Monthly Archives: June 2015
Certainly somebody should’ve reported the guy. He was out of control—running around nude in the woods. Viet Nam, I thought, you know, flashbacks. But no, he’s too young. Apparently it was some kind of regression to primitive camping. He says to the police, I’m getting in touch with me roots in time. He was killing squirrels with a slingshot, cooking on an open, non-permit fire. He agreed to wear a loin cloth of squirrel fur. But, the fire had to stop. You ask me he was eating them squirrels…raw. Gag me. Lord, what got into this guy. Turns out he’s got a wife and two kids in a condo up the hill and he is some kind of dot com guru who’s big rocket IPO fizzled on the pad. Faux millionaire. Probably burning stock certificates on his camp fires. That’s what worried the locals the most…fire…fair enough. Although it was fall…mist and chill in the air. I’m not trying to justify the primitive camper but I guess my neighbor whose backyard borders the woods…he’s got three young daughters who liked to play back there…but no more! He said he and his wife were terrified he’s a child molester…maybe blossoming serial killer. I demurred, respectfully; it’s an adaptation to loss. the loss of the contemporary. He thought he was a great hunter but he failed to bring home the kill. He’s trying to recover his manhood by retraining in our primitive past. I must say when I finished uttering my amateur diagnosis…the roomful of concerned neighbors stared at me like I’d just bitten off the head of a local squirrel and said it tastes like chicken. I smiled. Was I a candidate recruit for primitive camping, their eyes seemed to ask? Please!
Zoo. Ahead. Park here. Ticket. 3.50 each. Leaves. Trees. Kids. Adults. Parrots. Wallabies. Wildebeests. Gerbils. Cotton candy. Gorillas. Macaws. Porcupines. Snow leopards. Giraffes. Peacocks. Zookeepers. Bucket. Hose. Shovel. Bathrooms. Lions. Zebras. Camels. Wart hogs. Ostriches. Coyotes. Snakes. Prairie dogs. Monkeys. Baboons. Salamanders. Toucans. Eagle. Seagull. Peanuts. Butterfly. Donkey. Duck. Snack bar. Bench. Cigar. Trash. Garbage can. Thank you. Antelope. Tortoise. Pheasant. Owl. Bat. Ant. Toad. Frog. Newt. Cell phone. Clouds. Plane. Cars. Golf cart.
That’s enough of the zoo, he said. Can we go now? Pigeon. Squirrel. Raccoon. Mothers. Babies. Police. Open up now. Mr. Gate…time to go. Animals’ eyes in his back, “Don’t forget us!” Crying. Come back soon. Zoo. Fence. Park. Car. Depart.
Look, there’s a peacock in full feather. Quite a display. Like in the movies. Real life. Plankton. Bacteria. Wash your hands. Push. Open. Close. No exit. Zoo personnel only. Danger. Nursery. Sign here. Wear a mask. It’s just a standard precaution. Pull up your hood. Windy. We’ll come again. Soon. Sticky food. Snotty nose. Rams. Ibex. Wolverine. Wolf. Beetle. Worm. Tarantula. Hippo. Crocodile babies…Zoo.
Dr. Sock Monkey
Dr. Sock Monkey was a good listener. He said practically nothing during therapy. I didn’t mind of course. I had plenty to say. I liked the sound of my own gritty voice. I just refuse to have a name to tie me down; that way I can roam around the universe and be free.
Hey, I pay good money, and Dr. Sock Monkey listens, he’s the best in the business. He’s not really a sock monkey, but some kid he worked on years ago got his name a little confused…so he came to therapy and gave him his actual sock monkey. It’s not important if you don’t care about this cute story. Today, sock monkeys of many variations fill the doctor’s office and waiting room. Every patient, so very grateful for the relief of their psychic pain, eventually donates a sock monkey to the good doctor’s collection.
Once I asked Dr. Sock Monkey what will we all do when he dies?
He laughed and said perhaps most patients might gain as much value from talking to a doll—a stuffed sock!
I laughed too but later realized he was trying to divert my anxiety over death and loss, my intensely compressed nervousness, about the personal way Death stalks you…me…us…in the midst of life.
I wonder why I even look at the news. I can barely breathe, after the images of wretched death (here I will not disgust you with the power of morbid detail).
Dr. Sock Monkey is very patient with me. He laughs when I tell my stories of horrible diseases and bizarre fatal accidents…natural disasters as “acts of god”…
That’s what I really get to talk about…the nature of the Good, Bad and Ugly…God as Life and Death (the long arm agency of God…like a gunslinger)…and the vital questions of destiny and free will.
Dr. Sock Monkey welcomes me to each session every Friday with a friendly “how you feelin,” and I just rear back and spill my quivering guts to a room full of grinning monkeys.
Takes one to know one, I say, and the good Doctor chuckles.