La Tulipe: July 2005

Sinking Sleep

Rian spent the late hours of the night in an empty airport waiting for a delayed flight with only cheap hot chocolate, Sherlock Holmes, and a dapper young man with a paper thin computer.

The hot chocolate was mostly cold. Sherlock Holmes lived in Rian's book. The dapper young man's mother and sister were stuck on the same very delayed flight as Rian's Important Parcel.

An empty airport is an interesting thing. The lights dim and the janitorial crew staggers about. A fellow with a mop nearly ran Rian over. I am fairly sure he was aware of nothing in the world other than whatever thoughts echoed in his head.

The ticket counters were closed, not a soul with any airline responsibility about. Lost passengers, perhaps three of them, slept in chairs throughout the concourse. Dapper Fiance and Rian were the only ones truly awake. And neither of us could keep from yawning. Or laughing at each other's weariness.

Rian is very tired and lost whatever point I may have been trying to make. But I wonder at the linger allulre of the ghost town ideal.

Sinking More

Sink in the bathroom.

The grout dust is still plentiful. Next, Rian shall have to start painting.

Sinking

Old sink and new faucet.

Habits

Have ye ever changed your life in order to make another's better?

Tis easier said than done, especially for a spoilt, selfish creature such as Rian.

Shells

So. What started out as a faucet shopping expidition suddenly became a morning about androids.

Rian wanted a faucet with porcelain handles. 8 inch. Rian had a ttch trouble at Lowe's finding one. But the Lowe's Faucet Fellow was extremely helpful. So helpful that somehow we wound around to the subject of the recently unveiled Japanese robot.

The Faucet Fellow seemed to think this robot...whose name Rian has not bothered to look up...was the most wonderful new creation on the planet.

"Beautiful!" He raptured. "Her skin! Her hair! So real! Can you imagine? Have you heard about her?"

Rian had, half asleep, whilst listening to George Noory. Rian had been curious, but not enough to take time precious time from the morning to look her up. However, after the Faucet Fellow's bliss, she stuck in Rian's mind.

What, Rian wondered whilst running red lights home, do I think of a robot who looks entirely human? It is the I, Robot story all over again? Why do I feel faintly frightened?

So Rian looked her up. She IS beautiful, if a trifle epileptic. But, yes...I think she is empty. Even in those lovely eyes...nothing.

She makes me shiver. What is a shell that can be filled with anything? Absolutely anything?

Of course, the answer may be: human.

Androids

http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/4714135.stm

Talent

One of Rian's neighbor's is building a garden wall in his front yard.

He had a enormous pile of sharp basalt stones dumped beneath a tiny tree on the sidewalk strip. In....eh....May. Perhaps May. It has been a very slow going, carefully thought out job. Rian finds it enthralling. How does the man know which stone fits against the next?

What intricacies keep the whole thing from collapsing? Every angle must be chosen carefully, yes? Every edge perfectly balanced.

Rian sat on the pavement next to him for a small chunk of time, today, watching. Attempting to absorb talent by visual osmosis. I would love to be able to casually mesh pieces of basalt into something unbreakable.

"How do you know?" I asked.

"Just do," he said. "The fingers and the eye just do."

The plants he has chosen to live behind his garden wall are slowly dying in their pots. Perhaps it is because he has waited so long to put them in the dirt. Secretly, however, Rian suspects the man with the rocky fingers does not have a green thumb.

Afterall, what mad creature plants a delicated clematis in full, glaring sunlight?

Pests

There are no snails in Rian's garden.

Slugs, yes. Big, fat, happy slow slugs. Nibbling at the hostas, sleeping under broken bricks, leaving trails beneath the hydrangea.

But no snails. Is not a snail simply a slug with a home on his back? Where Rian grew up snails thrived. Every morning one awoke to silvery roads shining across concrete. If one got up especially early, the snails were still out and about in armies, and one had to walk on tip toes to keep from crushing the creatures.

Where are they snails, in Rian's garden? Perhaps they cannot survive harsh winters.

Rian has, lately, been feeling much like a snail turned slug. Protection plucked away, vulnerable, naked.

I want my shell back, yes? Perhaps it is time to upsize.

Anniversary

Saturday is the first anniversary of Rian's mother's death.

I had expected to be full of emotion and mood swings, weeping or snapping or howling.

Instead I have gone numb. Nothing holds much interest. Step through the day one stride at a time, not much caring about anything or anyone. Through a glass darkly, yes?

This is not much like Rian. I hope it is not a lasting thing.

Ted

Dana has made Rian remember Ted the Book Binder.

Ted was Trouble disguised as Philosophy. A thin, curly haired creature in his mid twenties, Ted worked at the counter in Rian's bookstore during the week whilst spending his weekends learning the craft of Book Binding.

