Maybe I'm like those Tibetan monks who sing two interlaced notes at the same time, one lower and one higher. Harmonic overtones.
And I say this because at least once a day - using a normal speaking voice, although sometimes with volume - I remind all able-bodied persons in my household to wash their freaking dishes right after they are done using them.
If people in this house washed each bowl, fork, spook, cup immediately after they were done eating and drinking, then at the end of the day the sink would not be filled with a towering Mad Hatter's Party-worth of dirty dishes. That I would come home to. And then wake up to. And I wouldn't have to corral people to stand with me at the sink for a half-hour at a time to wash and dry all the dishes at once.
What I say out loud - what I think I hear myself saying out loud- is this:
FOR CRIPE'S SAKE, AS SOON AS YOU ARE FINISHED USING A DISH, SPOON, PLATE, BOWL, KNIFE, FORK, CUP, MUG, OR GLASS, PLEASE WASH, DRY AND PUT AWAY YOUR DISH, SPOON, PLATE, BOWL, KNIFE, FORK, CUP, MUG, OR GLASS.
That is what I say.
But - like the throat-singing monks - I must be also be inadvertently creating some counter-coded whistle-pitch message that is heard via direct stimulation of the parts of the brain which bother with such things.
And that other unheard but silently registered message must sound something like this:
I love you most of all, my Darling, and any instruction to wash dishes of course excludes you.
That is what I think is happening. I can't find another explanation.
Tuvan Super-Conscious Chore Exclusion Frequency. You head it here first.
So, our book of the day is this:
Re-published after John Lennon's death, I'm guessing I bought this around 1981 while a freshman in high school.
I did read this entire book, even though much of it is tough to get through in the same way the writing of your childhood friend Derrick - who penned his own versions of Jabberwocky while stoned and listening to T. Rex - was tough to get through.
Still...turning through the crunchy yellow paperback, I feel nostalgic. And grateful. There's more of "The Fat Growth on Eric Hearble" and "A Surprise For Little Bobby" threading through my writing than, say, Jane Eyre.
|There were no flies on Frank that morning - after all why not? He was a responsible citizen with a wife and child, wasn't he? It was a typical Frank morning and with an agility that defies description he leapt into the bathroom onto the scales. To his great harold he discovered he was twelve inches more tall heavy! He couldn't believe it and his blood raised to his head, causing a mighty red colouring.|
'I carn't not believe this incredible fact of truth about my very body which has not gained fat since mother begat me at childburn. Yea, though I wart through the valet of thy shadowy hut I will feed no norman. What grate qualmsy hath taken me thus into such a fatty hardbuckle.' Again Frank looked down at the awful vision which clouded his eyes with fearful weight. 'Twelve inches more heavy, Lo!, but am I not more fatty than my brother Geoffery whise father Alec came from Kenneth -- through Leslies, who begat Arthur, son of Eric, by the house of Ronald and April -- keepers of James of Newcastle who ran Madeline at 2-1 by Silver Flower, (10-2) past Wot-ro-Wot at 4/3d a pound?'
from "No Flies On Frank"
Reading these books during my formative word smithing years was something, let me tell you. After ten years of memorizing the litany of prepositions and dissecting clauses and not beginning sentences with "and" or "but" under threat of mortal syntax which is a grievous offense against the law of grammar, John Lennon's writing was the inspiration and the okay, finally, to break the rules with honed precision. To have fun, dammit. To take language, bust it up, twist it around, and make it boogie.
It's good stuff.
Required reading for kids who get hives at the thought of straying too afar Strunk and White.