Cats and Straws and Sweerming In Thee Sea

Hello to all one-dimensional lines, tree shadows, dogs from outer-space and cartoon characters from old 70s kids’ shows.

I write to you today on a patch of sunlight in the living room, having just dragged a straw around for a long time, as the cat hid behind the curtain and watched it with big yellow eyes. I threw it at the curtain and he leapt and caught it mid-dive. Our cat is some cat, I’m telling you– he did a somersault the other day for no apparent reason, he used to jump in the air, twist, and catch a flying dolphin when he was a kitten, and he regularly nabs flies out of the air with his mutated paws. He’s got six fingers on each paw. I think it’s delightful, not weird.

So, it’s one of those beautiful days out there in the Outside World. Good news: my hermitage seems almost to be getting better. Yesterday I drove out with the mom into the wild countryside just outside the suburbs, which is home to terrifying old people, and grass, and stuff. It wasn’t very exciting, but I did pretend to be tied to a train track. There was a caboose on the track they’d left there, and I sat on it and looked wistfully out at the distance while mom took pictures and in my head I was some 1912 person on her way to the big city– or something like that. I also got a peach-mango smoothie at Tim Hortons– I’m sure you care about that, Blog-Reader– and it was actually surprisingly good. I didn’t even know they HAD smoothies there. It was all very fascinating and worthy of mentioning here on the blog.

Anyway, it feels nice to be blogging again after a short interlude where I felt so stressed about the big fat zero on my views count that I couldn’t bring myself to write anything. I suppose you might say I’m a little too touchy about this, because I have a handful of followers whom I hope it isn’t too weird to say I love, and I should be very glad that people actually like these aimless monologues I spew out on occasions.

So, I downloaded an album the other day: a certain My Head Is An Animal, by Of Monsters And Men. If you don’t know who they are, that’s really not a surprise. They have one hit, Little Talks, but otherwise they’re a mostly unknown group of weirdos from Iceland. Their album is completely and utterly awesome: and their accents are just as awesome. Apparently they enjoy ‘sweerming in thee sea’. Also they ‘lav, lav, lav, when you know I can’t lav’, and so on. I wish I was Icelandic. “Hey, Onceabasementdog, what are you doing?” “Well, I’m sweerming in the sea, actually.”

Heh heh. I suppose I’ll sign out now. Yours sincerely, Onceabasementdog. (Read in Icelandic accent– that’s why it’s quirky.)

When One Is Faced With Hardship, One… Giggles?

Hello to all flamboyant truck drivers along the east coast, cut-out coupons from newspapers, dusty moccasins, and bloggers blogging under cement trucks.

I write to you on a windy, grey Saturday; the cat is meowing at the door, the sad painting is on the wall, etc., as the sayings go. I wonder if you’ve ever found yourself sitting somewhere, and, because of some funny little quirk of awareness, start to notice what’s around you. For instance, around me now is one dollar, a gel-pen with blue ink, plastic flowers in a vase, a cat sitting on an orange footstool, a decrepit hockey bag that looks like City of Mice and Other Unpleasant Things One Doesn’t Want to Find In One’s Hockey Bag, a little orange plastic contraption on the windowsill that probably makes a bird-sound if you put water in it, a Chinese calendar cut in half, a pair of 3D glasses from the theater, a disembodied cardboard hand, two cylindrical candle-holders with origami birds in them, and etc. That’s what I see right now. I think it’s interesting how we look over these things so often, but they’re always there– the world is full of little details, but we see only one detail at a time. Where are you right now, my friend Blog-Reader? Are you sitting on a mountaintop with a computer on your lap waiting to be rescued by a helicopter? If you are, that’s terrible, and you should leave me a comment saying which mountain it is and if I have to contact the Tibetan police.

