FireVaney

Among Nikki’s fears: Heights, trains, butterflies, and birds—in particular, pigeons and crows. Heights and trains because whenever she’s confronted with either, she contemplates suicide. Trains, too, because she dreams of them oncoming. Butterflies, because she was once engulfed by a swarm of them. Birds, because her mother was once attacked by a crow. Somehow, it had trapped itself in the drying machine. Said crow flapped up into the kitchen and proceeded to attack a red velvet cake. Had you walked into the kitchen (post crow), and nobody told you about the cake (or the crow), you might’ve wondered why the walls, floor, ceiling, and surfaces were all seemingly splattered with chunks of bloody flesh and black feathers. In the end, a neighbor smacked the life out of that crow with a tennis racquet. The kicker? Just the day before, Nikki had sat through all of Hitchcock’s The Birds .  31 March 2006

She’s somewhere around ninety-five, my Great Aunt Hattie. Her three younger brothers couldn’t say for sure when she was born. Hattie can barely walk now. She’s fallen a few too many times. Her hips couldn’t take the punishment. Even with hearing aids, she can hear about as well as she can walk. Pop, Betty, and I pay her a visit nearly once a week. Toward the end of a recent visit, I overheard Hattie telling Betty that every week she expected to die. She choked back tears when she told Betty this. Betty, with her ever-sunny disposition, did her best to raise Hattie’s spirits. As I see it, Hattie couldn’t ask for much more out of her ninety-something years of life, save for a little less death. When I kiss her goodbye, I usually kiss the air near her face. She doesn’t stink or anything. It’s MY hang-up. Well, this last time when I did it, Hattie chuckled and said, “You give cold kisses.” So I went ahead and pecked her cheek. She said it again, “You give cold kisses,” but at least she kep...

...and it's still going.  A Nova Scotia man is the proud owner of a 1985 Toyota Tercel.  Despite being 40 years old, the car is in mint condition.  But there is one thing wrong with it:  the odometer doesn't go up high enough.

There you are, a grown man nearing middle age, rehearsing a silly play in somebody’s cold, dank basement. You’ve got a bit part, so you spend a lot of time waiting on the cold radiator wishing it would warm up. You’re wondering what you’re doing there anyway. Q: What have you to gain from this experience? A: Only the thrill of performing—that is all. Theatre on the fringe is a hassle and a thrill and nobody understands or appreciates that fact, unless they’ve done it themselves. But you want more. You want sex with the young beauty in the cast. You want some lasting [positive] consequence. You’re getting too old to rehearse in cold basements with poor lighting and spider webs and mold. You always get bit parts and you’re always the most dedicated and yet nobody ever takes you seriously. True, it doesn’t help that you’re an inveterate ham.  21 March 2007

Consider the childhood imaginary friend. It is an accepted form of psychosis, is it not? Perhaps “psychosis” isn’t the best word for it, but you get my meaning. As a child, you might’ve been encouraged to conjure up a hallucinated companion. As an adult, however, such imaginative exercises are not encouraged. That said, many DO encourage the practice of “projecting” some desired outcome (Winning The Game, Acing The Interview, Boarding The Plane, etcetera). So, it struck me – just yesterday – that I still have an imaginary friend of a sort. It’s a coping mechanism. It’s a way of dealing with my loneliness. And it’s based on you. (Assuming you’re reading this.) Jenny says to Forest Gump, “I wish I could’ve been there with you.” Forest replies, “You were.” And I know what he means. So now what? Now, perhaps, I’ll be able to, in effect, put faux-you to bed. Once you know what something is, you can put it in its place. Physically as well as mentally. Well, when you come right down to it, it...