We were half way between stations before anyone in the carriage noticed the guide dog’s tail was caught in the train doors. It was no one’s fault. The dog’s owner was clearly blind, and what were us passenger supposed to do? Those dogs are so well trained, it just sat there, it didn’t bark or whine. We are always told not to pat guide dogs when they’re working, so we were being well behaved and not patting the noble, golden lab. It just sat there, a look of detachment in its eyes. For all I know that’s what they look like when they’re on duty.
A cry went up, “The dog’s tail! The dog’s tail!”
People crowded.
People yelled.
“The doors wont open.”
“We’ll be at the station soon.”
“Its tail could get caught between the carriage and platform!”
A human cloud of panic, a fog blinding reason.
Trying to help with no clue what to do.
“Call the dog,” the blind woman calmly said.
“What?”
“Call her with food, she’ll wag her tail,” she said.
“What do we call her?”
“You call her Clarity,” answered the blind woman, providing the same service for the passengers the dog provided her.
Instalment Twenty Two
Portrait of a person (woman) as . . .
The thing was she smelled like a second-hand bookshop. Or maybe of that smell clinging to second hand books. A musty smell, stale and lost. Poor ventilation perhaps, forcing odours to eddy and pool, seeping into porous pages. It might come from ageing glue, cracking and splitting the binding. The brittle yellowing paper... who knows. She was a primary school art teacher, with all that glue and paper the explanation might fit, but no.
She was used. Second hand was too kind a description. You can look at a book and tell if it has been read by just one person or by many. She had been used. Used by many and thrown back to the pile. Her once straight, shiny blond hair had lost its lustre, yellowing to straw. It was a mess of cowlicks, dog-eared this way and that. She had topped every man’s list for years, a best seller. They all wanted to get their hands on her, eating her up with their eyes, and she let them. Now weathered and wrinkled, she willed someone, someone to look past her faded youth, the smell and the aura of cheapness that clung to her chest like a necklace.
The thing was she smelled like a second-hand bookshop. Or maybe of that smell clinging to second hand books. A musty smell, stale and lost. Poor ventilation perhaps, forcing odours to eddy and pool, seeping into porous pages. It might come from ageing glue, cracking and splitting the binding. The brittle yellowing paper... who knows. She was a primary school art teacher, with all that glue and paper the explanation might fit, but no.
She was used. Second hand was too kind a description. You can look at a book and tell if it has been read by just one person or by many. She had been used. Used by many and thrown back to the pile. Her once straight, shiny blond hair had lost its lustre, yellowing to straw. It was a mess of cowlicks, dog-eared this way and that. She had topped every man’s list for years, a best seller. They all wanted to get their hands on her, eating her up with their eyes, and she let them. Now weathered and wrinkled, she willed someone, someone to look past her faded youth, the smell and the aura of cheapness that clung to her chest like a necklace.
. . . a second-hand book.
Instalment Twenty One
“Patience is a virtue.”
She couldn’t believe her eyes, so she risked another look.
“Patience is a virtue.”
It was true, right there in front of her, in loopy purple cursive on foolscap paper, the three i’s dotted with love hearts. The note must have been stuffed through the grills of her locker sometime between fourth period and lunch.
Finally she made it, she was one of them, the coolest girls in school – The Virtues. Ruled over by their queen bee Chastity, only six other girls were selected to wear the converted power pink sweater with an embroidered V on the chest. And Patience was now one of them. Her mother Prudence had been a Virtue way back when and had been on Patience’s back about it since freshman year.
Now she would be sitting with Temperance, Charity, Diligence, Compassion and Humility at the lunch table, with Chastity presiding over them.
And the boys! She had always carried a torch for Wrath, a hothead in the schools other gang, The Sins. Chastity’s boyfriend Lust was their leader. There were seven of them too, and they were they type of bad that high-school girls love. Even Virtues. Patience couldn’t wait.
She couldn’t believe her eyes, so she risked another look.
“Patience is a virtue.”
It was true, right there in front of her, in loopy purple cursive on foolscap paper, the three i’s dotted with love hearts. The note must have been stuffed through the grills of her locker sometime between fourth period and lunch.
Finally she made it, she was one of them, the coolest girls in school – The Virtues. Ruled over by their queen bee Chastity, only six other girls were selected to wear the converted power pink sweater with an embroidered V on the chest. And Patience was now one of them. Her mother Prudence had been a Virtue way back when and had been on Patience’s back about it since freshman year.
Now she would be sitting with Temperance, Charity, Diligence, Compassion and Humility at the lunch table, with Chastity presiding over them.
