Friday, March 26, 2010

Thoreau

Grey skies. Grey dirty snow. Grey trees. Winter bleeds the colors from everything. I should have painted the inside of the cabin a bright color. The wood walls are natural, but with the smoke from the fireplace, the walls are now grey, too. I think I’ve gone colorblind. Why didn’t I bring anything with at least a little bit of color in it? My red bowtie? My nice set of blue drinking glasses? What was I thinking?


* * *

This is the third damn day in a row with snow “flurries.” “Flurry” used to sound so cute and sweet, like one of those little foxes or rabbits that flock near my cabin in the summer. Instead, “flurry” now means: stuck inside this tiny little cabin for another freakin’ day. And I only brought books in Greek and Latin to read. What I wouldn’t give for a romance novel.


* * *

Nature continues to live in the dead of winter. Everything just feels dead. There is a scraggly red fox that is trying to dig a hole under the cabin. I hear it scratch away all night. I have to get up and throw my bunched up socks against the wall to scare it. I think I’ll sneak over to the pond and grab a hibernating beaver. Bring it back to the cabin, wait for that damn fox to get in and watch them tear each other apart. Maybe that’ll liven things up around here.


* * *

It continues to get a bit freaky out here. Last night, before bed, I made a decision to put my money where my mouth is. I decided that if I really want to find the spiritual benefits of living a simplified life, I must sell most of my material possession when I return home. I went to sleep after that. It appears, though, that I went sleepwalking. I found all of my clothes strewn around the woods with prices scribbled on them. I must have started to walk into Concord—naked—to sell them. It seems that along the way I also decided to stop and make snow angels on Walden Pond, instead.


* * *

What was that noise? It’s that damn train whistle, again. You’d think with my cabin surrounded by six feet of snow and my pillow tied around my head I wouldn’t hear anything at all. Is it daytime or nighttime? It’s hard to tell because the nights are so long. I think the sun rises around noon. I had a dream that the summer sun was beaming on my face. I could feel the comfort of its warmth. It turned out the fox got in and was sleeping on my face.


* * *

Stigmata! Stigmata! I have crossed some kind of spiritual line and am now embodying the spirit of the Lord. Glory be! The Father, the Son, the Holy Ghost, Henry Thoreau! This is incredible. Oh, wait a minute. That’s just ketchup on my palm from my last hot dog. Oh, well. How silly of me.


* * *

The mass of men may lead lives of quiet desperation, but this one man is desperate to kill him some fox. That rascally critter broke in again and stole the last of my stale bread. I tore the place apart looking for a piece of twine or rope. I’m going to set a trap, capture him, and tie that beast to the train tracks. The 6:15 will come along and smoosh him! Kill the fox! Kill the fox! Kill the fox!

Russell Bradbury-Carlin gave up his corporeal existence long ago. He now exists only as a series of bytes and electrical impulses distributed through out the internet. You can visit aspects of him (the humorous parts, anyway) here at Yankee Pot Roast and at McSweeney’s, Science Creative Quarterly, The Big Jewel , as well as other sites. But if you are interested in visiting with him in his most condensed form, check out his Web site, All My Shoes and Glasses. Please note: if you visit his site between the hours of 11 p.m. and 7 a.m., please be quiet—that is when he sleeps.

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