Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label dog. Show all posts

Monday, March 08, 2010

How to Speak Several Languages Simultaneously

Often on my way to work I see my neighbor, Maximilian Odon Von Woods, swathed in bandages, walking his well-bred German Shepherd dog called Racine. Some days the dog is nimbly disguised with a beard, wears sunglasses, and sings in an American-born Greek soprano voice, ranging from high soprano to mezzo, with an occasional woof thrown in for good measure. Today, it sounds like Gilda from Rigoletto, or feline distemper, which must be worrying, especially for the dog.

'They're trying to kill me!' cried Maximilian.

'Who?' I said feinting surprise.

'Damn tree surgeons, shady doctors, water lilies ... They say I'm taking too long too die ... Do I look like someone who wishes too die?!'

'No ... ?'

'They've a bloody nerve. Take it from me, if you are ill, do not go to a doctor, do not tell a soul. There's a plot to rid the world of the likes of you and me. They want to bump us off.'

He laughed hysterically, then continued in a loud voice so the neighbours could hear. 'Doesn't anyone care?! The white coats make a living out of killing us! Sly little devils!'

I blushed, and didn't know what to say. His eccentric eyebrows appeared to exchange places, and speak in unison, 'Heed my words! There's no cure for loneliness, old age, or mud wrestlers rash!'

'SLY LITTLE DEVILS!' His voice shook me. 'Thank God, I've still got my dog. Listen to that voice.' Racine and I gazed at each other with sadness, our eyes half-blinded by the morning light.

Racine indeed sang with haunting passion, and extraordinary depth of feeling. Yet he looked tired and old; barely able to crawl by his master's side. Racine was still an amazing singer, with an incredible vocal range, effortlessly moving from the lowest note to the highest. Such stunning talent seems a miracle. Then so does a dog that sings.

Several readers have inquired about the illustrious Doctor Wilkelfield Finkelfukal. Little is known about the doctor. It's believed he used to be called John Dody, and shortened his name to Wilkelfield Finkelfukal in 1856 when he was thirty-two. He spoke several languages simultaneously. This is probably why no-one understood anything he said.

He wrote a 'one page' book titled: The Wisdom of Wilkelfield Finkelfukal. Unfortunately, it was deemed tedious and long-winded. Two copies were sold to a man with uncombable hair, before it was recalled by the publisher. After this disaster his volcanic imagination deserted him and he became a tree in 1866. In March 1875 he shot himself in the trunk. He tired of death and moved to Manhattan in 2004 where he runs a GP surgery when he's not walking.

Reflections: To live in nature, not with nature, is what I crave. To drift on the river, and escape the imperilment of conformity, greed, respectability and silence. To reenter my vagabond life, jettison hypocrisy, and remove the knife that pierces my soul. Time to improvise, vire from the shooting scrip, and rediscover myself.

Are we condemned to be free only when we forget about our own life?

Wednesday, February 17, 2010

A Gutsy Gal & A Dog Named Venezuela

Somewhere during the night I may have morphed into a gutsy gal. Sometimes, I feel young, old; like a father, like a mother; reflective, oblivious; wear split skirts, chaps; and climb on the back of the woman next door, who sadly doesn't share my fondness for adventure and outdoor exercise.

I've been arrested twice: once for overworking her, and once for forcing her to eat pecan pie. I remember promising her unlimited freedom, and a proper deworming schedule. Thankfully, my tame wooing made her blush, and the moon quickly waned. Her husband, a blank toxic man, in possession of a body built solely to store air, is besotted by daffodils, lupins, hollyhocks, and his collection of corridor lights. A bald-headed man, he wears a goatee beard to hide the fact he has one leg.

Once he asked me a strange question, “If someone asked you to look out of your window in the middle of the night, would you do it?!” I realized I was in the presence of a madman. A madman with a shotgun. A madman with a shotgun and cartridges.

