Posted on July 1, 2009


A WOMAN ON A MEDICINE BOX IS SMILING AT ME. She looks like she has just recovered. She is sitting on a sun lit field.

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Tuesday Morning: I sit at the edge of the garden over a pile of discarded rhubarb leaves. I am itchy all over and the sun is hot and heavy for 9 am. I lift one of the leaves from the ground and underneath is a city of ants and ant eggs. Someone has just peeled the sky from their world and their little civilization is exposed. Every ant scrambles. I lick my lips and scratch my head. I think of coffee as I watch the ants work busily. Two of them pull a dead maggot along a rust colored path. The queen ant is nowhere to be seen.

In my hand I hold a cannister of ant killing chemicals. I thrust a tube into a hole at the center and press on the can. White foam fills the ant hive and in a minute, foam is coming out of every hole in the nest. I wish I was able to feel something more, I wish that I could feel pain for destroying so many living things in such an instantaneous way. I feel very little. I go inside and make coffee. It is not fair-trade.

Tuesday Afternoon: An open wound has appeared on my hand. It is wet and oddly colored. It glistens in the sun as I jog. I cannot figure out how I got this scab and I am usually very meticulous about analyzing my injuries. It is as if I have been wounded like one of those religious women that love God so much they develop holy wounds. However, I am not so pious and I begin to assume I injured myself in my sleep.

I pass three dogs on my jog and each one of them barks at me. I pretend to like each one of them but really, they know what I know and they can sense what I am made of.

I jog in the industrial sector of town, up and around a milk processing plant, the John Deere factory and a building that makes wooden crates for piling things on. It is a quiet jog and few people come up here. I jog for six minutes and then collapse on my knees in agony. I am improving, I think to myself. I improve about thirteen seconds every day. I spit on the dirt and walk home. A Pepsi and Half-Moon Vachon cake await me.

Tuesday Night:
The flies are out. It is dark and the cat growls at shadows through the patio door. My wound has grown to cover the entire back of my hand. I feel as though I will soon have to go to the doctor as this is clearly some kind of terrible infection.

Each letter I type brings me a terrible agonizing pain, and yet I have nothing better to do. It is this or online poker and I don’t think I’m welcome back to yet. I make bubbles with my mouth and stare at the glistening stickiness covering the back of my hand.

I feel as if I may be a zombie and I imagine my entire body being covered by freshly exposed wounds. Maybe being a zombie wouldn’t be so bad. I feel like I could be a pretty good zombie. I know that if you get to keep just a bit of your rationality as a zombie, I would be practical about the brain eating thing. I would probably be a loner zombie, not one of the one’s that bursts into a house with a crowd of other zombies all lurching towards some maniac’s shotgun.

Posted in: June 2009