her 60's, rich, white. Her silver hair is immaculately combed back and held in place by a pin shaped like mistletoe, with gold leaves and red berries. In her left hand is a large shopping bag from Neiman Marcus, and in her right is another from Macy’s.
Lynn walks up to the woman, and greets her brightly. “Hello! Why, that’s a beautiful hair pin!”
The old woman strolls past Lynn without responding in the least, her eyes gazing down at the boxes of chocolates around her.
Slightly mollified, Lynn backs away.
Just as she’s about to turn away from the woman she notices it: tucked into the back of the old woman’s skirt is a tissue paper toilet seat cover, gently flapping.
At first, Lynn can’t restrain a grin. The nearest bathrooms are halfway across the mall, so the old woman must have been walking around with this “ring around her rosie” for quite some time, inspiring sniggers and giggles from everyone she passed.
But then, Lynn checks herself. She imagines this woman being someone’s grandmother. Hers, for example. Like her own grandmother, this woman takes great pride in her appearance. And, like her grandmother, it would probably shatter her fragile self-esteem to discover that she had been walking all around town with a white bullseye on her bottom. In fact, Lynn thinks paranoically, who knows, it might even send her into a deep depression. Lynn pictures the woman confining herself to a single room in her mansion in Manoa for the rest of her days, wearing a diaper, so that she never has to see a toilet seat cover, or a toilet seat, ever again.
She shudders. “I have to do something,” she thinks to herself. “Only, I have to do it without her even knowing.”
She pulls Ashley aside, and whispers to her the situation, and her plan.
Although Ashley is a real trooper, she rolls her eyes. “I don’t know,” she says. “Can’t we just- tell her?”
“No we can’t,” Lynn answers firmly. “What if you walked around with something like that sticking out of your butt?”
“I expect people to tell me if I have a piece of spinach on my teeth,” Ashley argues.
“This is different,” Lynn says, though she can’t quite say how. “And, I’m your boss.”
“Okay,” she says. “So I have to distract her?”
Lynn nods. “Distract her with sweetness, while I do the dirty work.”
Ashley dons her cutest smile, and walks up to the woman. “May I help you with anything?” she asks.
Lynn meanwhile slips on a pair of thin plastic gloves, the kind she wears whenever she handles truffles or dipped chocolates, and circles around towards the old woman’s backside.
The old woman tries to give Ashley the same silent treatment she’d given Lynn. But Ashley manages to position herself right in front of her, blocking her advance. Frustrated, the old woman deigns to give Ashley a response. “Out of my way!”
“Might I interest you in a sample?” Ashley asks sweetly. “Freshly dipped strawberry?”
“Alright,” mutters the old woman reluctantly, as though she is granting Ashley the vaunted privilege of serving her.
Lynn meanwhile approaches on tip toe, half-crouched like a lion, nary a foot away from the old woman’s rear.
She reaches, grabs the tissue paper, pulls-
-and with a barely audible shhh! sound, tears one side of the ring open.
She grimaces in frustration, then springs backwards like a cat as the old woman shifts her weight as though she is about to turn around. Lynn casually walks backwards a few steps to catch her breath and to survey the new situation. “Oh great,” she thinks to herself. Now, instead of wearing an “O,” the old woman wears something that sometimes resembles a “C,” sometimes an “S,” depending on how she sways her hips. A slinking tissue paper tail.
Ashley slips Lynn a look over the woman’s shoulder, when she’s not looking: “All pau?”
Lynn returns a pained look.
“Okay,” Ashley says, “Would you mind waiting here for a few moments while I get the strawberries?”
The old woman exhales in frustration. “I haven’t got all day,” she mutters. “Please be quick about it.”
And as Ashley strolls off to get the chocolate strawberries, Lynn saunters off to join Ashley behind the counter.
“So?” Ashley whispers, as she places a chocolate strawberry on a serving plate. “Did you get it?”
Lynn shakes her head no. “I think I made it worse.”
“Shouldn’t we just give up?” Ashley asks. “She’s such a B.”
Lynn has to actually think about it. But finally, she shakes her head. “No,” she says firmly. “It’s our duty to serve our customers.”
“Serve our customers chocolate,” Ashley mutters.
“Serve our customers in any way that we can,” Lynn corrects. “Give her three strawberries. Whatever you need to, to buy me some time.”
Ashley rolls her eyes, but nods.
When she returns with the plate of strawberries, the old woman greets her with an “About time!” She grabs one of the three strawberries on the plate, takes a bite out of it, and then, as if to insure that the other two don’t run away, swipes the plate itself out of Ashley’s hands.
“How is it?” Ashley asks brightly.
The old woman doesn’t respond. She hands Ashley a green crown of strawberry leaves, the bottom wet with saliva, remnant of the first strawberry. Ashley accepts it graciously in her gloved palm. And then, the old woman greedily attacks the second strawberry.
Lynn meanwhile circles around the store once again to approach her prey, the paper tail.
