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Elderly Chimps Prefer Kirin Beer

Today is respect for the aged day. The news report shows seniors playing soccer. The eldest chimp at the local zoo is rewarded for her perseverance with a glass of beer.

In other news, a 53-year-old man strangled his 82-year-old mother-in-law. They reportedly had differences.

Kiomye has been super charming angel and my little shadow today. I appreciate her sweetness, but haven’t been able to get a damn thing done. She is pruning in the bathtub at the moment. Her daddy is sitting on the little blue stool by the tub, trying to keep her happy and distracted long enough for me to type a paragraph.

The TV man says “Seattle” and I whip around to stare at the screen in hopes of news from familiar places. Pictures of Ichiro, the Japanese baseball phenom, flash on the screen and I sigh and turn back to my computer. Damn baseball.

I wish that I could draw. I scoured graphic novels today looking for good scenes to bring to my students so they may fill the bubbles with English. The images move me. I am delighted by the diverse perspectives and the dynamic black lines. I wish I could draw. I hold a million images in my mind in black and white, but my hands are poor translators. I am left with only words. Beautiful, limiting words. My visuals will simply have to be suggested. I guess I work better in the transient anyway. Not transient, but that word I haven’t been able to think of for two days. I need that word. Where is it hiding from me?

I’m listening to a CD I mixed with friends while living in New Orleans. It’s melodic and moody. I play it over and over and imagine this pacific heat is American southern and that three dear friends that I cannot see are simply relaxing drunken and exhausted in the other room, just out of my sight, rather than an ocean away.

I should bother myself with writing fiction. My mind is ripe. My fingers are quick tonight.

The CD I am listening to stalls on a subtle skip and the sound of Kiomye singing in the tub fills our apartment. My petite wrinkled siren. She sings a song about faces and trouble. I can only guess as the correct translation of her thoughts. Matt is chuckling. Now he staggers from the bathroom to the kitchen looking for juice refills. His yukata hangs open exposing his tanned belly and the bites from the relentless mosquitoes that cover even his chest.

I should be going somewhere with this, but I'm obivously not getting anywhere. I may as well sign off.

posted by Scribbler @ Tuesday, September 21, 2004