And the boys! She had always carried a torch for Wrath, a hothead in the schools other gang, The Sins. Chastity’s boyfriend Lust was their leader. There were seven of them too, and they were they type of bad that high-school girls love. Even Virtues. Patience couldn’t wait.
Instalment Twenty
A scientific exploration with the intention to identify the standard deviation.
Honoured guests, fellow scientists,
Today I present to you the findings in my examination of the constant allowances of science, the variations in research we all must endure.
The standard deviation.
There is nothing standard about them, apart from the fact they are always there, always popping up and ruining our lives. How many of you have had your day ruined by a deviant. It always seems like these deviations are individuals, unique in their divergence, but if you see enough of them, if you look close, you see the relationship.
A standard deviant. The standard deviant.
I stand before you today to announce that there is indeed a standard deviant. And I found her.
A verbal exhibitionist. A person that expresses private thoughts in public places. The most common deviation on the planet. A deviation so common it has become average and so normal you don’t notice it.
But behind you in line, on the phone in the supermarket or at the table over at the café, these deviants lurk. Ready to ruin your day with their lives, their unwanted information.
“My boyfriend does this. . . the kids like that. . . “
It stops today.
Thank you.
Honoured guests, fellow scientists,
Today I present to you the findings in my examination of the constant allowances of science, the variations in research we all must endure.
The standard deviation.
There is nothing standard about them, apart from the fact they are always there, always popping up and ruining our lives. How many of you have had your day ruined by a deviant. It always seems like these deviations are individuals, unique in their divergence, but if you see enough of them, if you look close, you see the relationship.
A standard deviant. The standard deviant.
I stand before you today to announce that there is indeed a standard deviant. And I found her.
A verbal exhibitionist. A person that expresses private thoughts in public places. The most common deviation on the planet. A deviation so common it has become average and so normal you don’t notice it.
But behind you in line, on the phone in the supermarket or at the table over at the café, these deviants lurk. Ready to ruin your day with their lives, their unwanted information.
“My boyfriend does this. . . the kids like that. . . “
It stops today.
Thank you.
Instalment Nineteen
I gasp, breathing mostly water. Coughing, unable to see through bleary eyes. I blacked out. I’m naked, it’s raining. Hot, steamy rain, almost tropical. I blink, clearing my vision. On tiles. Mouth over drain. Looking toward the precipitation I understand. I’m on a shower floor, curled tight. Foetal position. It must be Sunday. Another Sunday morning special.
“You alright in there?” comes a voice from past the door. Female, this must be her place. A face comes to me in a flash, sitting at the bar. She said something about being bi, I thought I was good for a threesome. I wasn’t listening, I was distracted by her mouth. The way it hung open, even when she wasn’t talking. It wasn’t attractive. Like a lazy eye, not fully doing its job, but not completely slack jawed, teeth still together. Lazy Lip! That’s what I called her. Oh Lord! I remember now, she said she was bi-polar. Guilt hits my stomach like a punch. I towel off, the door is ajar to the bedroom.
“Are you ready to go again Remorse?” she whispers, her lip returning to its default droop. Why not? I couldn’t hate myself anymore right now anyway.
“You alright in there?” comes a voice from past the door. Female, this must be her place. A face comes to me in a flash, sitting at the bar. She said something about being bi, I thought I was good for a threesome. I wasn’t listening, I was distracted by her mouth. The way it hung open, even when she wasn’t talking. It wasn’t attractive. Like a lazy eye, not fully doing its job, but not completely slack jawed, teeth still together. Lazy Lip! That’s what I called her. Oh Lord! I remember now, she said she was bi-polar. Guilt hits my stomach like a punch. I towel off, the door is ajar to the bedroom.
“Are you ready to go again Remorse?” she whispers, her lip returning to its default droop. Why not? I couldn’t hate myself anymore right now anyway.
Instalment Eighteen
There was a little girl who lived in a big house, with loving parents, attentive servants and all the toys she could desire. Her bedroom was painted sky blue with puffy white clouds on the ceiling and walls. Some people thought she may be the luckiest little girl in all the world. She even had a dog.
Luck was, as a matter of fact, the only thing she never caught. Every morning she woke up under the weather. Not the picture postcard weather of her walls but poor health and illness.
“Nanny,” she would yell.
“Yes ma lady?” Nanny would reply.
“I don’t feel well,” she would answer.
And she didn’t. She wasn’t faking, she was sick. Always. Everyday. Poorly. Off-colour. Infected or ailed.
“Ma lady has a cold today master,” Nanny would tell the Man of the House.
“Ma lady is suffering tuberculosis,” Nanny informed the household.
So it went.
