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| _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ |
| OUR OPERATORS ARE STANDING BY |
Pinball Injury
by G. Rhydian Morgan
Saturday, December 22, 2007
by G. Rhydian Morgan
Saturday, December 22, 2007
| CONTACT THE LIZARD |
“What is the matter with you?” She screamed, throwing a
plate at the wall, smashing it into a new jigsaw puzzle. The
wall cried out the way walls always cry out when bodies throw
other bodies against them. Bodies never hear them though and
so they keep on throwing plates. Three or four or six pieces
of plaster fell from the wall and joined the jigsaw puzzle on
the floor. They added extra pieces that did not fit and made
the whole puzzle almost impossible. Or maybe they did fit, in
a different manner and made other pieces obsolete. There were
infinite combinations of infinite jigsaw puzzles. Hours of
fun for all the family from eight to eighty. I never needed
to buy another puzzle.
“You just sit there…doing nothing…” She complained
but neglected to throw anything else. I sensed she had grown
tired of her anger. Or maybe her anger had grown tired of
her. It had stormed off to wake up Exasperation and ask for
the relief. I thought of her Anger, shouting at Exasperation
to get up. “Hey, it’s your turn. My shift is over!” And
grumpily Anger wrapped the blanket about itself and tried to
sleep through the noise of Exasperation getting up and taking
over her emotions. I didn’t wish Anger sweet dreams. Anger is
usually happier without them. But I greeted Exasperation
civilly. Secretly I hoped that it was still too early for
Exasperation to stay around for long and that it would soon
retire.
“I can’t write.” I spoke feebly to show how weak I
was. I picked up my pen and let it hover above the blank
page. The page had been blanked for two days now. I dropped
my pen without writing a word to illustrate what I meant. The
blankness was beginning to overpower my weakened will.
“What do you MEAN, you ‘can’t write’?” I wondered if
I should take this literally. Do the whole ‘pick up pen, not
write, drop pen’ routine again. Then I stopped. I stopped
because I noticed Anger getting up again. Maybe it had
decided that if it went to sleep now then it would not sleep
properly later. This would mean it would be in a bad mood all
day. So what’s new, I thought, but very quietly. I didn’t
want to say anything Anger might enjoy and she would not like
it. It wasn’t worth trying to explain. She was ranting, not
understanding. I was pissed off at not being able to write.
“You’re always writing. That is what you do. You are
a writer and writers write.” I felt like I was watching an
episode of Sesame Street. “Why can’t you write now?” Her
voice mellowed as Concern made an appearance and Exasperation
took a step backwards. Anger mooched in the background
moaning about having to do everything around here, including
making the tea. I had never thought of the trio as friends or
even on speaking terms. But whenever Anger and Exasperation
were parading around Concern invariably came along sooner or
later. Maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe Anger and Exasperation
were a double act, good cop/bad cop type set up. Maybe
Concern was the real relief. I don’t know. I may ask one day.
“Tell me what is the matter. What is stopping you
from writing?”
“I broke my thumb playing pinball.” I handed her my
beer to open.
plate at the wall, smashing it into a new jigsaw puzzle. The
wall cried out the way walls always cry out when bodies throw
other bodies against them. Bodies never hear them though and
so they keep on throwing plates. Three or four or six pieces
of plaster fell from the wall and joined the jigsaw puzzle on
the floor. They added extra pieces that did not fit and made
the whole puzzle almost impossible. Or maybe they did fit, in
a different manner and made other pieces obsolete. There were
infinite combinations of infinite jigsaw puzzles. Hours of
fun for all the family from eight to eighty. I never needed
to buy another puzzle.
“You just sit there…doing nothing…” She complained
but neglected to throw anything else. I sensed she had grown
tired of her anger. Or maybe her anger had grown tired of
her. It had stormed off to wake up Exasperation and ask for
the relief. I thought of her Anger, shouting at Exasperation
to get up. “Hey, it’s your turn. My shift is over!” And
grumpily Anger wrapped the blanket about itself and tried to
sleep through the noise of Exasperation getting up and taking
over her emotions. I didn’t wish Anger sweet dreams. Anger is
usually happier without them. But I greeted Exasperation
civilly. Secretly I hoped that it was still too early for
Exasperation to stay around for long and that it would soon
retire.
“I can’t write.” I spoke feebly to show how weak I
was. I picked up my pen and let it hover above the blank
page. The page had been blanked for two days now. I dropped
my pen without writing a word to illustrate what I meant. The
blankness was beginning to overpower my weakened will.
“What do you MEAN, you ‘can’t write’?” I wondered if
I should take this literally. Do the whole ‘pick up pen, not
write, drop pen’ routine again. Then I stopped. I stopped
because I noticed Anger getting up again. Maybe it had
decided that if it went to sleep now then it would not sleep
properly later. This would mean it would be in a bad mood all
day. So what’s new, I thought, but very quietly. I didn’t
want to say anything Anger might enjoy and she would not like
it. It wasn’t worth trying to explain. She was ranting, not
understanding. I was pissed off at not being able to write.
“You’re always writing. That is what you do. You are
a writer and writers write.” I felt like I was watching an
episode of Sesame Street. “Why can’t you write now?” Her
voice mellowed as Concern made an appearance and Exasperation
took a step backwards. Anger mooched in the background
moaning about having to do everything around here, including
making the tea. I had never thought of the trio as friends or
even on speaking terms. But whenever Anger and Exasperation
were parading around Concern invariably came along sooner or
later. Maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe Anger and Exasperation
were a double act, good cop/bad cop type set up. Maybe
Concern was the real relief. I don’t know. I may ask one day.
“Tell me what is the matter. What is stopping you
from writing?”
“I broke my thumb playing pinball.” I handed her my
beer to open.
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© lizardmagazine.com, 2007