He was one of those souls who was highly intellectual and yet had very little to show for it. He could quote Nietzsche and Wodehouse, knew Mozart and Holiday. Wore scuffed shoes and a loose belt and always rolled his shirt sleeves to the elbows. He wrote poetry in the breakroom and ate biscotti for lunch.

Ted loved to make fun of pop-culture customers. The day Newt Gingrich purchased a volume on the military precision of ants, Ted nearly got into fisticuffs with the man and yet came out of the clash smelling sweet as a rose.

The women employees adored the Book Binder's Apprentice. One left her emotionally cold husband in the hopes that Ted would save her.

He wrote her a poem or two, fed her biscotti and christened the break room couch, but apparently 'commitment' is not in the young intellectual's dictionary.

Ted wanted only his books and a chance to bind them.

Tile In The Lens III

Wall Three. Picture taken about 4pm, as Rian decided that I'd rather go on a murderous tile nipper rampage than face another nasty scoop of mortar. The tricky gaps left will have to wait for the wet saw and Tomorrow.

"The kingdom of heaven is like the grain of the mustard seed."

http://whatthebleep.com

At The Starting Block

For Narrisch. As promised.

http://blisstale.blogspot.com/

Battles

The Wasps have begun rebuilding their nest. At an astonishing rate.

And Young Black Sheep has been involved in some manner of 'drug related violence'.

Small battles in a lost larger war.

Missing

A man came to Rian's door yesterday.

He wore pinstripes and grey slacks and a gleaming black belt. Petit, white haired, clean shaven and so perfectly polished Rian thought at first he was selling religion. He clasped a leather binder to his chest. There was a fading blue bruise over his left eye.

Rian, who was caught in the middle of tiling, must have looked a fright. Hot, sick, dusty, headphones in one ear and dripping porcelain shards in one hand, Rian glowered through the screen.

"I do not want any-"

"I'm here on account of Jim Bled***," he said quickly. "With the prosecutor's office. I'm doing some research."

Oh, dear, thought Rian. What have we got here?

Nevertheless, being a creature of Manners, Rian opened the door and stepped onto the porch. The man shrank back a ttch. Rian towered over the fellow, and I imagine my hair was standing up in tufts. I am not at my best when ill.

"Is there a problem?" Rian asked gently. Jim Bled*** has discovered Rian's unorthodox manner of parking?

"I'm here about an incident that occurred down the street recently." The man's bruised brow twitched. "About three weeks ago. I'm looking for witnesses."

"Ah?" Rian considered. "We have been out of town, yes? We left on the 24th."

"The 24th!" The fellow straightened. "The 24th was when it happened. In the evening. Just down the street." He was beginning to become more animated. His hands moved in little jerks and he leaned very close. Rian suddenly realized the odd light in his eye might be desperation.

"We left early in the morning." Rian paused. "May I ask what happened?"

"Well. Yes." He edged even closer. Rian smelled Lysol and took one step back. "The house down the street, with the for sale sign?"

"Yes?"

"The Browns live there. Doctor Brown. And on the evening of the 24th, the victim was walking his dog along the street. Simply walking the dog." Desperation wavered to dignity and back again. "Dr. Brown flew off the handle. Yelled about the grass. And then started beating the victim. Me. I am the victim."

"Yes." Rian considered the fading bruise and the shaking hands. "I see that."

"I need to find someone who witnessed it." Desperation became larger trembles; the man's hands clenched over his binder. "I'm not suing. But there's a criminal case. I need to find someone who SAW. Is there anyone who might have SEEN?"

Rian hesitated. Something in that frail form was missing. Pride? Security? Peace of mind? And had it been there before, the Doctor allegedly beaten it away? Or had it never been there to begin with?

"Hans and Anna." Rian said at last. "Across the street. They are always home."

"Do you think they might've seen -"

"I do not know." Rian replied. "Perhaps."

When I stepped back through the screen door, he had not moved. Kneading his notebook, he watched me. And I could not replace what was missing.

Hubris

Someone Else, who at first pretended indifference over Rian's tattoo, has suddenly taken to showing it off. Especially around the Old Boys, yes?

This can be a trifle inconvenient. If a ttch amusing.

"Sweetheart!" Cries Someone Else, in the middle of the Third Inning, whilst Rian is busy finishing Aidan's icecream and discussing Angelina Jolie with a beautiful creature. "Show them what you did!"

"WHICH what I did?" Rian queries, bland, knowing full well what is ahead.

"A mid-midlife crises!" Someone Else explains, while Rian, ever obidient and dignified, poses properly by the popcorn bowl and allows him his fun.

"Yes." Rian drawls. "Next I shall need that green jag. And Katie Holmes in the Bahamas."