It got to be that the staff made light of it. What else could they do in the face of such a bleak milieu. On the rare occasions they were unwell, they would send word. “I won’t be in, I’m laid up in bed with a malady today.”
Luck was, as a matter of fact, the only thing she never caught. Every morning she woke up under the weather. Not the picture postcard weather of her walls but poor health and illness.
“Nanny,” she would yell.
“Yes ma lady?” Nanny would reply.
“I don’t feel well,” she would answer.
And she didn’t. She wasn’t faking, she was sick. Always. Everyday. Poorly. Off-colour. Infected or ailed.
“Ma lady has a cold today master,” Nanny would tell the Man of the House.
“Ma lady is suffering tuberculosis,” Nanny informed the household.
So it went.
It got to be that the staff made light of it. What else could they do in the face of such a bleak milieu. On the rare occasions they were unwell, they would send word. “I won’t be in, I’m laid up in bed with a malady today.”
Instalment Seventeen
Floating out in the Pacific Ocean, somewhere between San Francisco and Hawaii, is an island. An island of trash, caused by the convergence of currents and wind. And humans. Constantly growing as evermore of our litter is added to its shores. It is known as The Great Pacific Garbage Patch, though once, some time ago, two hermits called it home.
They had not always been hermits. At one time they had been friends. But living in a garbage pile can test even the closest of friendships. Brawling for the few organic scraps amongst plastic detritus. It was easier to go their separate ways than fight each other. It was easy to give up on humans when roving across the floating wreckage of life. They had been sailors once, these two hermits. On a stormy night, one fell into the grey and angry boiling sea. Drawing straws, the captain sent the loser after the lost man. So together they floated, adrift in the currents, until, much like our rubbish, they came to the island. The missing men and the discarded, unwanted debris of modern life. Till the end of their days they roamed the refuse, the two hermits, Flotsam and Jetsam.
They had not always been hermits. At one time they had been friends. But living in a garbage pile can test even the closest of friendships. Brawling for the few organic scraps amongst plastic detritus. It was easier to go their separate ways than fight each other. It was easy to give up on humans when roving across the floating wreckage of life. They had been sailors once, these two hermits. On a stormy night, one fell into the grey and angry boiling sea. Drawing straws, the captain sent the loser after the lost man. So together they floated, adrift in the currents, until, much like our rubbish, they came to the island. The missing men and the discarded, unwanted debris of modern life. Till the end of their days they roamed the refuse, the two hermits, Flotsam and Jetsam.
Instalment Sixteen
Schrödinger's cat, Pavlov's dog and Occam's razor become acquainted.
A cat sat in what could only be described as a white void. There was also a dog and a straight razor. The design of the razor was spartan, neither the blade nor the handle were decorated.
“Why,” the cat pondered, “do we not have names, why don’t I have a name?”
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” drooled the dog, “you guys got any food?”
In a sharp, metallic, snickity-snack, voice the razor answered “There’s probably a very simple explanation, there always is.”
“I mean I’m a sadist’s cat, this goof’s a cruel Russian’s dog and you’re some monk’s personal grooming device,” the cat opined, “We inspired greatness but no one knows our names.”
“Hey! Hey!” dribbled the dog, “Hey!”
“Perhaps we can be one thing and also something else at the same time,” glinted the razor.
“We need to scrape away unnecessary assumptions to get to the simplest explanation, categorised and put into boxes of the mind,” purred the cat.
“Are we both simultaneously real and not real?” asked the razor.
“Hey! Hey!” salivated the dog, “No! You are merely an idea personified, but I have always been a real, hungry dog.”
With that the cat and razor faded to white.
A cat sat in what could only be described as a white void. There was also a dog and a straight razor. The design of the razor was spartan, neither the blade nor the handle were decorated.
“Why,” the cat pondered, “do we not have names, why don’t I have a name?”
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” drooled the dog, “you guys got any food?”
In a sharp, metallic, snickity-snack, voice the razor answered “There’s probably a very simple explanation, there always is.”
“I mean I’m a sadist’s cat, this goof’s a cruel Russian’s dog and you’re some monk’s personal grooming device,” the cat opined, “We inspired greatness but no one knows our names.”
“Hey! Hey!” dribbled the dog, “Hey!”
“Perhaps we can be one thing and also something else at the same time,” glinted the razor.
“We need to scrape away unnecessary assumptions to get to the simplest explanation, categorised and put into boxes of the mind,” purred the cat.
“Are we both simultaneously real and not real?” asked the razor.
“Hey! Hey!” salivated the dog, “No! You are merely an idea personified, but I have always been a real, hungry dog.”
With that the cat and razor faded to white.
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