Don't Feed the Animals

Look but don't touch.

Human beings have always fascinated me. The way they interact, the individual ways that they talk and gesture, and the hidden meanings of all of these unique, individual manners of communication. I watched a cartoon last night--Batman: The Brave and the Bold--in which a character, Red Tornado, who happens to be a robot created a son for himself whom he modeled on humans. The son couldn't handle the emotions that come along with humanity, however, and so father had to destroy son. Touching. In the end, Batman, hand on Red Tornado's shoulder, told Red Tornado that in defending what it is to be human, he had found his own humanity.

Red Tornado removed Batman's hand. "Incorrect," he said, and I'm paraphrasing. "I merely mimic things I have seen and draw logical conclusions based on my observations." The robot couldn't understand humanity. And so with me.

I observe people. I went for breakfast today and sat next to two old women. I listened to the imperfect way they spoke, and to the cliche's and expressions that had become a part of their individual language, and which are a part of the language, to a large degree, of a certain demographic--the aging female subculture of New England. Writing lie: write dialogue like you/other people really talk. (This will never work. Emily Bronte tried it in Wuthering Heights with Joseph to an arguable degree of success [I found it barbarous]. Yorkshirian as experts say it was, Bronte didn't capture the essence of speech. She didn't capture the glances and the gestures and the hidden intentions of his personal language. Impossible to do so.) At the restaurant, I took in the clothes the old women wore and the way they wore their dyed hair and the wrinkles on their forearms and the skin that hung from their bones. I will write about them some day, though I'll never understand them.

I'm taking a trip back to my roots. I'm returning to Derrida, Plato, Rousseau, Hawking, Nietzsche, Kierkegaard. War and Peace (which I'm still reading--mother of God, is it long!) is a wonderful novel, as is anything written by Hemingway and, for the most part, McCarthy. I could go on about brilliant novelists, but lately I've felt a calling to return to my own love: confusing myself. I need to go back to the people whom I feel understand me. Those who stepped outside of humanity and reality itself, and out of what it is to be a human and to exist in our universe, and observed and wrote about it. I'll call you when I return to earth.

My superpower of the day is flying.

Holy Transliteration!

My superpower of the day is transliteration, which means... uh... something about wearing women's underwear. Whatever it is, it's to be taken seriously and not to be made a joke of. For the latter portion of this blog post, I'll be typing completely in Telugu, which is my favorite written language ever, aside from Khitan and the abjad alphabet, Nabataean. I don't like to brag, but I'm something of a polyglot when it comes to ignorantly transliterating other languages.

Your assignment of the day: find a way to slip the word "transliterate" into normal conversation. Also accepted: transliteration, transliterating, transliteratory, transliterated, peanut.

రైట్ నౌ, ఐ'మ ల్యింగ్ ఇన్ మై బెడ్ లిస్తెనింగ్ తో వాట్ ఐ ఫిర్మ్ల్య్ బెలిఎవె ఇస్ స్టీఫెన్ కింగ్'స ది మిస్ట్ దోవ్న్స్తైర్స్. ఇట్ సౌండ్స్ లికె సం గుయ్ ఇస్ రెట్చింగ్ అప్ అం ఉన్హోలీ అఫ్తెర్బిర్త్, అండ్ సోమేఒనే'స ఎల్లింగ్ "కం ఆన్!" ఓవర్ అండ్ ఓవర్ అగైన్. ఐ'ల్ సేవ్ ది ప్లే బి ప్లే, బట్ ఐ కాన్'త హెల్ప్ బట్ నోట్ ది ఎన: వార్రిఒర్ ప్రిన్సుస్స్-లికె మ్యూజిక్ ప్లయింగ్. ఫెమలె మొంక్ చంత్స్ సెట్ తో సైన్తేసిజేర్స్. దిద థెయ్ హవె సైన్తేసిజేర్స్ ఇన్ అన్సిఎంట్ గ్రీస్? దిద థెయ్ హవె సినేఅద్ ఓ'కన్నోర్?