She reaches tentatively, makes contact, both with the skirt, and with the tissue paper. Now, if she can only pull the skirt away from the old woman’s body, just enough to loosen the paper!
The second strawberry is practically swallowed whole. A second strawberry crown is deposited in Ashley’s palm. The old woman takes a large wolfish bite out of the third strawberry, absently handing the now empty plate to Ashley.
Ashley leans to one side, giving Lynn a look of desperation. “It’s now or never!” she seems to say. With dexterity that she never knew she possessed, Lynn simultaneously pulls the elastic of the skirt ever so slightly off the old woman’s body, and yanks the tissue paper. It instantly falls away like the molted skin of a snake.
The old woman spins around suddenly. “What ARE you doing!?” she demands, spitting droplets of chocolate and strawberry hash into Lynn’s terrified face.
“I- uh- I-“ Lynn stutters, before catching her momentum. “I’m- sorry. I was just- picking up some garbage off the floor.”
“How rude!” snaps the old woman. “Get away from me!”
“I’m sorry,” Lynn repeats, slowly rising. “I’m really sorry.” Then, she bows awkwardly like an actress who’s screwed up her lines, and exits stage right. Towards the trash can.
“I honestly don’t know how you survive as a business,” the old woman snaps at the only remaining audience, poor Ashley. “First of all, your store is filthy. And second, and almost more importantly, why, these strawberries aren’t ripe, and the chocolate is mediocre at best. They certainly don’t warrant the price you’re charging for them.” She picks up her large shopping bags. “I’m walking out of this store, and I’m not looking back, I can tell you!”
Ashley courageously suppresses a giggle.
“Oh, are you going to cry?” the old woman says, turning back, misunderstanding her expression completely. “Well, I’m actually quite glad. It means that you care. But you’re just a little behind in showing it! Goodbye.”
As soon as she storms out of the store, as soon as she glides off the edge of the store front window, Lynn and Ashley let out a shriek.
“We did it!” Lynn shouts.
“My good deed for the century,” Ashley sings.
“Well, that’s the lot of a retail worker,” Lynn murmurs, “Thankless. And insulted to boot.”
“What’s it all for?” Ashley sighs.
“Don’t ask me,” Lynn mutters.
Just then, another customer walks in the door. Tall. Dark. Handsome. And with his fly open to the breeze.
“My turn!” Ashley whispers, grinning wickedly.
GOT YOUR BACK (ADULT CATEGORY)
Lynn is the manager of an Ala Moana store that sells expensive chocolates.
Late in November, right after the post-Thanksgiving rush, Lynn is working at the store, along with a young girl named Ashley.
Things are slow. Very slow. It’s only after Ashley and Lynn have finished cleaning and adjusting the chocolate displays for the third consecutive time, that a customer walks in.
She’s an elderly woman, in her 60's, rich, white. Her silver hair is immaculately combed back and held in place by a pin shaped like mistletoe, with gold leaves and red berries. In her left hand is a large shopping bag from Neiman Marcus, and in her right is another from Macy’s.
Lynn walks up to the woman, and greets her brightly. “Hello! Why, that’s a beautiful hair pin!”
The old woman strolls past Lynn without responding in the least, her eyes gazing down at the boxes of chocolates around her.
Slightly mollified, Lynn backs away.
Just as she’s about to turn away from the woman she notices it: tucked into the back of the old woman’s skirt is a tissue paper toilet seat cover, gently flapping.
At first, Lynn can’t restrain a grin. The nearest bathrooms are halfway across the mall, so the old woman must have been walking around with this “ring around her rosie” for quite some time, inspiring sniggers and giggles from everyone she passed.
But then, Lynn checks herself. She imagines this woman being someone’s grandmother. Hers, for example. Like her own grandmother, this woman takes great pride in her appearance. And, like her grandmother, it would probably shatter her fragile self-esteem to discover that she had been walking all around town with a white bullseye on her bottom. In fact, Lynn thinks paranoically, who knows, it might even send her into a deep depression. Lynn pictures the woman confining herself to a single room in her mansion in Manoa for the rest of her days, wearing a diaper, so that she never has to see a toilet seat cover, or a toilet seat, ever again.
She shudders. “I have to do something,” she thinks to herself. “Only, I have to do it without her even knowing.”
She pulls Ashley aside, and whispers to her the situation, and her plan.
Although Ashley is a real trooper, she rolls her eyes. “I don’t know,” she says. “Can’t we just- tell her?”
“No we can’t,” Lynn answers firmly. “What if you walked around with something like that sticking out of your butt?”
“I expect people to tell me if I have a piece of spinach on my teeth,” Ashley argues.
“This is different,” Lynn says, though she can’t quite say how. “And, I’m your boss.”
“Okay,” she says. “So I have to distract her?”
Lynn nods. “Distract her with sweetness, while I do the dirty work.”
Ashley dons her cutest smile, and walks up to the woman. “May I help you with anything?” she asks.
Lynn meanwhile slips on a pair of thin plastic gloves, the kind she wears whenever she handles truffles or dipped chocolates, and circles around towards the old woman’s backside.
