In Jail With Pill Bugs

I was in fifth grade in a small elementary school with kids I'd grown up with.  I had confidence and felt as secure as a kid can be who knows nothing about the world at large but believes they do.  While we were learning times tables or history or something one hot day, Anna picked her nose two aisles over, I watched dust motes turning like thin little fish in midair, and Mr. Sinclair sat at his desk while we sat at ours.  The dust motes were high overhead, and my head lolled to the left to see them. I thought of outer space where the motes surely came from.  The light fixtures looked like space ships, and a limp flag hung at the front of the class that we saluted every morning.  There were holes made in the ceiling tiles that were meant to absorb sounds, and I had an idea that if the sounds could be retrieved and played on a phonograph, they would reveal all sorts of jumbled and mixed messages, that no words were ever lost at school.

The fifth graders at work in the class bent to their work, the little drudges.  I, on the other hand, could not get my head in the game and looked about for something to entertain myself.  I looked left and right, peeked up at the teacher who sat grading papers at his desk in the front right corner of the class.  High up on the wall over his head, arrayed in a long row of panes, was an open window. A kid got picked every day to be the window monitor and pull them open with a long pole equipped with a hook at its tip.  It was hot and the windows were tilted open into the class.  The dust motes danced in slow motion.  I glanced at Anna, a skinny blonde girl with plastic headband raked through her hair. I was feeling a little sour and irritable. I sighed heavily.  Mr. Sinclair looked up and then down again at the papers.  Erasers scrubbed at papers and feet scuffled the floor.  The clock on the wall ticked its hands mechanically into the next minute position.  2:21 it said tediously.

I noticed Anna again and felt disgusted with the finger mining the interior reaches of her nasal passages.  I wondered if there were boogers on my own desk from whoever had sat there the period before.  I wanted to get out of there, leave a trailing swirl of dust motes behind me like a cluster of reporters asking after the escapee.  Don, a plump and usually good-natured boy with a bristling buzz of hair on his round head was at the desk in front of me.  He wore a thin cotton plaid shirt that stretched across his wide back.  Idly, I picked up my pencil and twirled it.  The tip was nicely pointed and I felt its taper in my fingertip.  I reached forward and poked Don in the back almost as if my hand had decided all on its own to take the stab, without malice, without forethought.  I could have been poking a board for all the interest I had in the action.

Don screamed instantly and whirled wildly around to face me.  He swept my books off the top of my desk to the floor where they landed with a crash.  The teacher jumped up and moved swiftly to Don, grabbing him as if he had suddenly become insane without provocation and needed restraint.

"Stop that! Go outside and don't make a sound!"

"She stabbed me!" Don looked crazed, and I was thrilled, amazed at what had just happened.  I started giggling at the absurd sound of a boy screaming exactly like a girl and the sight of my books strewn on the floor.

"You go outside, too!  I don't want any noise out there from either of you or you're going to the office."

We went out to stand in the heat and doldrums of midday.  Don, whom I'd actually considered to be a friend of a sort up to now, said his back was fine and why did I stab him with my pencil.  I shrugged.  We stood looking at one another and started kicking pebbles, both of us now in jail, hoping for a shiv or a way to be freed for good.  Don said he was glad he didn't have to be in the classroom anymore and that his back was okay.  Me too, I said, and we were friends again.

I looked down at the cement walkway.  We were in an outdoor space covered by a wide overhang of the roof.  Pill bugs that we called rolley pollies - surely invented by God to amuse kids - were moving around down by my feet, so I picked some up and made them roll up.  I saw the open window up at the top of the wall and motioned to Don to aim for it.  We started lobbing pill bugs in through the window, with the only concern being that we make the shot each time.  It was the best fun of the day so far and beat times tables by a long shot.  Then the pill bugs were all gone, thrown to their fate through the open window. Next, we found pebbles and tossed them up and in, never hitting the window pane once.  We became very accurate with every pebble arcing up and through the window space, disappearing into the dark interior of the classroom.