ఇన్ ఒథెర్ న్యూస్, ఐ గోట్ అ కాల్ ఫ్రొం వర్క్ అవుట్ వరల్డ్!, ఓర వావ్! టుడే. థెయ్ కాల్లెద్ అబౌట్ ది పర్సనల్ త్రైనేర్ రెసుమే' ఐ గావే తెం. సారీ, ఐ తొల్ద్ తెం. ఆల్రెడీ హవె అ జాబు దొఇంగ్ తాత. ఐ'మ స్టిల్ ఇన్ ట్రైనింగ్, అచ్తుఅల్లీ, ఎవెన్ తౌగ్ ఇట్'స బీన్ అబౌట్ అ మొంత్. ఆన్ వేద్నేస్దాయ్, ఐ వెంట్ తో వరల్డ్'స జిం అండ్ సత ఇన్ అ స్మాల్ గ్రూప్ విత్ అ గుయ్ నమెద్ రేయ్ వ్హో తుఘ్ట్ అస్ అబౌట్ సలేస్మన్శిప్. డాన్'త వాంట్ తో బె అ సలేస్మన్? హి సైడ్. తాత'స లికె వంతింగ్ తో బె అ బొద్య్బుఇల్దెర్ అండ్ నాట్ వంతింగ్ తో వర్క్ త్రిస్. గొట్ట డో ఇట్ ఎవెన్ తౌగ్ యు డాన్'త లికె ఇట్.

ఐ డాన్'త లికె ఇట్. ఐ డాన్'త వాంట్ తో సెల్ అన్య్బోడి అన్య్థింగ్. ఐ ఫైండ్ ది ప్రోస్పెచ్ట్ అఫ్ సలేస్మన్శిప్ తో బె వలయూలేస్స్ అండ్ ఏమ్ప్తి. ఐ హద తో స్టాప్ మ్య్సెల్ఫ్ ఫ్రొం గెత్తింగ్ అప్ అండ్ తెల్లింగ్ ఎవేర్య్బోడి తేరే తాత థెయ్ దిస్గుస్తేడ్ మే అండ్ కుఇత్తిన్గ్. సో గోఎస్ ది లైఫ్ అఫ్ అ రైటర్, ఐ సుప్పొసె, హవింగ్ తో బెండ్ ఇన్ వేస్ వే డాన్'త విష్ తో బెండ్. వాట్ ఐ వాంట్ ఇస్ తో బె అబ్లె తో సీత అండ్ రీడ్ అండ్ వ్రితే అల్ డే లాంగ్ (అండ్ ఒక్కసిఒనల్ల్య్ ప్లే హలో ౩, విచ్ ఐ అం సిక్ అత, బి ది వే--ఓపెన్ ఛాలెంజ్ తో అన్యోనే వ్హో థింక్స్ థెయ్ కాన్ బీట్ మే. మై గమేర్తగ్ ఇస్ మజేస్తాక్.) ది రఎఅలితి అఫ్ ఔర్ కల్చర్, అఫ్ కోర్సు, ఫోర్బిడ్స్ తాత ఎక్ష్కెప్త్ తో అ చొసెన్ ఎలితే వ్హో'వె అచ్తుఅల్లీ గోట్ టాలెంట్. ఐ వండర్ వ్హెరె ఐ కాన్ బయ్ తాత.

Gee Willikers!

My superpower of the day is helping old women cross the street.

I recently gave up my weekday shifts as a waiter to do personal training part time. Friday was my last day in the restaurant ever. Bittersweet... like one of those Airhead candies I used to love when I was younger. I found myself talking to my customers more than usual, and just kind of having a good time waiting tables in a way I've never done before. Screw it--it was my last day. Might as well go out with a bang-ish sort of thing. One of my tables was an older woman and her mother. The woman must have been 60. I'd guess her mother was in her 80s. They'd come for the mother's high-school reunion. I didn't ask which reunion it was. I got to talking to them and the mother told me she wasn't from around here but had grown up in Norwich. Greenville, specifically. Oh, I told her. I grew up in Greenville, too.