The old woman tries to give Ashley the same silent treatment she’d given Lynn. But Ashley manages to position herself right in front of her, blocking her advance. Frustrated, the old woman deigns to give Ashley a response. “Out of my way!”
“Might I interest you in a sample?” Ashley asks sweetly. “Freshly dipped strawberry?”
“Alright,” mutters the old woman reluctantly, as though she is granting Ashley the vaunted privilege of serving her.
Lynn meanwhile approaches on tip toe, half-crouched like a lion, nary a foot away from the old woman’s rear.
She reaches, grabs the tissue paper, pulls-
-and with a barely audible shhh! sound, tears one side of the ring open.
She grimaces in frustration, then springs backwards like a cat as the old woman shifts her weight as though she is about to turn around. Lynn casually walks backwards a few steps to catch her breath and to survey the new situation. “Oh great,” she thinks to herself. Now, instead of wearing an “O,” the old woman wears something that sometimes resembles a “C,” sometimes an “S,” depending on how she sways her hips. A slinking tissue paper tail.
Ashley slips Lynn a look over the woman’s shoulder, when she’s not looking: “All pau?”
Lynn returns a pained look.
“Okay,” Ashley says, “Would you mind waiting here for a few moments while I get the strawberries?”
The old woman exhales in frustration. “I haven’t got all day,” she mutters. “Please be quick about it.”
And as Ashley strolls off to get the chocolate strawberries, Lynn saunters off to join Ashley behind the counter.
“So?” Ashley whispers, as she places a chocolate strawberry on a serving plate. “Did you get it?”
Lynn shakes her head no. “I think I made it worse.”
“Shouldn’t we just give up?” Ashley asks. “She’s such a B.”
Lynn has to actually think about it. But finally, she shakes her head. “No,” she says firmly. “It’s our duty to serve our customers.”
“Serve our customers chocolate,” Ashley mutters.
“Serve our customers in any way that we can,” Lynn corrects. “Give her three strawberries. Whatever you need to, to buy me some time.”
Ashley rolls her eyes, but nods.
When she returns with the plate of strawberries, the old woman greets her with an “About time!” She grabs one of the three strawberries on the plate, takes a bite out of it, and then, as if to insure that the other two don’t run away, swipes the plate itself out of Ashley’s hands.
“How is it?” Ashley asks brightly.
The old woman doesn’t respond. She hands Ashley a green crown of strawberry leaves, the bottom wet with saliva, remnant of the first strawberry. Ashley accepts it graciously in her gloved palm. And then, the old woman greedily attacks the second strawberry.
Lynn meanwhile circles around the store once again to approach her prey, the paper tail.
She reaches tentatively, makes contact, both with the skirt, and with the tissue paper. Now, if she can only pull the skirt away from the old woman’s body, just enough to loosen the paper!
The second strawberry is practically swallowed whole. A second strawberry crown is deposited in Ashley’s palm. The old woman takes a large wolfish bite out of the third strawberry, absently handing the now empty plate to Ashley.
Ashley leans to one side, giving Lynn a look of desperation. “It’s now or never!” she seems to say. With dexterity that she never knew she possessed, Lynn simultaneously pulls the elastic of the skirt ever so slightly off the old woman’s body, and yanks the tissue paper. It instantly falls away like the molted skin of a snake.
The old woman spins around suddenly. “What ARE you doing!?” she demands, spitting droplets of chocolate and strawberry hash into Lynn’s terrified face.
“I- uh- I-“ Lynn stutters, before catching her momentum. “I’m- sorry. I was just- picking up some garbage off the floor.”
“How rude!” snaps the old woman. “Get away from me!”
“I’m sorry,” Lynn repeats, slowly rising. “I’m really sorry.” Then, she bows awkwardly like an actress who’s screwed up her lines, and exits stage right. Towards the trash can.
“I honestly don’t know how you survive as a business,” the old woman snaps at the only remaining audience, poor Ashley. “First of all, your store is filthy. And second, and almost more importantly, why, these strawberries aren’t ripe, and the chocolate is mediocre at best. They certainly don’t warrant the price you’re charging for them.” She picks up her large shopping bags. “I’m walking out of this store, and I’m not looking back, I can tell you!”
Ashley courageously suppresses a giggle.
“Oh, are you going to cry?” the old woman says, turning back, misunderstanding her expression completely. “Well, I’m actually quite glad. It means that you care. But you’re just a little behind in showing it! Goodbye.”
As soon as she storms out of the store, as soon as she glides off the edge of the store front window, Lynn and Ashley let out a shriek.
“We did it!” Lynn shouts.
“My good deed for the century,” Ashley sings.
“Well, that’s the lot of a retail worker,” Lynn murmurs, “Thankless. And insulted to boot.”
“What’s it all for?” Ashley sighs.
“Don’t ask me,” Lynn mutters.
Just then, another customer walks in the door. Tall. Dark. Handsome. And with his fly open to the breeze.
