cherry tree blossoms
mottle sunlight on gravestones
fluttering with life
cherry tree blossoms
Blogs, podcasts, memes, Twitter, forums, LOLcats, downloads… All that is well and good. But one of the best things the Internet provides me with is a little more substantive than instant gratification.
Whenever I’m faced with the feeling things are taking a decided turn for the utter bullshit, the Internet steps in with an ounce of perspective. And I don’t mean the petty schadenfreudic catharsis of People Of Walmart or Clients From Hell.
What I’m talking about is the Yoda-esque wisdom of the popular Twitter hashcode: #FML.
And by that I don’t mean to suggest Yoda is conveying to me, through the Internet, the aphorism: Your life. Fucked it is.
No, what I really mean is when I find myself muttering under my breath the dubious mantra, “Eff… em… el…” (or if the situation requires it, “Eff-Fucking-Em-El”), I realize I’ve reverted to being a whingeing emo teenager.
My El is never truly Effed. Not an uppercase Eff, at least.
Not an extended story this week, just five snapshots.
#1 : Having discovered he’d forgotten his wallet on the kitchen table, he felt eerily naked and unconsciously rubbed his wristwatch for comfort.
#2 : He flipped his collar up and, remembering that time with the puppies, steeled himself for the damp embrace of the cottony white fog.
#3 : The hands were frozen at 12 minutes to 4:00. But, Leon wondered, had it been 3:48 AM or 3:48 PM? And why would one be so cloyingly poignant?
#4 : At times she’d catch a hint of her first girlfriend’s perfume. No, not girlfriend. Crush. As melancholy and doomed as a deer’s musk gland.
#5 : Some days he felt sure he’d die alone, ravaged by dementia, weeping on a bare mattress long after everyone he knew or loved was dead.
A number of interesting dreams plagued my nights this Easter long weekend. A recurring theme seemed to be arriving back at a job I hated after an absence and finding I’d entirely forgotten how to perform my duties.
In one I was working at a sort of open-concept McDonald’s. Mostly I just followed the manager around various refrigerated compartments while she reminded me what I was supposed to be doing. I wasn’t really listening to her though and kept thinking, “I could just leave and never come back. I probably wouldn’t even need to give notice.” Then it occurred to me I wasn’t actually employed there at all and I was being brainwashed into thinking I did. This is why I couldn’t remember how to do my job.
I was right, of course. Some kind of alien plant species was brainwashing me. They looked like poppies before they bloom and if they touched you with the filament-like spines on their stems, they could communicate with you psychically. Apparently they had benevolent intentions despite almost tricking me into working at McDonald’s.
There was also an odd scene where they enveloped and tried to mate with a female scientist… in the mind.
In another dream I’d forgotten to check the shift calendar at the video store I worked at. The manager was, according to my coworker, furious I’d missed a shift the day before. I thought this was rather unfair since I hadn’t worked there in ten years, so why would I have checked the shift schedule? Also, instead of calling me about the shift, they’d written several date-stamped passive aggressive notes on the calendar. It seemed I also wasn’t wearing the new company attire. It was a pink and grey golf shirt. I found one in a drawer which my coworker seemed to think I shouldn’t wear. But I wore it anyway.
Then I spent the shift in the washroom sponge-bathing myself in the sink. The washroom seemed to double as a food-court and an overweight woman and her family sat at a curved counter eating noodles while they watched me scrub myself. A girl I didn’t recognise, but who claimed I worked with her, insisted I use her toothbrush. Which I apologetically refused to do.
I also had a dream where I was Wesley Crusher. The setting was a post-apocalyptic future where humans were living in refugee camps and an alien race had come down to Earth to help us out. Only I, wily Wesley Crusher, had figured out they were actually raising us for meat and not trying to save us at all. I convinced my friend, a 14 year old Felix Gaeta, of this and we hatched some sort of plan which got him gunned down by our reptilian robot overlords. At least mom and dad, Beverly and Riker, believed me after that.