There is a proper space of silence as Rian unveils the mid-midlife crises. Followed by oohs and aaahs. Various degrees of disbelief, avidity, envy and disgust.

"So," says Brady - a proper, gentle and humorous young Mormon - to Someone Else. "Does it get you HOT?"

"Pffft, Brady." Rian replies, looking the sweet fellow in the eye. "It gets ME hot, and that is what matters."

He blushed, poor child. But he should have known better.

And Someone Else needs to get his own tattoo.

Gravity

Rian is Sir Isaac Newton.

Today, whilst I was stretching the hose across the yard, the apple tree decided to lob fruit at Rian's tender head.

Plop.

"Ouch!"

Plop.

"Damn!"

Plop. Plop.

"Ah! It all makes sense now. Kepler was on the correct track."

...the Tree Fellow is coming back Monday afternoon, to prune the apple and pear tree out of season. Tis a shame, because they are happy and loaded with organic fruit. But the pleased creatures have spread their canopy across nearly Rian's whole lawn. They cannot stay that way.

Ghost into the Fog

Rian has, lately, been thinking over Madness.

What makes one Mad and not Eccentric, yes? Where is the line drawn?

An Eccentric causes no harm? And a mad soul cannot tell harm from bliss?

When does eccentricity, or, for that matter, depression turn into something more?

And, yes, can Madness be a passing thing? Managed by a change of circumstances or pills in a bottle? Or does it linger in the blood even after the obvious symptoms are muffled?

In fiction Madness can be a romantic thing. The woman locked in the attic, with secrets in her eyes. The child that has gone mute over a witnessed tragedy. The gentleman who cannot stand the colour black.

In life it is perhaps more of a pitiful mystery.

Rian's father went briefly mad. HIS father vanished for a year during his college sojourn, a year that was 'never spoken of'. Both reassimilated well. So, a passing thing? Or did they still twitch inside?

But there is also the family legend of the Mad Wizard in the North....some odd Irish Uncle, yes? Do you suppose he was gently eccentric, or insanely dangerous?

And if it trickles through the Wexford blood, does it dilute into Rian?

I should prefer gently eccentric over speaking to lampshades. But perhaps one would never know the difference.

Birch Aquarium

http://aquarium.ucsd.edu/learning/learning_res/kelpcam.cfm

Before which Rian and the Little People spent nearly an hour, Spellbound.

Wasps

Rian's fever has finally turned...what is the word?...SYSTEMIC?

I am green and sick and can keep nothing down but cherries. If that.

This inconvenience, however, did not keep Terrible Rian from torturing the Tree Fellow with wasps.

"Ya got," he said wisely, on his way out Rian's back gate, "a wasps' nest, yeah?"

"Hmmm," said Rian, eyeing the hive in question. "They build quickly."

"Nasty bugs. Oughta take it down, quick."

"Very well." Always obedient, Rian ducked into the kitchen for a broom.

"Now?" The Tree Fellow howled upon Rian's return. "That's dangerous. They'll get mad."

"No doubt," said Rian, stretching high on bare feet to knock at the nest. "Although I do not plan to stand still and taunt them."

"You're supposed to wait until after dark," said he, edging away through the gate, "or spray them with that STUFF. After DARK."

"Pffft!" Said Rian, and elegantly knocked the entire hive to the ground. Where, of course, it split into pieces freeing angry winged insects.

"Run!" Cried the Tree Fellow, and did so.

"Pffft!" Said Rian once more, stalked back into the kitchen, and was elegantly sick into the basin.

When the wasps have abandoned ship, Rian shall gather hive bits for Aidan to examine. A Home from Thin Air.

Hydrangea

The ones that are Happy.

Hydrangea Solo

The one Rian is Babying.

Cheshire

Last night Rian dreamed of my father's cat.

His ghost sat on my chest, as I lay stretched face up amongst dream sheets. He lashed his strip'd tail and purred, whiskers curled forward. Rian could open dream eyes, yes? But not move. A variation of the Old Hag vision, one supposes.

I was not alarmed. Neither was I comfortable. I believe I wanted to ask if they had buried him.

Of all Rian's family, the cat loved me second best, after my father. He slept with me as a kitten, whilst my father was going mad in hotel rooms, and followed me about.

The cat always remembered Rian, and came to call when I stopped home to visit, often bringing a plump rat as a gift. I loved him terribly, yet I have felt no grief since his death.

Perhaps the dream was a Scold.

Casa Contenta

Home.

Strip searched, yes. Still feverish. And without sustenance of any sort but....

Home.

Rian is delighted.

Rian spent the morning storming Legoland with an Army of Munchkins and the afternoon painting a menagerie of butterflies, spiders and faeries onto tiny faces. Apparently Rian is a talented Body Artist.
Too little sleep or the Evil overseas has given Rian a raging fever.