“My turn!” Ashley whispers, grinning wickedly.
Short Story: C is for Conifer (Children's Xmas Story)
Last year, the Advertiser (I think?) had a competition for some kind of Christmas story, in either the children's category or the adult's. Being a cornball, and "inspired" by the They Might Be Giants "Here Come the ABC's" CD song, "C is for Conifer," I wrote this story... (There is a line in the song [which was repeating endlessly in my head last year]: "Most have cones for seeds, most have needles for leaves. C is for Conifer, My kind of trees.")
It being the holidays and all (at least that's what the store ads are shouting), I decided to print this for your emetic pleasure...
It being the holidays and all (at least that's what the store ads are shouting), I decided to print this for your emetic pleasure...
The illustrations were drawn by Willow...
"C IS FOR CORNY!" ;)
O CACTUS TREE! (CHILDREN’S CATEGORY)
There is a place in the middle of the desert called the Mirage Hotel.
It is a wondrous place, filled with anything and everything you could ever dream of. A lot of water, first of all, shimmering in large pools. And camels. And food, mostly figs and dates, but they’ve got a lot of cheetos, and chocolates, and, well, anything else your mother never allows you to slip into the shopping cart.
Although it is in the middle of the desert, it is never in the same place for very long. Lots of people have seen it, but they either waited too long, or waited too little, and by the time they got there, well, it wasn’t there any more.
At the Mirage Hotel, there lived a talking Cactus tree named, appropriately, Cactus. He was a tall green cactus, shaped like a man, covered in spiny yellow needles. And at the top of what looked like his head, every once in a while, a beautiful flower bloomed.
His best friend was the Sandman. He looked kind of like a Snowman, only he was made of sand. And instead of standing up, he was always lying down. The Sandman was a very sleepy fellow, you see.
One hot summer day (it was always hot and always summer at the Mirage Hotel), the Sandman had a newspaper draped over his face. Cactus thought he was asleep, as usual. So he was surprised when Sandman shouted through the newspaper.
“Cactus,” he yawned, “Check this out.”
“What?” Cactus said.
“There’s a contest that’s going to happen right here, tomorrow. A Christmas Tree contest. The winner gets to be the new Christmas Tree, and have his picture taken in all the coldest places in the world. And he gets to take along a friend.” Sandman’s voice, which was rarely more than a sleepy murmur, for once sounded excited. “Cactus, this might be your ticket out of here! It might be our ticket out of here!”
For although the Mirage Hotel was a wonderful place, it was always dreadfully hot. For Cactus and Sandman, cold sounded nice.
“What are the rules?” Cactus asked excitedly.
“See for yourself.”
And Cactus bent over to pick up the newspaper. Only, because he didn’t have fingers, the best he could do was stab his needles through the paper.
“Ouch!” cried Sandman.
“Sorry,” mumbled Cactus. And he clumsily spread the newspaper, tearing it some more in the process. This is what he read:
“Christmas Tree Contest Rules. Two Rules. Rule Number One: You must be an evergreen-” Cactus turned to Sandman. “What’s an evergreen?” he asked.
“It’s a tree that- is always green,” mumbled Sandman, who was already falling asleep.
“Check,” chimed Cactus happily. And he continued to read. “Rule Number Two: You must be a conifer-“ Cactus again turned to Sandman. “What’s a conifer?” he asked.
But Sandman was already asleep, snoring peacefully.
Cactus read on, and thankfully got an answer. Or at least part of it. The article said: “A conifer is a tree that has needles for leaves.“
“Check Check!” chimed Cactus happily, wiggling his many many needles.
And he continued to read. “A conifer also has cones for-“ But the last word had been stabbed through by his needles, and could not be read.
“Cones for what?” Cactus wondered. “Cones for- ice cream? Cones for- redirecting traffic?” Finally, he decided. “It must be cones for heads. It must be that.” And he walked over to the Hat Boutique at the Mirage Hotel, and among the many turbans, he was able to find one single purple cone hat, large enough to fit over his head. “Perfect!” he shouted, trying it on.
The very next day, he went to the Mirage Hotel Ballroom, where the contest was to be held.
Poor Cactus. Little did he know that the contest was a big marketing scheme. The rules prevented most trees from entering, except evergreen conifers, which was what Christmas Trees basically were anyway. One of the most popular traditional Christmas Trees, the Silver Fir, was going to win the contest no matter what. And it would get a big boost in publicity at the same time.
Cactus stood proudly in the middle of the ballroom, amidst giant sequoias, dwarf pines, even recumbent junipers, his tall purple cone hat making him stand out.
The judges assigned each of the contestants a number. Cactus was Number 11. The judges then called out the numbers of the trees one by one, letting them know that they weren’t Christmas Tree material. “Number 253!” “Number 17!” “Number 21!” Gradually, the ballroom got emptier and emptier.
Soon, there were only two trees left: #11 Cactus, and the shoe-in winner, #7 the Silver Fir, who was already dressed in Christmas ornaments and flickering electric Christmas lights. Although the judges had already made up their minds, they didn’t know what to think of Cactus, and wanted to ask him some questions.