She asked if I knew about the 3rd Baptist Church, and I thought some, but I didn't know of it. Apparently, in the earlier half of the 2oth century, her father had been a minister there, but it had since moved. She said she wanted to go there and see the church, and she said that most of the people she'd known who'd gone to the church had since died. I got the impression this was the last time she'd be coming for a reunion. She was so full of life and enthusiasm, but there was an atmosphere of dark knowledge surrounding her. Knowledge such as she possessed is hard won. It is terrible and final.

I took their orders and went to put them in the computer. I was sorry I couldn't help her. I thought of Greenville's geography, went over each building in the small town and thought of whether or not its architecture was such that it could have been a church, but I came up with nothing. I tried to think of any older people I knew in Greenville, but how could I be sure they were still alive? People have a way of dying, the woman's daughter had said with a smile. She didn't have the knowledge her mother did. Give it twenty years for the smile to disappear, and for sadness for what once was, and a stoic patience for what will be, to take its place.

I finished putting in the order and it occured to me that while I didn't have the answer to their problem, and I didn't know anybody who did, I did know of somebody who would. I took the phone book and looked up the Norwich Historical Society, and I brought it out and gave it to the ladies. They took the number down and asked if I had a newspaper they could borrow, and if The Norwich Bulletin still ran a church column. As it turns out, it did, and as it turns out, the 3rd Baptist Church, which had turned into the 20th Baptist Church, posted a short paragraph in it. I told them to keep the paper.

A busy weekend catering ensured I didn't think of them again, but today, when I got back to the restaurant (which I work out of but not in--I cater on a train, but that's for a different day), one of the servers said, Did you wait on some ladies Friday?

I thought about it. I'd waited on a lot of ladies, in fact.

You helped them find something, the server said.

Oh yes.

They left you a note, he said. And they're still here.

I rushed to finish cleaning up after the job, and then I went out to the dining room. Usually, I don't particularly care about people. I just want to be left alone. Something about these ladies had touched me, though, and I actually cared about their small journey. I found them with their coats on, backs to me, about to leave.

You found it, I said.

They turned and said, Oh yes, we did. The church column in the paper had been right, and they'd made a few calls, they said.

How was the service?

Wonderful, the mother said. She said that after the service the church hosted a luncheon, and then another, smaller service.

And the reunion?

Excellent.

That's how a story should end. The journey, the complications along the way, the happy ending. I imagined this woman sitting in a pew surrounded by people. I imagined her eating with church members and talking to the pastor and to the churchgoers. I wondered if it brought her back to her past some, and if it brought some closure to a nostalgic itch that may have been with her for some time. I saw her happy.

I can never stop there, though, and that's maybe why I'm no good at this writing thing. I scrutinized her face while she talked to me. Her mouth was slack, her shoulders hunched and her hands folded together--a position of weakness, a rabbit before a fox. There was nobody left, she said, who knew the church. Everybody died.

We had a wonderful time in Norwich, her daughter said. Thank you.

There was one man, she said. But he'd had a knee operation and didn't come. Everybody else had died, she said again. Mr. Turkin. He owned a shoe shop. My brother worked for him.

They said goodnight and I said see you later. Of course, I won't. Young man that I am, I'm moving on to a different stage of life. Old woman that she is, so is she.

Meanwhile...

My superpower of the day is the awesome ability of social idiocy. I was working at the restaurant yesterday, bringing drinks to a table, when I heard someone say, "Hey Adam," from behind. I turned and saw a girl with whom I went through grade school. My 6th-grade crush, Kristy. We talked for a short while, about what we're doing now and some about what we plan to do, and then I smiled and said goodbye. It wasn't until later that I realized it had been nice talking to her. Her kind reticence reminds me of my own, if I still know her--a front beneath which lies self confidence and something hard and not to be tampered with. And she's still beautiful.

