Semi-Daily Scribbles

Gary was happiest when he could lose himself in the comforting familiarity of the mundane, like going around the yard picking up Scruffy's turds. The physical task was manageable; objective clear. Comforted by a daily routine, Gary let go of all the anxiety that trapped him in the past, or propelled him forward in time to some such social situation he always feared, like a job interview. There were bigger matters at hand than how strangers, and even acquaintances, perceived him. Gary felt he'd beaten back the enemy; got the better of the bullies in school who ridiculed his love of etymology and grammar, when he gave himself over entirely to the type of conscious engagement found only in poop scooping and laundry folding. In the performance of these activities, Gary discovered contentment resided in the sliver of time between thought and action. When Gary caught hold of a flittering piece of eternity, it felt to him like pulling warm towels out of the dryer.

It is the constant rubbing and touching and jostling each day that exacts such a toll on Miriam's stamina. She does everything she is told to do. Miriam gets up early. Eats red food and fruit. Tumbles out of her well-padded nest and jumps into the swift moving stream with all the other striped and slippery fish. The current eddies around the mouth of an enormous can, fitted and fueled; ready to receive the day's stunned cluster of citizens. But it is the contact, the closeness, that so confuses Miriam. She becomes exhausted from the attempt to attach meaning to all the incidental and flagrantly intentional reaching out and pushing away that defines such a confined existence.

While Gloria's dogs were cooling off in the grass, and the marinated 3-bean salad she packed for lunch had been reduced to three beans staring back at her from an oil slick, she wondered what would happen if she were to laugh at every question directed at her for the rest of the day. Would she be called into Jim Bryant's office for a word? Would Franny pop her head over the cubicle wall and ask if Gloria needed anything? Granola bar? Midol? A hug? Franny was a fixer. Too bad Gloria often had to go over Franny's reports and fix her work. Did Gloria need anything? Yes, for Franny to take a remedial math class. Her co-workers' incompetency and feigned concern over Gloria's little difficulties were the reasons why she was brusque with everyone in the office. She couldn't even look these people in the eye without disdain and overwhelming sadness. Gloria pondered her new tactic, and decided a laugh in the face (or rather faces) of idiocy just might make Jim, or Franny, feel the stifling isolation she felt every day in their company.

One day, Gloria decided she couldn't abide the sound of another human's voice. Even more egregious to Gloria's sensibilities was the contempt smeared across another human's face; which, if that human had not been told by Gloria to shut up, would probably have just looked bored. Gloria wanted nothing more than to slip peacefully off everyone's radar, but self-imposed exile was not easy to coordinate. She still had to show up for work at the tax assessor's office, which put her in the line of fire of maddening talk and all manner of facial contortions. Gloria worked very hard to marshal her powers of quiet restraint to get through the daily trials of living on the planet with other people. She employed brief, passionless – though still competent – responses to inquiries. Gloria focused on colleagues' earlobes during face-to-face exchanges. She especially steered clear of the eyes. Gloria didn't want to know what was on the other side of those beady little windows. And at lunch, Gloria made straight for the park across the street, where she kicked off her heels, wiggled her pedicured toes in the cool dew of the grass, and was happy to bask, for a few human-free moments at least, in her own special brand of illumination.