“So, Number 11,” the head judge said, “Cactus, is it? Why are you wearing that ridiculous purple hat?”
Cactus suddenly felt embarrassed. He realized that none of the other trees in the contest had worn a cone hat, including #7. The Silver Fir shook its needles in laughter, giving off a fresh mountain scent. “Uh,” Cactus muttered, leaning this way and that, not knowing how to answer.
“Psst,” whispered a voice. When Cactus looked down, he noticed Sandman lying on the floor right behind him. “Tell them it’s a Christmas decoration.”
“It’s my, uh, Christmas decoration,” Cactus told the judges.
“Unusual,” murmured the head judge. “And original.”
The Silver Fir bristled its needles in indignation. “What!?” it shouted. “Why are you wasting time listening to this- this impostor! He’s no conifer! Ask him about his seeds already!”
The head judge nodded. “Number 11, conifers have cones for seeds. What about you? Where are your seeds?”
Cactus bowed his head. So that’s what conifers had cones for! Seeds! He shook his head, dejected. “I- don’t have any.”
The head judge nodded. “Well, I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess that means we have our winner.”
“Alright!” shouted Silver Fir. “It’s about time!”
Cactus shuffled away sadly as a chorus sang “Oh Christmas Tree,” and the head judge walked up to the new (and old) winner to crown it with a super bright halogen star.
But then something happened. The Mirage Hotel was a hot place, you remember, and during the contest, the Silver Fir’s needles had become very dry. So as soon as the super bright (and super hot) halogen star was placed upon its head, it ignited and set the tree ablaze. “Help! Help!!!” it screamed, shaking off ornaments.
Without a thought, Cactus rushed over to the Silver Fir, and poked holes into his own body with his needles. Water shot forth from the holes in tiny jets, and he aimed them carefully at the fire.
Within a matter of seconds, the fire was out! The Silver Fir was almost as good as usual, only the leaves up top were singed and blackened. Cactus carefully removed the purple cone hat from his head, and placed it over the Silver Fir’s burnt head.
“Thank you,” said the Silver Fir in gratitude.
Everyone in the ballroom gasped. For on Cactus’s now hatless head was a beautiful blossom. It was silver and gold colored, and shaped like a many pointed star.
Everyone agreed after that that Cactus should be the new Christmas Tree. He had been selfless and brave in saving the Silver Fir. And he had grown his own star. It also turns out that he was a lot easier to decorate than the previous Christmas Tree; all you had to do was hang an ornament on all of his yellow spiny needles.
So, Cactus and his best friend Sandman got to leave the Mirage Hotel and travel all over the wintry places of the world, and places that weren’t so wintry but were wonderful anyway, like Hawaii, spreading desert warmth and Christmas cheer, and feeling “cool” for the first time in their lives. And everywhere they went, people sang:
“Oh Cactus Tree, Oh Cactus Tree, of all the trees most spiky,
Oh Cactus Tree, Oh Cactus Tree, of all the trees most spiky,
Each year you make a point to be, the very coolest Christmas tree,
Oh Cactus Tree, Oh Cactus Tree, of all the trees most spiky.”
(Sandman had a song for himself, to the same tune, which he would attempt to sing afterwards as a second verse. It was called "Oh Tan and Brown." But he always fell asleep after the first line.)
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
It is a wondrous place, filled with anything and everything you could ever dream of. A lot of water, first of all, shimmering in large pools. And camels. And food, mostly figs and dates, but they’ve got a lot of cheetos, and chocolates, and, well, anything else your mother never allows you to slip into the shopping cart.
Although it is in the middle of the desert, it is never in the same place for very long. Lots of people have seen it, but they either waited too long, or waited too little, and by the time they got there, well, it wasn’t there any more.
At the Mirage Hotel, there lived a talking Cactus tree named, appropriately, Cactus. He was a tall green cactus, shaped like a man, covered in spiny yellow needles. And at the top of what looked like his head, every once in a while, a beautiful flower bloomed.
His best friend was the Sandman. He looked kind of like a Snowman, only he was made of sand. And instead of standing up, he was always lying down. The Sandman was a very sleepy fellow, you see.
One hot summer day (it was always hot and always summer at the Mirage Hotel), the Sandman had a newspaper draped over his face. Cactus thought he was asleep, as usual. So he was surprised when Sandman shouted through the newspaper.
“Cactus,” he yawned, “Check this out.”
“What?” Cactus said.
“There’s a contest that’s going to happen right here, tomorrow. A Christmas Tree contest. The winner gets to be the new Christmas Tree, and have his picture taken in all the coldest places in the world. And he gets to take along a friend.” Sandman’s voice, which was rarely more than a sleepy murmur, for once sounded excited. “Cactus, this might be your ticket out of here! It might be our ticket out of here!”
For although the Mirage Hotel was a wonderful place, it was always dreadfully hot. For Cactus and Sandman, cold sounded nice.
