Pensees (With Sound Effects).
BY COLIN MORT
“I’m not so insensitive as to say that you don’t know what you’re talking about, but if I were, I’d point out that some of the things you’re saying have no real point.”
Some recordings, when played at a party, cause madness and shuddering.
Between the fox and the hedgehog I’d rather be neither. I’d rather be something sleek that hides and is rather smart. Not quite a badger or a wolverine because they’re mean and have sharp claws, and my friends probably wouldn’t want to be friends with me then. But maybe an otter. They’re sort of playful, and everybody likes them.
Talent was something he lacked. He made up for this with tenacity, drive, and a good sense of humor, which, in the end, led him to the fame he now enjoys among select partygoers.
But if I swallow one now it might not last as long as it needs to. A mouthful of this may help, if I rub some of it behind my ears as well. But who knows anything.
Sweeping can accomplish only so much, unless it’s combined with other things. I’m not so sure I want to bother. The party will only undo whatever I manage to do.
Did you already forget everything I told you?
The people I expected to come were there minus a few I’d hoped would come plus a handful of those no one knew very well. Spinach was the rule of the evening.
A man I was talking to at the party said he liked my shoes, which I had forgotten I was wearing. “How cruel,” I said. He seemed pleased by this response.
Sometimes I look at the way something lies on the floor, like a conical paper party hat with silvery plastic fronds, and think it matters, that it has something to say to me and, by extension, the larger world. But then I’ll kick it or stomp on it or roll over it to see if that was the reaction it was looking for, and the entire sensation will fade away.
One other lady chortled near an end table.
The pleasures of human companionship have their limitations. Three people may be sitting on a park bench under an elm when a boy scooters past holding a slurpee. The first will be pleased by this and have warm, nostalgic thoughts. The second will be annoyed and have trouble regaining her train of thought. The third will be worried for the boy’s safety, because he has recently been in an auto wreck and knows firsthand how fragile life can be. I’m the second person.
I’m just relieved the new year is here, the old was desperately in need of something.
All records are incomplete. A transcript of the party would leave out the shrug Larry gave Jeanine when she turned away, the flamboyant eyerolls from the guy who asked to be called “King,” and at least one tongue that was extended in my direction when Bert thought I wasn’t looking.
Talk about boring. Please.
Morning is such an unusual way to begin the day. I’d rather be plunged into light then back into darkness — the anticipation of each is too tiresome. Maybe I’ll move to Greenland. Isn’t that how it works there?
One of my friends left a note for me to find the next morning. It read, “Look out! you’re standing on my toe.” Apparently, she’s even more shy than I thought.
SUGGESTED READSList: Apparent Passions of My Upstairs Neighbors
by Glenn Lingle (6/7/2006)
Open Letters: An Open Letter to the Illegal Amphibian Inhabiting our Suburban Pond
by Monica Wilcox (12/4/2009)
An Imagined Conversation Between the Construction Workers Upstairs From Me
by Ben Jurney (1/2/2014)
RECENTLYI Feel Like NPR Doesn’t Like My New Radio Show Idea
by Dan Kennedy (4/24/2015)
How to Find Love: Lessons from an Old Maid: Letter to Adults Who Are Also Having Zero Sex
by Connie Sun (4/24/2015)
Open Letters: An Open Letter to the Former Owner of My Queen-Size Bed
by Catherine Tung (4/24/2015)