Friday, March 19, 2004

The Snows of Kilimanjaro   Because, just then, death had come and rested its head on the foot of the cot and he could smell its breath.   "Never believe any of that about a scythe and a skull," he told her. "It can be two bicycle policemen as easily, or be a bird. Or it can have a wide snout like a hyena."   It had moved up on him now, but it had no shape any more. It simply occupied space.   "Tell it to go away."   It did not go away but moved a little closer.   "You've got a hell of a breath," he told it. "You stinking bastard."   – Ernest Hemingway, The Snows of Kilimanjaro (1936, twenty-five years before his suicide)   For Hemingway, the dominoes were already lined up that when tipped would lead one to the next through the plains of Africa, to Spain, Cuba, England, France and finally Key West, where the last one would trip the wire and squeeze the trigger of the shotgun that would end his pain. And it would be the stinking breath of death that would blow over the first tile to begin the progression.   5:19:41 PM      comments []

When months go bad   March is just a big, browbeating bag of wind. This morning as I stepped out the door to walk Conor to the bus stop, March sneaked up behind me and slapped the back of my head with the hood on my parka. One of the plastic fasteners from the drawstrings caught me on the upper part of the ear. It did so with startling force, like when a schoolyard bully comes up behind you and flicks his finger on your ear. "Ouch!" you say. The bully laughs and does it over and over. I pushed my hood back down. A second later, March swatted me again.    "Stop!" "Who's going to make me?" "Leave me alone." "You're just a wimpy kid who can't take a little cold wind." "I am not. I'm just sick of you." "Here, let me put your hood on to keep you warm, wimpy boy." "Go away." “Boo hoo.”   The bus seemed to take forever to get here. We stood huddled on the corner. March continued to harass us. Not just me. Some got their hair mussed. One kid had some important papers stripped from her hands and blown into the street. Still others caught a face full of dirt that March swirled up from the gutter. When the bus finally came and the kids were safely aboard, I turned and walked home. March pulled in real tight against my body and whistled loudly in my ears. I pulled my hood up not wanting to listen. March pushed it down again. I pulled it back up and held on tight. I put my head down and quickened my pace until I reached the front door. March held it shut, but I pulled harder and got myself inside. March slammed the storm door on my heels. I could hear the maniacal laughter of this bully outside as I hung my jacket in the closet.   I can still hear the laughter now outside the windows in my office as I look through a manila file marked "Spring break 2004: Puerto Rico." Laugh all you want, March.  We’ll see who laughs last.   9:19:16 AM      comments []

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