“What are the rules?” Cactus asked excitedly.
“See for yourself.”
And Cactus bent over to pick up the newspaper. Only, because he didn’t have fingers, the best he could do was stab his needles through the paper.
“Ouch!” cried Sandman.
“Sorry,” mumbled Cactus. And he clumsily spread the newspaper, tearing it some more in the process. This is what he read:
“Christmas Tree Contest Rules. Two Rules. Rule Number One: You must be an evergreen-” Cactus turned to Sandman. “What’s an evergreen?” he asked.
“It’s a tree that- is always green,” mumbled Sandman, who was already falling asleep.
“Check,” chimed Cactus happily. And he continued to read. “Rule Number Two: You must be a conifer-“ Cactus again turned to Sandman. “What’s a conifer?” he asked.
But Sandman was already asleep, snoring peacefully.
Cactus read on, and thankfully got an answer. Or at least part of it. The article said: “A conifer is a tree that has needles for leaves.“
“Check Check!” chimed Cactus happily, wiggling his many many needles.
And he continued to read. “A conifer also has cones for-“ But the last word had been stabbed through by his needles, and could not be read.
“Cones for what?” Cactus wondered. “Cones for- ice cream? Cones for- redirecting traffic?” Finally, he decided. “It must be cones for heads. It must be that.” And he walked over to the Hat Boutique at the Mirage Hotel, and among the many turbans, he was able to find one single purple cone hat, large enough to fit over his head. “Perfect!” he shouted, trying it on.
The very next day, he went to the Mirage Hotel Ballroom, where the contest was to be held.
Poor Cactus. Little did he know that the contest was a big marketing scheme. The rules prevented most trees from entering, except evergreen conifers, which was what Christmas Trees basically were anyway. One of the most popular traditional Christmas Trees, the Silver Fir, was going to win the contest no matter what. And it would get a big boost in publicity at the same time.
Cactus stood proudly in the middle of the ballroom, amidst giant sequoias, dwarf pines, even recumbent junipers, his tall purple cone hat making him stand out.
The judges assigned each of the contestants a number. Cactus was Number 11. The judges then called out the numbers of the trees one by one, letting them know that they weren’t Christmas Tree material. “Number 253!” “Number 17!” “Number 21!” Gradually, the ballroom got emptier and emptier.
Soon, there were only two trees left: #11 Cactus, and the shoe-in winner, #7 the Silver Fir, who was already dressed in Christmas ornaments and flickering electric Christmas lights. Although the judges had already made up their minds, they didn’t know what to think of Cactus, and wanted to ask him some questions.
“So, Number 11,” the head judge said, “Cactus, is it? Why are you wearing that ridiculous purple hat?”
Cactus suddenly felt embarrassed. He realized that none of the other trees in the contest had worn a cone hat, including #7. The Silver Fir shook its needles in laughter, giving off a fresh mountain scent. “Uh,” Cactus muttered, leaning this way and that, not knowing how to answer.
“Psst,” whispered a voice. When Cactus looked down, he noticed Sandman lying on the floor right behind him. “Tell them it’s a Christmas decoration.”
“It’s my, uh, Christmas decoration,” Cactus told the judges.
“Unusual,” murmured the head judge. “And original.”
The Silver Fir bristled its needles in indignation. “What!?” it shouted. “Why are you wasting time listening to this- this impostor! He’s no conifer! Ask him about his seeds already!”
The head judge nodded. “Number 11, conifers have cones for seeds. What about you? Where are your seeds?”
Cactus bowed his head. So that’s what conifers had cones for! Seeds! He shook his head, dejected. “I- don’t have any.”
The head judge nodded. “Well, I’m sorry,” he said. “I guess that means we have our winner.”
“Alright!” shouted Silver Fir. “It’s about time!”
Cactus shuffled away sadly as a chorus sang “Oh Christmas Tree,” and the head judge walked up to the new (and old) winner to crown it with a super bright halogen star.
But then something happened. The Mirage Hotel was a hot place, you remember, and during the contest, the Silver Fir’s needles had become very dry. So as soon as the super bright (and super hot) halogen star was placed upon its head, it ignited and set the tree ablaze. “Help! Help!!!” it screamed, shaking off ornaments.
Without a thought, Cactus rushed over to the Silver Fir, and poked holes into his own body with his needles. Water shot forth from the holes in tiny jets, and he aimed them carefully at the fire.
Within a matter of seconds, the fire was out! The Silver Fir was almost as good as usual, only the leaves up top were singed and blackened. Cactus carefully removed the purple cone hat from his head, and placed it over the Silver Fir’s burnt head.
“Thank you,” said the Silver Fir in gratitude.
Everyone in the ballroom gasped. For on Cactus’s now hatless head was a beautiful blossom. It was silver and gold colored, and shaped like a many pointed star.
Everyone agreed after that that Cactus should be the new Christmas Tree. He had been selfless and brave in saving the Silver Fir. And he had grown his own star. It also turns out that he was a lot easier to decorate than the previous Christmas Tree; all you had to do was hang an ornament on all of his yellow spiny needles.