Suddenly the door was pushed open and Mr. Sinclair was standing there with a reddened face.  "Do you know what's been landing on my desk?"

"No."  I tried my winning smile, all my charm, certain he would smile back at me.

"Don, come in here," Mr. Sinclair growled.  Don walked to the door and glanced back at me, grinning, then waved adios.

I was left on my own out in the hall, oblivious to the little havoc I was wreaking, submerged in my boredom and aimlessness.

The door opened again, and I was motioned in by the red-faced Mr. Sinclair.

"Sit down."  I sat and looked around.  Anna wasn't picking her nose anymore.  Kids were staring at me. I looked at the floor and saw pill bug carcasses littering it, a few pebbles.  Don had his back to me.

"Apologize to the class for your disruption."

"Sorry," I said.  I was not sorry.  I wanted to stick Don in the back again and hear him scream.  It was quite a sound he'd made and he'd gone wild in a very exciting way.

"I didn't hear you."  Mr. Sinclair was looking at me, and I looked back at him.  I was pretty sure he was trying not to smile, clenching his teeth, making the ridges of muscle stand out on his jawline.  He was a teacher I generally ignored as best I could, a man with not much imagination but who seemed fair enough.

"I'm sorry," I said, only sorry the bell had not yet rung and set us free.

"Will you ever stab Dod again?" he asked.

"No."

"Don, say you're sorry to her," Mr. Sinclair said.

"She stabbed me with her pencil!" Don shrilled.

"That's enough."

"She did!"

"You threw her books on the floor.  I want an apology or we are all going to be here until I get one."

Don heaved back into his chair, disgusted, "I'm sorry I threw your books onto the floor after you stabbed me with your pencil," he stated, not looking at me.  Mr. Sinclair glared.  The class was silent.  A kid next to me eyed my pencil tip.  I suppose he was looking for blood although I hadn't poked Don hard enough to draw anything more than the reaction.

Inside I was happy with this development, surprised Don had had to apologize, satisfied with the entertainment I'd stirred up, and glad not to see Anna picking her nose anymore.  We scattered at the bell and the day's heat gathered us into it's suffocating arms.  Don gave me a wide berth after that and I found no more opportunities to lob bugs or raise cain.

Flowers Help Me Wait

Today is not the kind of day one runs outside with a song in one's heart as the sun bursts into view and birds sing.  The birds are soggy and huddled on the leeward side of trees, and the sun is staying put in the tropics, thumbing its nose at us who are inundated by rain and buffeted by wind.

There are many things we can call upon, tools in our toolboxes, that we can use to get through the gloom and gray of wet weather.  I like to play good music and move around indoors, which usually does the trick.  If that doesn't work, one must root around in one's "toolbox" for other devices to ward off inertia.  Plenty of storms that plunder trees of their flowers and weakened branches make one feel intimidated and reluctant to move off of the sofa or out of bed, wishing it would all go away.

Two days ago, when I was scurrying to the grocery store to get out of the wind and wet, I saw a display of fresh flowers, grabbed some and continued on about my shopping.  Having the little beauties at my side as I went up and down the aisles did me a lot of good, and they look cheerful now on my kitchen table.  I love flowers no matter what.  It seems to be they are a really good gloom antidote, so I keep them around, ready to cheer me every time I re-enter my kitchen or any other room where I can keep them.

Surely the rain will cease someday soon and the flowers outside will bloom as in no other year.  Spring is here, on paper, but the season has yet to warm us in real life.  I'm ready, very ready, with my flowers cheering me as I wait.

Desiderata at 5 AM

Prudence and experience teach you that it's wise to stick with the routine, the ordinary, and the safe things in order to make it to old age.  But what am I to make of that now that I have reached my middle years and life seems mundane?

Not being so wise, I guess, I am up at 5 to make my way across town in time for the 5:30 swim. I am driving along thinking to myself, "Yuck, rain" when I look up and see what seems to be a tribal ritual in full swing, vividly displayed in sedate and peaceful Monterey.

