The Mice Wars
Have you ever noticed how in common usage, or perhaps regionally, certain Interstate highways are referred to with the definite article "the" in front of them? As in I am on the I-5 or I am on the I-95? And for all I know, or to the point don't know, using the article is proper usage and my public school upbringing which has me saying, I fell off that boxcar and had to find my way back to I-10 is just completely wrong. Anyway, I mention it because it is a minor distraction to me, not necessarily an unpleasant one, and I thought I would pass it on so that we could be distracted at the same time. I have no intention of going on about Interstates or parts of speech.
Well it's happening again, that seasonal change on the east coast bringing cloud art to the skies and a lighting scheme infused with more juice than there was a month ago and you have to wonder did God accidentally plug his overhead lighting into the 220 outlet instead of the 110 and is there going to be a crackling explosion, sparks flying everywhere burning little black spots into the linoleum and then blackout until His handyman, who is vacationing in Purgatory, can come and straighten things out?
I am driving down 29 South just beyond Charlottesville in Nelson county and it is taking the better part of me to not to stop in the middle of the road and gaze dreamily at the surrounding scenery, perhaps not with impunity as there is an eighteen-wheeler barreling down my ass and so I shift into a more concentrative frame of mind and like that, I'm in the Fiat cruising down the A-19 in Sicily (where using the definite article seems appropriate.) I go from transporting (if you include the hastily packed wadded up clothes in my overnight bag, two paint brushes, and a chainsaw as cargo) to transported in the blink of an eye. This transporting thing happens now and again and I don't mean to imply it as vivid memory but rather to say it is existing in one place while you are clearly in another. Sadly, or not sadly at all, it can't go on for very long.
And like that I am choking on a thought, gagging, eyes watering, face turning purple if not blue, so taking my hands off the steering wheel I give myself a Heimlich and what comes out is this common memory from barely two hours previous.
I am carrying a small pail of rodent chunk bait but don't be fooled by the term "bait" because this is not a catch and release program. Around the Virginia bighouse I have strategically placed three plastic hollow faux granite boulders. Prying open these boulders with a special tool which is included in the 23 dollar a piece price tag you find inside four metal rods. The green rectangular chunk bait has holes driled down their middle, longways, and two of the chunks will fit on each rod. Then I close the boulder until it clicks, letting me know that it is securely fastened and therefore safe for children, pets, indeed the whole family, unless you are a family of rats or your pet is a mouse.
This method had proven very effective and rarely (but occasionally) does there end up inside the house a cute furry defenseless shriveled malodorous pissing and shitting disease carrying rodent, usually pretty well dried up and crusty by the time I get to it. Compared to using the more hands on method of spring traps I liken this to the Bomber pilot versus the Infantryman. Whereas before, as Infantryman, I had been entering the house with bayonet drawn, carefully peeking around corners, and always on guard against the merely wounded and that accompanying spine tingling chill when hearing a trap moving on its own across a wood floor, now I was flying peacefully over the terrain, looking out my cockpit at the pretty mountains below and when my target shows up on the grid map I just press a button and fly on. But I don't mean to suggest that later in a bar back home after the ticker tape parade both these men aren't suffering the realities of past duties, that they aren't transported back to something unpleasant done. And that could be why transporting out of your current time and space must be short lived, because even if it is a pleasant transport the reality remains that almost always there is an eighteen wheeler barreling down your ass, and you should be focussed in the here and now so that when it is safe to do so you can move out of its way. Likewise for the bombadier and infantryman drowning in their sorrow, there is outside the periphery of their horrific memories a woman at the bar wishing they would buy her a drink.
And now back here in North Carolina, there is an oven door handle to replace, receptacle and switch plate covers to put on, overhead lights or ceiling fans to buy and install, some touch up painting and a little varnish to apply, and so on and so on.
View current page
...more recent posts