So, Cactus and his best friend Sandman got to leave the Mirage Hotel and travel all over the wintry places of the world, and places that weren’t so wintry but were wonderful anyway, like Hawaii, spreading desert warmth and Christmas cheer, and feeling “cool” for the first time in their lives. And everywhere they went, people sang:
“Oh Cactus Tree, Oh Cactus Tree, of all the trees most spiky,
Oh Cactus Tree, Oh Cactus Tree, of all the trees most spiky,
Each year you make a point to be, the very coolest Christmas tree,
Oh Cactus Tree, Oh Cactus Tree, of all the trees most spiky.”
(Sandman had a song for himself, to the same tune, which he would attempt to sing afterwards as a second verse. It was called "Oh Tan and Brown." But he always fell asleep after the first line.)
MERRY CHRISTMAS!
Kiiko Matsumoto Style Acupuncture
Today was the second (and final) week of what my acupuncture school calls "Practitioner Observation." Basically, I go into clinic and work on patients as I normally would in my practice, and then answer any and all questions from the observing students... Last week, I treated it more as a classroom exercise. I had no formal patients come in, so instead, I treated a student... We performed the intake together, with the other observing students asking questions, etc. I think it was an all around success, a good exercise in the whole intake procedure... And I got to do Kiiko Matsumoto Style Acupuncture, which is VERY DIFFERENT (almost an entirely different species) from Traditional Chinese Acupuncture (as is taught and tested in the school).
LO and behold, this week one of the students comes in with a friend who had just been studying and practicing intensely with Kiiko Matsumoto herself! And, as again there were no formal patients, this friend volunteers to be the patient! Talk about intimidation! I mean, everything I know of Kiiko Matsumoto Style comes from a couple of seminars I attended in San Francisco, and careful study of all the books she's written... I've never worked with the woman myself (I once made her crack up at a seminar when I mentioned that, in Hawaii, all we watch is "Soko ga Shiritai" and [in that voice] "Abarenbo Shogun!")... Still, I tried my best, again, treated it like a good classroom exercise... Did some Kiiko Matsumoto, and then some more musculoskeletal stuff on the patient's back... It was a success, both for the students, and for my "patient." She gave me some pointers at the end ("Kiiko actually does it this way"), but she really enjoyed and appreciated the treatment.
THANK GOD PRACTITIONER OBSERVATION IS OVER!
And, as this is Finals Week, after this, school will be over for at least a few weeks!!!
LO and behold, this week one of the students comes in with a friend who had just been studying and practicing intensely with Kiiko Matsumoto herself! And, as again there were no formal patients, this friend volunteers to be the patient! Talk about intimidation! I mean, everything I know of Kiiko Matsumoto Style comes from a couple of seminars I attended in San Francisco, and careful study of all the books she's written... I've never worked with the woman myself (I once made her crack up at a seminar when I mentioned that, in Hawaii, all we watch is "Soko ga Shiritai" and [in that voice] "Abarenbo Shogun!")... Still, I tried my best, again, treated it like a good classroom exercise... Did some Kiiko Matsumoto, and then some more musculoskeletal stuff on the patient's back... It was a success, both for the students, and for my "patient." She gave me some pointers at the end ("Kiiko actually does it this way"), but she really enjoyed and appreciated the treatment.
THANK GOD PRACTITIONER OBSERVATION IS OVER!
And, as this is Finals Week, after this, school will be over for at least a few weeks!!!
Sunday, December 2, 2007
Random Thoughts: Bufotenin
The Cane Toad, the toad that plagues Hawaii and Australia (I believe that the Australian plague of toads actually originates from Hawaii) secretes a toxin from its parotoid glands. One component of the toxin is called Bufotenin, which is commonly classified as a hallucinogen. Other components of the toxin include a digoxin like compound (similar to foxglove). Digoxin is used therapeutically to treat problems such as arrhythmia and angina. However, it has a very narrow therapeutic index (the range between therapeutic and toxic dosages), and therefore is dangerous, and potentially fatal.
In a two part short story, I write about cane toads. The second part of the short story introduces a (fictitious) gay Nerd who harbors "venomous" resentment towards those who persecute him and his friends, and, inspired by the protagonist's repeated use of the imagery of toads, decides to utilize toad venom (bufotenin, mixed with digoxin) to poison his enemies... There are several reasons why toad venom, secreted from parotoid glands, is an effective image: 1) the characters in this story are adolescent, undergoing puberty, and therefore suffering from "zits." Whiteheads, parotoid gland secretions; 2) toads secrete toad venom when threatened. Similarly, the gay character considers poisoning his enemies the only fit remedy to intolerable persecution.