Anyway. The point of this blog entry still needs to be discussed– excuse me for my tirade. I’ve been reading an awesomely funny series of short stories by a blogger called Michael, and he, as am I, is a big fan of Monty Python-esque humor, and that kind of thing, and I like the tirades he goes into in his stories. (It’s called The Catrina Chronicles.) Tirades are fun, because they’re supposed to be long and silly and not always sane. (See: Best Tirade Ever, Monty Python and the Holy Grail, concerning a duck, a piece of wood, and a witch. And a newt.)

Anyway, what’s that about hardship and giggles? Well, let me educate you! I’ve been through minor hardships in my life, as I guess everyone mostly has, and I’ve noticed people have different ways of dealing with difficult situations. Some might take it calmly and be level-headed and quick to act, but heh, that’s not me. Some might fall into fits of rage, emotion, or distress; but me, I giggle.

In grade seven or eight, (can’t remember, middle school kind of melded together into one long, annoying, I’m Once Again The Weird One blur), there was a parade that went past our school. It was in honor of a police officer who’d been killed. I was just as serious and solemn-faced as everyone else, until I had to stand in silence by the side of the road watching ranks of officers stamp past in utter quiet seriousness.

I-WANTED-TO-GIGGLE-SO-BAD.

But I couldn’t! Oh, dear lord, it was painful. I had to stuff my mitten in my mouth and drive thoughts of road-flattened animals and human rights violations into my head so I wouldn’t burst out in a mad fit of giggling.

I got past it. Thank God. The police forces of most of the province didn’t see one crazy girl giggling as their procession went past.

 

Why is that I giggle in bad situations? I don’t know, but it’s weird. Sometimes, when I’m past my utter breaking point, like say I’ve been through a really rough day or had an explosive argument with one of the family members, I’ll lie down with my face stuffed into my pillow and giggle with distress.

My mom has it worse than me, however. When I told her of my strange little giggling quirk, she told me the story of her dog. Her dog had been put down when she was a kid, and when she was told she started to giggle. She couldn’t stop giggling. Said the others: ‘He’s dead. Why are you giggling?’ To that, she continued to giggle.

Once, I broke my little toe on a footstool, and sunk to the floor gasping– but I had also just called my friend, the four-foot-tall karate master, and so I had to suck down the pain and talk to him while my toe throbbed and I tried not to scream at him. My mom, nearby, started to laugh. Thanks, mom, that’s real nice. By the time the conversation was over, I was almost crying, but she started to giggle, and so did I. I was doing some sort of twisted giggle-cry while my toe flamed with pain.

I’m sure there’s other instances, but maybe those are enough to get the picture. Anyway, I wish I could handle things like that in a normal way, but apparently I can’t. Apparently nothing’s as it should be with me. I am, after all, insane.

I would end this blog on that lighthearted, optimistic note, but I’m sorry, I can’t; there needs to be a Monty Python-esque scene at the end. Prepare yourselves for the obscure! While you read, find a shrubbery!

‘I’m afraid I am going to have to commit suicide.’

‘But what about tea-time?’

‘I won’t be there, I will be committing suicide. If I commit suicide I’ll have to miss out on tea.’

‘All right– but– after you’re done with that, can you come for tea?’

‘No. I will have committed suicide, and I will be dead.’

‘Yes, yes, but tea? After you commit suicide–,’

‘After I commit suicide I cannot join you for tea, that’s just the way it is.’

‘But I’ve gotten peppermint tea.’

‘I won’t be interested in peppermint tea. I’ll be dead.’

‘Yes, but– after you’re done being dead– you can’t come for tea?’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Are you sure? If it only takes fifteen or so minutes–,’

‘No, it will take longer than that. It will take forever.’

‘Forever is how long? If you take about ten minutes with it, I can wait for you to start–,’

‘No, I’ll be dead.’

‘But after you’re done–,’

‘No, I’ll be dead.’

‘But the dog likes you–,’

‘No, I’ll be dead.’

‘I’ll call your auntie, she likes you too–,’

‘And I’ll be dead.’

‘We can buy a cake, and drink peppermint tea, and I’ll call your uncle, he likes you a bit too–,’

‘I’ll be dead.’

