What Jules Verns Said
If what Jules Verne said is true, that--"Anything one man can imagine, other men can make real," then I would like to proclaim that I can hardly imagine a statement with more horrifying implication.
For example I imagined this morning being tried as a mass murderer in a court of law run by giant pissed off mice. That is, the courtroom gallery was full of giant pissed off mice whereas the ruling body of the courtroom, the judge and the prosecution team and my own defense team, were rather placid in their demeanors. This placidity combined with the English barrister wigs they wore atop their heads added an element of reality to the rather un-real and absurd scene of a courtroom run by mice.
In the gallery I could see the ones that got away, damning me with their presence as sure as any ace mouse prosecutor ever could. They all sat together: that one missing its tail, and that one its arm, and that one most of its hindquarter. And oh my god, look at the bent and mangled snout on that one. As if these exhibits were not enough, the eight foot tall carved wooden doors at the back of the room burst open and the most damning exhibit of all came to our attention. A mouse lying on a spring trap retrofitted with wheels, its midsection harshly folded by the spring bar, an oxygen mask over its whiskered face and the tank strapped hinder. An IV fluid bottle hung from an attached vertical rod front and center. The mouse propelled itself with two sticks used like oars. To their bottoms were attached rubber pads for gripping.
There's really only one way to escape this Jules Verne-ian nightmare of imagined potential and that is to just stop the imagining. I mean come on, if you can't imagine anything better than that.../if you can't say something nice.../think orchids, not onions.
But you know, I can't help imagining what I would be like up there, on the stand, in the seat, given the chance to. Would I be the belligerent dictator-type, cussing my captors and declaring myself superior in all ways, that my killing was justified? Would I scream that MY god had given me dominion over all you little insignificant, disease carrying, rodent bitches? Or would I blame it on my superior officers? I was just doing as ordered I would say as melee broke out in the courtroom, traps smeared with peanut butter flying like V-2s across great distance and some landing near me, their clicking explosions sending dabs of peanut butter in arcs across my vision, and others, the direct hits, clamping shut on my girly-long hair, my ear lobes, my eye lids, and finally, to the ecstatic cheering of all, the trap that clamps shut on my nose. When I look over at the mouse judge he is solemnly shaking his head. I've heard enough, he says, duct tape shut the mouth of that fulminator, and let's see what thunder now comes forth?
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Where I Live
Five months ago I returned here to Mt. Pleasant from New Orleans and during that time an ambitious project was occurring which required that workers from the city stay in the cottage of yours truly, the caretaker. The project included some moving of dirt around and some plantings, the building of a stone wall or two and a gazebo with attached fireplace and adjacent bocce court.
I lived in the bighouse during that time and although it is not without its charm the bighouse is no place for a caretaker. So I have moved back into the cottage this weekend, after some cleaning and airing out and the moving of my bed to the room across the hall, which now gives me clear view of the long gravel driveway so that I can shoot the air out of your tires if you approach without invitation, and there is better light in the room across the hall, so that I don't suffer from the ills of sunlight deprivation and descend into a spiral of madness and crotchety behaviour, even as giving in to such would seemingly befit my station as caretaker.
And further, being now a couple of hundred yards downhill from the bighouse is a thing not causing me grief for this reason: the bighouse is haunted--there is in the night the constant clanking of heavy chains and ghouls dressed in moldy-smelling, tattered Civil War uniforms of both Confederate and Union stripe, roam the halls at night, gurgling insults at each other in a past dialect sounding part foreign and part recognizable. Fanged glistening black snakes the size of anacondas slither down the bannisters as morning light comes bringing what one would hope is a world less frightening. When dawn relinquishes her hold on night and accepts fully that coming orb too bright to see the snakes squeeze themselves most unreasonably under that sliver of space beneath the basement door and disappear, but still haunting as effectively in my memory as in fact, if the sensibilities of fact are even worth considering after five months of living in a haunted house, high on a hill in Virginia.
Five months ago I returned here to Mt. Pleasant from New Orleans and during that time an ambitious project was occurring which required that workers from the city stay in the cottage of yours truly, the caretaker. The project included some moving of dirt around and some plantings, the building of a stone wall or two and a gazebo with attached fireplace and adjacent bocce court.
I lived in the bighouse during that time and although it is not without its charm the bighouse is no place for a caretaker. So I have moved back into the cottage this weekend, after some cleaning and airing out and the moving of my bed to the room across the hall, which now gives me clear view of the long gravel driveway so that I can shoot the air out of your tires if you approach without invitation, and there is better light in the room across the hall, so that I don't suffer from the ills of sunlight deprivation and descend into a spiral of madness and crotchety behaviour, even as giving in to such would seemingly befit my station as caretaker.
And further, being now a couple of hundred yards downhill from the bighouse is a thing not causing me grief for this reason: the bighouse is haunted--there is in the night the constant clanking of heavy chains and ghouls dressed in moldy-smelling, tattered Civil War uniforms of both Confederate and Union stripe, roam the halls at night, gurgling insults at each other in a past dialect sounding part foreign and part recognizable. Fanged glistening black snakes the size of anacondas slither down the bannisters as morning light comes bringing what one would hope is a world less frightening. When dawn relinquishes her hold on night and accepts fully that coming orb too bright to see the snakes squeeze themselves most unreasonably under that sliver of space beneath the basement door and disappear, but still haunting as effectively in my memory as in fact, if the sensibilities of fact are even worth considering after five months of living in a haunted house, high on a hill in Virginia.