In a two part short story, I write about cane toads. The second part of the short story introduces a (fictitious) gay Nerd who harbors "venomous" resentment towards those who persecute him and his friends, and, inspired by the protagonist's repeated use of the imagery of toads, decides to utilize toad venom (bufotenin, mixed with digoxin) to poison his enemies... There are several reasons why toad venom, secreted from parotoid glands, is an effective image: 1) the characters in this story are adolescent, undergoing puberty, and therefore suffering from "zits." Whiteheads, parotoid gland secretions; 2) toads secrete toad venom when threatened. Similarly, the gay character considers poisoning his enemies the only fit remedy to intolerable persecution.
A Poem: One that Got Away
This poem was written during my senior year at Williams. It was published in the Williams Literary Review, Spring of 94. I plan on using it after the "Backwards Carp" Story, in order to resonate with the "fish" imagery.
The One that Got Away
Boxed in water
drowned in glass
the gourami eyes the green
that frosts the walls
its only food in years.
It knows the lay
of shit-stained gravel
just by the touch of
whiskers that drag limp.
Here, neglected plastic aquarium mesas,
gaudy hiding places for
this fish that no one sees.
There, in the far corner,
the charcoal filter
that lost its breath,
air pipes stuffed by age,
algae arteriosclerosis.
Outside
sits the same sad boy,
still trying to capture
the Perfect Fish
with crayon lines,
the one that will hook
his parents’ eyes,
the one that will keep them
from getting away.
It slip-slithers like slick scales
before fingers that grip too tightly,
glitters behind seaweed fronds
in his mind.
A frown draws his hard lips shut.
“Look at me,” mouths
the gourami over and over,
unnoticed.
Its wish comes true one day,
for the first time in years.
Its brilliant smell gives it away.
Lying in webs behind the shelf
its spine frozen in the arc
of its last and only silver leap.
Its belly is up,
open to a blind corner of the ceiling
far above.
The father wraps it up
in last week’s edition.
The boy returns
to his crayons.
Tired of fish,
he grinds a fresh pink scrape,
tip of a tentacle,
with puckered suckers
that he hopes
will wrap,
grip,and never let go.
The One that Got Away
Boxed in water
drowned in glass
the gourami eyes the green
that frosts the walls
its only food in years.
It knows the lay
of shit-stained gravel
just by the touch of
whiskers that drag limp.
Here, neglected plastic aquarium mesas,
gaudy hiding places for
this fish that no one sees.
There, in the far corner,
the charcoal filter
that lost its breath,
air pipes stuffed by age,
algae arteriosclerosis.
Outside
sits the same sad boy,
still trying to capture
the Perfect Fish
with crayon lines,
the one that will hook
his parents’ eyes,
the one that will keep them
from getting away.
It slip-slithers like slick scales
before fingers that grip too tightly,
glitters behind seaweed fronds
in his mind.
A frown draws his hard lips shut.
“Look at me,” mouths
the gourami over and over,
unnoticed.
Its wish comes true one day,
for the first time in years.
Its brilliant smell gives it away.
Lying in webs behind the shelf
its spine frozen in the arc
of its last and only silver leap.
Its belly is up,
open to a blind corner of the ceiling
far above.
The father wraps it up
in last week’s edition.
The boy returns
to his crayons.
Tired of fish,
he grinds a fresh pink scrape,
tip of a tentacle,
with puckered suckers
that he hopes
will wrap,
grip,and never let go.
A Poem: GAMAN
Just a short little ditty I wrote about being five.
Gaman*
Five year old sits on the kitchen chair
While mother razors unruly hair
To all his tears and sobbed despair
She whispers, “Gaman, Gaman.”
His head ends up a chawan bowl
to catch stray questions from his soul
“Why is hair cut, why must hair grow?”
She whispers, “Gaman, Gaman.”
*"Gaman” is a Japanese word that means “to endure, persist, or persevere - to do one’s best - in times of frustration and adversity.” It is a fundamental attitude in Japanese society, the source, perhaps, of all the contorted facial expressions and constipated cries of Kabuki theater. Interestingly enough, “Gaman” (as spelled, not pronounced) is also an old German word for “amusement,” and is the root for the modern word “game.” Which makes you wonder about some past cultural infection, because the Japanese seem to actually enjoy and entertain themselves by holding their farts in until they have an aneurysm (I’m Japanese, I should know).
Gaman*
Five year old sits on the kitchen chair
While mother razors unruly hair
To all his tears and sobbed despair
She whispers, “Gaman, Gaman.”
His head ends up a chawan bowl
to catch stray questions from his soul
“Why is hair cut, why must hair grow?”
She whispers, “Gaman, Gaman.”
*"Gaman” is a Japanese word that means “to endure, persist, or persevere - to do one’s best - in times of frustration and adversity.” It is a fundamental attitude in Japanese society, the source, perhaps, of all the contorted facial expressions and constipated cries of Kabuki theater. Interestingly enough, “Gaman” (as spelled, not pronounced) is also an old German word for “amusement,” and is the root for the modern word “game.” Which makes you wonder about some past cultural infection, because the Japanese seem to actually enjoy and entertain themselves by holding their farts in until they have an aneurysm (I’m Japanese, I should know).
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