‘But you like tea, and I’ll even wait for you to be done–,’

‘I won’t be done. I’ll be dead.’

‘I’ll pick up some groceries–,’

‘You don’t have to. I’ll be dead.’

‘And there’s a shirt I need tailored–,’

‘There’s no need. I will be dead.’

‘But I can at least give you an hour or so, there’s nothing to do on Sunday–,’

‘No, there isn’t; I’ll be dead.’

______

Yours non-truly, and it’s only a flesh wound, and ‘Find the tallest tree in the forest, and cut it down– with this herring!’ ~ Onceabasementdog

Social Flaws, But Ironically, They Don’t Even Matter

Hello to all wheat fields, crash cymbals, forgotten pencil-crayons under old jazz organs, and the number four. Today, as I sit in my basement cut off from all human life, I want to talk about Social Things.
Social Things is a general category: basically, I mean, ‘anything and everything I don’t want to face that involves people.’ This could mean the girl at the Starbucks, or the guy at the Rogers store, or the man with the mustache that I don’t like for some reason at the Pizza Hut. Basically, I’m afraid of every single person on this earth, with the exception of friends and family– and my cat. And my dead bamboo plant. I wasn’t afraid of him– in fact, he was my best friend– and then he died.
So anyway. You could say that ‘Oh, a lot of people are awkward in social situations.’ You’d be right, but you wouldn’t be at the heart of the matter– which is I am awkward in ALL social situations, and more than just a little awkward, a LOT awkward. Sometimes, rarely, I manage to get through a scene of sociality without saying anything weird. Sometimes I can talk to the Starbucks people without wanting to hide. But most of the time, I’m not too good at this aspect of life.
For instance. There are a lot of instances, but I’ll name just a couple of them. Once, I was walking the wrong way from school, (see other blog entries), and I came across a girl from Science class. She knew I hadn’t been to school in a while and– since it was obvious I was walking the wrong direction– I knew she would think this was just a little weird. (Note: This is the girl I weirded out in middle school by putting a clothes-hook up my sleeve and pretending it was my hand. I thought it was funny, but she just smiled and nodded nervously.) As we passed each other, I tried to say ‘Hello’ but instead of a nice clean Hel-lo it came out a croak, somewhere along the lines of ‘Haey.’ And she just stared at me. That was a good job securing my sanity right there.
Another time, I went to Starbucks, and I wanted to order a green tea lemonade. I walked up to the cash and the lady said, with a smile, ‘Hi.’ And I can’t even remember what I said to that– if anything. I might’ve just stared– or, more likely, smiled in a twisted nervous way or tried to offer some kind of croak meant to be ‘Hi.’ Anyway, she said, ‘What would you like?’ and I said, ‘Um, I’d like the lemonade tea thing.’ ‘Which one? Passion fruit?’ ‘Oh– no– the green lemonade one.’ ‘The green tea lemonade?’ ‘Yes, that, please.’ ‘What size?’ ‘Medium. No, I mean– grande.’ And then I dropped all my coins.
Okay, I’m not always that bad. With my friends I’m usually good, and if I know the person I’m talking to it’s easier. I also find talking to people as shy/more shy than me is easy, too. But once you put me up against a stranger who isn’t as hopelessly shy and awkward as I am it becomes like a gladiator pit fight and I’m some poor slave from the country with a toothpick against a very big, muscled gladiator who has killed like, thirty lions in one month and is swinging a really big sword through the air that will not only crush my toothpick, but me, too. I’m just not good with socializing, or talking when I have to. Also I have this suspicion that I stare at people. It’s not that deer-in-the-headlights kind of staring that some people might give you, or even the haughty eyeing of the popular kids. It’s like a ‘I am thinking deeply about you’ kind of stare, and I think on more than one occasion I’ve embarrassed some poor kid. Usually they don’t notice. Thankfully. Because it’s really weird. I only kind of noticed I did that a few months ago, after staring deeply at the poor bass-saxophonist in music class. He started turning redder and redder and I only looked away after I remembered I had a book to read in my bag, so I could enjoy myself that way and not listen to our Nazi drill sergeant music teacher.
The staring at people thing is probably another bad social skills type thing; I don’t think it’s normal, or if it is actually a natural inclination to do that, then nobody else does it. I’ve stared at my share of people over the years; developed back stories about kids sitting in class around me; and stared so deeply at my friends at times that it’s hard to believe they really haven’t noticed. Or maybe they’re just really, really polite, or oblivious. It’s not a bad sort of staring; and I stare less at people the more I know them, and the longer I’ve been around them (a heads-up for my friends reading this, I don’t stare at you guys that much anymore! That’s good, right?) But anyway. I’m surprised that the bass-saxophonist didn’t explode, because during music class I used to stare at him a lot. And why? He wasn’t even good-looking or anything. But he must’ve known I was looking at him. And how do you explain that to someone if they ask you why you’ve been staring at them for months? If my answer was ‘Sorry, I do that to everyone’ I wonder if he’d believe it.
Anyway. The ironic thing is that all these social flaws don’t really matter, since I haven’t lived much in the outside world for a while now. I’m wondering– kind of fearing– if my return to the World of the Outsideness will be bad, like, REALLY very bad, because I’ve been out of the social loop for so long. Normally I’m passably sociable to survive school and the world with reasonable ease, even if sometimes I’m horrible, but I have this bad little feeling returning to the world will be a nightmare. It might even make the news. ‘Girl returns to Outside World, elephants rampage city streets, downtown fires destroy dozens of buildings; government in crisis; army called in, plea to other countries “What the heck are we supposed to do with this?”‘.
Er… well… Dig yourself a Onceabasementdog-Returns-to-the-World-Everyone-Might-Die shelter now!
(Very insincerely, Onceabasementdog.)