I sit up higher. What could this mean? Up ahead, I see city trucks with flashing lights.  And there's fire!  There are men and they are looking at something, and yes, there really is fire.  Now I'm awake.  I squint to see exactly what could be on fire in all the wet and cold.  There are two men in yellow safety-striped foul weather gear.  Are their feet on fire?  I see bright, open, leaping flames in the middle of the dark street. I need to take a closer look.  I feel my heart beating, wish I had my camera.

The men are looking intently down at the ground and one of them is holding a long broom-like wand shooting blue spikes of fire, waving it back and forth through the flames.  The ground actually is on fire and white-hot tongues of it are licking upward in the dark morning.  Their work truck lights are flickering off nearby plate-glass windows and the rain-slicked streets shine with the firelight and beams from headlights.  And there is no sound.  The silence perhaps is the most eerie thing.  The wolves of death are not howling, the winds of time are not whistling in the rafters.  The rain is pattering on the roof of my car.

I imagine the layered meanings of this scene, the symbolism, the overt oddity at least.  Is this a signal that evil lurks even in quiet conservative places where nothing much happens? This could be an ordinary city street transformed from pavement to ritual altar upon which smokes and leaps a white-hot bit of hell.  Pure hell and the men are doing the bidding of the devil himself, captured in the middle of the night while they were out clearing drains and now forced to set everything on fire.  It's a battle, a test of wills.  The men cannot resist the evil intention of Satan and are stunned, cowed, forced to do...work?  But why is Lucifer intent on setting Monterey's wet streets on fire at 5:30 in the morning?  Why not Las Vegas or LA, the dens of iniquity?  It is very possible that the calm complacency of our small town needs a bit of bone rattling and I am lucky witness to the vanguard forces that intend to rattle the bones, set the place alight, bring it to ruin and ash.

With the hunched silhouettes of the two men playing with open flame in the dark quiet of a rainy morning, I can surely expect to see some large monolithic slab rising up out of the chilly ground and an orchestral blast of grand music.  Can't I?  There is no giant beam of light splitting the dark from the far edges of space and no mothership in sight.  Not that I can see anyway.  My eyes are riveted.  Thus Spake Zarathustra rings across the reaches of my memory, and I look for a femur to throw up in the air with my fellow apes.

Deep sigh.  No leg bones in reach; just my umbrella.  My fingers touch its sensible nylon fabric and escort me back to reality.  I guess I'll get back to slogging, doing ordinary good in the world, go quietly amid the noise and haste, miss my 15 minutes of fame.  My glory will live and die in my own mind.  I'm just me.

The signal light turns green; I shift into first.  My imagination subdues itself gradually. I shift into second gear and accelerate away from the fire-bedeviled scene, the yellow-clad men disappearing in my rearview mirror.  It could be worse; hell could actually be my daily reality and misery my constant companion.  Playing it safe could make it safe for others to emerge from their own infernos, I guess.  But the flame had such a sinister appeal and stirred up a little of evil in my soul.  It would seem that even the most sedate among us have a shadow that lies in obscurity, that howls at the moon and emerges when bidden by fire.  

Luck and Courage

“Anyone can give up, it's the easiest thing in the world to do. But to hold it together when everyone else would understand if you fell apart, that's true strength.”

The people in Japan who have survived what appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be hell on earth are exhibiting strength in ways that are never known to us unless we are faced with overwhelmingly bad odds. Courage like theirs began with dumb luck:  They were near a pole or railing when the raging waters swept past or were near a path leading to high ground to which they ran and survived.  After luck left them high and dry, courage and strength emerged.  They will have to hang onto that far longer and harder than they did to the post or rail.  For the Japanese people we're watching on TV, life and death is a whole new game they were thrown into, ready or not.  And the rules are being written on a daily basis.  

I think we'd understand if they all had nervous breakdowns or if they fell apart or sat sobbing and inert for days under all that stress.  This is crushing stress, and the behavior we might be witness to on the daily news may seem inexplicable if you are sitting comfortably within the depths of a cushioned sofa or Barcalounger.  Make no mistake though:  The stress of this disaster and disasters on that scale we have seen at other times is literally forming new neural pathways in the minds and bodies of these survivors so that they will be forever impacted by the experience.   

