StREAm # 5 3

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Blasted weather! It saps my creativity. Blast it! This is why I must move North. Around here, August is the worst – typically the worst. To my mind, it IS the worst. July is bad, but August is worse. Now, October? That’s a much better month. It’s my mother’s month. But more importantly, why can’t I dress the brown bear in its fur? YOU said I could. You promised. You wanted me to dress it in a red velvet jumpsuit. “But that’s too tacky,” says you. It’s MY bear! Why can’t I dress it how I please? Who are YOU to say how I should dress MY property. It IS my property. It’s not like it’s a REAL bear, a LIVE bear. It’s a mere teddy. I was wondering where that came from – that “teddy” bear term. I kinda knew already, but I wasn’t sure. One of my dictionaries, in case you didn’t know yourself, says that “Teddy” was the nickname for “Theodore,” alluding to “Theodore Roosevelt,” who was an “enthusiastic” bear hunter. So there you have it. And I’ll wager that President Roosevelt wouldn’t care to have my teddy dressed up in a red velvet jumpsuit. Elvis might not mind, but I don’t care what Elvis might or might not mind. Why? Because I’ll bet you dollars to doughnuts that Elvis doesn’t give a hoot about what I mind – not that President Roosevelt would give any more of a hoot. But who is more respectable? I couldn’t tell you. I haven’t done nearly enough research. I don’t expect to DO any additional research, either. So: MY bear, and the bear gets the fur. When I’m off to work you can do what you please. And you will. That is your nature. Which is to say, in other words, that whilst I’m away you can dress my bear as you please. What can I do? I suppose I could take the bear with me. But my bear never leaves the house. I wouldn’t want it to get stained. I’m terrified of all the stain-producing potential out there. Once you leave the house, everything gets stained, one way or another. You cannot prevent stains. Stains happen just like shit happens. And shit stains. And shit stinks. And I just want you to light my fire. Come on, set the night on fire. Whatever. No, please, don’t set anything on fire. Leave the fire in the fireplace. Leave it there – in the fireplace, or in the oven, or on the stovetop, but don’t set the night on fire. I won’t be able to sleep. To sleep, perchance to snore, I need the night to be pitch-black. Pitch-black and bone-cold. Otherwise, I’ll get no rest. Bears need fur. It makes sense. What is that damn bird yapping about outside my window? Said “fine” feathered “friend” sounds like cross between a duck and a crow. I want my little tummy to feel better. Blast this weather! It saps EVERYTHING; all vitality. Confound it! Makes me want to give it all up – save for breathing. Makes me hungrier, too. Aren’t they heftier down south, anyway? Did I eat too much bread (carbohydrates) for dinner yesterday? Was THAT why I was tossing and turning betwixt two and four ante meridiem, and then up at five, but then resetting the alarm for five thirty, and finally rising and “shining” at five thirteen? I’ll let you in on a little secret: To wake up faster, tell yourself jokes. Works for me. Bottom reacheth. 

31 July 2008

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