I thought about it later, replayed our conversation, and saw how natural it had been. Was it just me? Had she smiled? Hadn't she lingered for a short while after I said goodbye? Hadn't I? Was that just me, too? I could have said something simple that would have allowed for the possibility to see her again, but it didn't even cross my mind to do so. Even if it had, I probably would have messed it up, somehow. I tend to do that--it is my superpower. Circumstances in my life pretty much guarantee that I'll never see her again. Sad, kind of. I got to thinking about how many people pass through our lives whom we'll never see again. I went to Walgreens to get some Easter cards and went by some people in an aisle and thought, "I'll never see them again, either," even though I didn't know them. They'll live their entire lives, separate from mine yet just as much alive, and I won't know it. To me, most people in the world don't even exist. My superpower tomorrow will be the fantastic skill of having an existential meltdown. All these people alive and just as conscious as me, with the same power of wants and desires, and I don't even know it, and they don't know it, either, and that means to them I don't exist. Do I exist? It makes everything seem so damn pointless.

A final note. I just read the best article I've ever read in this month's Discover magazine. It's about a biocentric universe, meaning that humans are the center, or cause, of the universe. According to the article, the universe didn't create us, we created the universe. Our perceptions shape the very universe. See especially: Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle. Brilliant. I've been saying it for years now. The problem with science is scientists. The problem with experiments is that humans create and perform and measure them, and so the answers will always relate to our perceptions. It is thus that we can never accurately measure, let alone understand (conceit of conceits), anything truly objective. Complete heresy, of course. If we create the universe, that makes us gods. A stroke of genius, none the less, but still a few steps away from the scientific postulation that God does indeed exist. Give it time. He'll be back. I'm waiting.

Look! Up in the sky!

I feel like my cutesy little titles are getting annoying. Unfortunately for anyone tenacious enough to actually read these things, annoying is what I do best. It's not my superpower of the day. It's more of a sub-superpower. A little bit of frosting for the cake, free of charge. You're welcome.

My superpower of the day is the incredible ability to leave my car window open the whole night when it rains. I've been doing this a lot lately, and since we're in the month of April--April showers bring blah blah--suffice it to say that it sucks. I feel like the absent-minded professor, except I'm not a professor.

I'm reading War and Peace on my Amazon Kindle. First of all, there is nothing cooler than an Amazon Kindle. If I got stranded on a desert isle and I had the choice between having my Kindle or, I don't know, my eyes, Kindle every time. I wouldn't actually be able to read anything, but I could still press the buttons. And it's so thin! I'd be the envy of the entire isle, assuming there were a few toucans or fiddler crabs or something. They'd so want to read my Kindle.

And War and Peace, a book that's somewhere just under 1,500 pages, is surprisingly good. Gotta love the Russians. According to my Kindle, I'm 10% done, just in case you're wondering.

Leaping Neptune

My super power of the day is the incredible ability to stay up way later than I should so I know I'm not going to get up early tomorrow to play my guitar. And on the topic of the guitar, my teacher's taste in music is, um, not so good, so I'm learning "Blackbird" and "More than Words" right now. Let me tell you something about "More than Words." Any time a guy sings half a song in soprano, there's a fair bet it's not a song for guys. So a message to the guys out there: if you think you're all cool and you want your superpower to be singing soprano because it's all against the grain and everything, don't do it. Nancy.

The worst part about the whole stupid thing is the song's so hard, so I'm proud when I get a small part of it, and then I find myself humming it in the car. Tell no one.

Jump on in. Water's fine... as long as you don't mind razor-toothed PIRANHAS!!!

Feel free, assuming anyone's reading this, to jump on in and throw in your 2 cents... puny mortals. If you've got a superpower and you need to get it off your chest, or if you just want to throw something down on the coolest blog ever, aside from Shaq's Twitter (of course), and be forever written into the historical pages of history. Or whatever.