Nearly all former neural paths that gave rise to movements, thoughts and responses to normal life in their villages and towns prior to the tsunami now need to be replaced - nearly instantaneously - by new ones.  All frames of reference, landmarks, routines are gone.  All of it.  

Think about how much you depend on things being where they are in your familiar home.  Keys?  They're right there.  Gas station?  Four blocks away, thank you, and it's always open from 6 AM to 10 PM.  Food? Four supermarkets within a three-mile radius with every possible luxury stocked for your convenience.  Pretty nifty being safe and sound, eh?  

The survivors are left with a few instincts.  That's it.  Drink water, find food, get warm, find your mother, or find your child.  All frames of reference are shattered and strewn far and wide.  You don't have a toilet   or a bed anymore.  Money? bank? car?  Gone.  Pffft.  

People in those circumstances are only able to behave based on instinct and automatic movements.  The rest is dazed, uncertain and uncoordinated, and it often appears to be nonsensical to observers.  A woman, for instance, was seen taking some items to a recycling bin at a shelter and recycling cans and bottles.  All around her for miles and miles were crumpled heaps of splintered trash and she is going through the motions of recycling.  And it's because she is stunned and shocked by her experience, barely able to function because her mind's neural pathways need to rebuild and renew.  She was nearly in ruins herself, but she was functioning, albeit on a very basic level.  After all, she had survived hell.  

Fate is a cruel hunter in Japan these days.  If there is anything that is obvious, it is courage in a quantity that surpasses the wreckage by a thousandfold.  All that pain and all that sorrow surely affects us all in ways we cannot know.  I only hope that, at the very least, our admiration and respect for their courage affects them in a positive way and gives them further strength as they heal.  

Walking On the Right

Sometimes at dawn the new day calls so entreatingly that to deny the urge to go listen more closely is impossible.  I answered the call and went out for a very early walk.  I took in the day while mulling over recent conversations with friends, the fleeting thoughts of world news, all the while looking at changes in the neighborhood but not really seeing them.

Eventually, I felt a quiet change from walking automatically while still thinking and not noticing much to noticing quite a lot and walking more calmly.  In other words, the walk integrated my whole self eventually:  Body, mind and spirit.  I wouldn't go so far as to say it was walking meditation; I've done that before.  But, I did at least notice the shift from unawareness to integrated awareness and creative observing.

It felt like I woke up all over again.

Much of what I do involves automatic behavior, based on habits and old patterns developed over years.  Sometimes when I'm driving I'll realize I hadn't really been thinking about driving and that the car seemed to have driven itself.  My mind was fixed on some problem or past situation that I was reliving, and whatever I'd passed on the way I'd never even noticed.  It's not a very satisfying feeling, and it can even feel unnerving, being so distracted by worries and mundane details of the day.

That's the way my morning walk started out on this particular day.  But, little things were capturing my attention and holding it briefly, long enough to make my feet slow and my eyes linger and even take a photograph.  At some point, perhaps after 10 or 12 minutes, my looking became more deliberate and the present time finally required all my attention.  It was that mind shift I've written about before - when interest and creativity are more available because the mind shifts its function to a different neural area that allows for creative thinking and functioning.

At that moment, I was present but relaxed, and I could notice things without analyzing them.  I could now see flowers as form and color instead of a five-lobed subspecies of the pea family or something.  One is not better than the other; it's just a shift in brain function that is manifested as "creative, right-brained thinking."

So, my pace slowed a bit, I let my feet and eyes determine my destinations along the way, and I got more into photographing.  Logical thinking in which I had been reviewing work from the night before gradually faded away and I "forgot about it."  Which is to say, my mind let it go and let me imagine possibilities and see objects in new interesting ways.

So, on this walk I left thinking on the left and came back home thinking on the right.  Perhaps that's the call of the wild - at least to me.  Set aside tasks and lists and let the juices flow to see what might become of your imagination.