Why Do People Want to Tightrope Across the Falls?

Hello to all crashed computers, never-purchased banjos, lint-people, cat-dog hybrids, and packets of vacuum-sealed Craisins.

Valentine’s Day flew by– in fact, it flew by so fast I thought it was still today– (well, excuse me for not knowing what day or month or year it is, being confined in my basement for so long. So long, jeezum… anybody want to give me a free one-way ticket to some pretty place      like the meadows of England or the windmills of the Netherlands?) But anyway, it went by already, and I had no admirers or valentines showing up at my door. Well, I just might have admirers if I ever left the house, and if I threw around my address in public places. ‘SHOW UP AND BRING BOX OF CANDY FOR… CHARITY? YES, FOR CHARITY.’  But anyway. I should get to the main topic of this blog entry, which is Niagara Falls and the Wallendela guy or whatever his kind of funny name is.

I heard on the news that this guy from the outside world is going to walk across Niagara Falls on a tightrope– it’s located in the outside world, also– and I thought it was interesting. I have vague recollections of a grainy black and white video of some guy in tights crossing the falls, and of course all those ‘I’m going to fly down in a barrel and die’ stunts, too.

It’s fine that he’s going to give it a shot– but the thing is it’s already been done. Why doesn’t he try to cross the Grand Canyon on a tightrope? Or has that been done too? Or what about the Atlantic ocean? He could hang himself by his ankle when he wants to rest, or something, and have boats throw up little packets of food as he goes. It just seems to me that the ‘Crossing the Falls on a Tightrope’ thing is kind of boring since it’s been done already. I would suggest he go across on a flaming tightrope, or have people fling knives at him.

But anyway, that’s just me. I find it interesting that I mentioned Niagara Falls for some reason in the other post and now it was all over the news. Maybe he reads my blog and had the idea? Who knows? Well, Wallendeladoo, if you’re crossing the falls and you’re reading this, I wish you much good fortune!

So that’s it for now. Stay tuned. Don’t turn off your computer. In fact, stare at the screen and refresh it every few minutes until you see a new blog entry.

Yours forever untruly, OnceaBasementDog.