After an overnight five hours of sleep, I did my morning work, shopped for potatoes and meatloaf, heard a lot about the financial collapse, stripped my bed and washed the sheets, listened to the stocks fall, scraped dishes of egg, watched ten minutes of the hard-guy movie Heat, the armored-truck explosion punctuating each grind of my teeth against pecan-laced cereal, wrote five impassioned letters to my senators, committee chairs, and reps, and waited.
The woman and her daughter went to Europe where the woman got bitten by a dog on Corfu. People were there to translate 'tetanus', and a local clinic with unfamiliar-looking tongue depressors and band-aids that were called something else.
They reassured her that the incidence of rabies on the island was very, very small. In the evening, the tour ship served small cherry tomatoes and water from springs in the Trentino-Alto Adige-Sudtirol. The sea was nice under the slivered moon, and she was nervous.
1) The case against Hillary as Presidential standard-bearer was this:
If elected, her spouse would reside in the White House and be, arguably, a daily influence if not actual, unconfirmed advisor -- a problem only in that her spouse has already served the maximum two terms as President residing in the White House. This is not unconstitutional. This does raise 'Constitutional eyebrows', an alert, that earlier, fairly recent power hasn't been sufficiently severed.
2) The case against Sarah Palin as Vice-Presidential standard-bearer is this:
Had anyone stood blindfolded in any American shopping mall, been twirled around, then stopped to find the first woman they stumbled into, the odds would be strong of picking someone about as adequate.
Some speculation plays with an idea that there is already a 'future' out there, in place, at some other dimension, just waiting to happen. It's ready to fold itself into our living fabric as time comes.
Some other speculation, based (it seems) on physical theories derived from quantum mechanics, has it that there are innumerable 'futures' that accord with innumerable current universes.
Fatalism grows from the first. Nothing we do hasn't already been foretold, since wherever we aim, we will reach what is already there.
Implied by the second is confusion over what is 'real': we are living our lives, but theoretically may also very well be living our lives in many other ways. Who are we?
The second may also suggest to us a wealth of resources (uh, in this universe, borrowing metaphorically from the other) and options for what we do want to do.
That gives us license, but no further direction than the person who says I don't know what to do. Worse: the person who says I'm doing this because I say so.
The postal employee had a favorite joke whose punchline was 'Eeyoww!'
He shared the joke with another worker who often sat near him, both of them at their mail cases.
They found moments during each evening's work to repeat the joke in various contexts, struggling time and again to hold back the unrestrained laughter the joke brought them to.
The punchline itself became a shorthand for the whole joke, and it signaled laughs just on its own. Over time, the laughter diminished into chuckles, then into smiles, into a greeting and sometimes an inadvertent mumble below the breath of one or the other of them.
Eventually, the second worker retired.
The day afterward, the first worker, sitting at his customary place, looked forward at his mail case and repeated, to no one in particular, 'Eeyoww! Eeyoww!' A laugh came out with a quick snort. 'Eeyoww!' He repeated, and the tears of laughter ran down his cheeks.
You walk into a large church, a city's large church, late when there are no people, the usual silence and coldness of a big space with little heating. God's house. Nothing between your body standing somewhere near the entrance and the structural walls and partitions and benches and raised forward area where holy things specially take place.
Outside, occasional wheel traffic. Inside, no more than low slides and twists of a building's viscera.
'Hello?' you call. You move in so that the building can hear better. "Hello?' your head turns as you call.
A mountain filling the mouth, bacterial dirt clogging the interstices between each tooth, the gag reflex prevented by no further room for the throat to do but recoil in order to disgorge, but in the recoiling only to make room for more silt, root matter, fungi, that ever-intrudes.
Being waffled against firm chainlink as the hooligan crowd rages in their hundred toward your exit.
Like it must be when a vast sea storms and water hits like corner brick and the breath waits its patient count to 200 and quickened 400 and itself vacuums its fill of flotsam, phyloplancton, and fine salt.