'CAN'T YOU HEAR?! Would you look at cars, people, houses, the horizon?! Damn you ... Would you ... ?!' My mouth and throat became dry. He took hold of my arm with his leg and cried, 'I've burned boats in my time! Thousands of them! And leave my Daisy alone!' As he walked off he shouted, 'It's getting dark and I've still to climb the church tower! The lighting isn't right for sniping, I tell you. Damn it!'

Daisy was once rich and possessor of a fine coloratura soprano voice; unfortunately it belonged to her brother. The naked truth was discovered one night when Daisy fell asleep (along with most of the audience) as she attempted an aria from The Magic Flute. As she snoozed it was discovered that her prodigious mouth housed a sizable family of illegal immigrants disguised as cows. 

My friend, Rada, who is from Bosnia and Herzegovina, has a French bulldog named Venezuela originally from Belgium. The dog barks in five languages: Serbian, Croatian, French, Dutch, and German. I believe Venezuela is presently reading Hungarian with a doctorate in mind. My intuition tells me the dog is slightly disturbed regarding its family history, and has no means of communicating its anguish to human beings.

Some days I watch the dog board the bus on its way to visit the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) to view works by the Belgian artist, René Magritte. A particular favourite, The Menaced Assassin, tends to remind Venezuela of his home in Brussels. He pins posters of the work on trees in our district, usually as dusk is falling. Then he sits gazing at the picture weary of his aging, burdensome exile. He never complains, but I can tell he despises his fate.

Once I witnessed Venezuela drunk, wearing a t-shirt and blue velvet jeans. He had shaved his head, and was ranting about his tax affairs. Rada, a gravedigger, who reeks of decay, is unworthy of such an elegant, lucid, and gentle animal.

Reflections:: Some people say they write, play a musical instrument, paint, act in the theater. However, it is not the fact they do these things, it's how they write, play, paint, act, that matters. Is it inspired by the soul, the heart, or is it practical, sober, and devoid of spirit?

Tuesday, June 09, 2009

A Passion to Endure a Lifetime

What age does one have to be to form a passion that will endure a life time?

During the primeval darkness of puberty I began an ebullient love affair with reading, music, TV shows, humour, and discovering erogenous zones: anything involving an armpit. Language and music seemed to delve deep into my soul and fire my emotions. Though childish for my age, and with a restricted ability to understand the rules of grammar and vocabulary, I soldiered on.

Then I discovered melody, harmony, rhythm, phrasing and imagination (not only in music) but in folk tales, novels, poetry, and leg-wrestling. I read voraciously, but the story was overly optimistic, so I opted for Anne of Green Gables. The one thing in life I've never regretted.

In this new era of my life I have morphed into a watchful observer. When I'm not at home, perhaps shopping or swimming in a drained pool, I hold a 'wood effect country birch' venetian blind in front of my face. I've been arrested five times as a Peeping Tom and twice as a banal beech.

Am I to be pilloried for boring a hole in my shutters just because Lady Godiva's hair was cut too short prior to the lady riding her horse? I demand flip flops that don't leak! I demand the name of the stranger standing on my head! Do I sound irrational and erratic?! If not, you may be on the same medication as me. Try meditation, or standing naked among cattle lying in a meadow. However, one can never be too careful standing close to swishing tails.

I took my dog to the vet today. The vet's diagnosis was worrying. She said the dog had Parrot Disease, aka Parrot Fever, Pigeon Fancier's Lung. When I said I couldn't understand how a dog could catch this disease my dog said, 'Who's a pretty boy then? Who's a pretty boy? Go on ... Tell me. Who's a pretty boy, then?' I cracked. I was in such a state I drove home without my car. It was a mistake to buy my dog her own Espresso coffee maker, and to let her sleep in the kitchen. There's no food left in the fridge and she's left the steam iron on again.

This afternoon I sat down and wrote an email to my dearest friend in Oxford, England.

I've fallen in love again. This time with a human being. She's beauty personified, wealthy, and fluent in German. I know what you're thinking? I can't speak German. But I'm besotted! I know! I know! Even when the sun shines at its brightest, the rain runs down her face, and her voice is sometimes lofty. I've made an appointment with a doctor to diagnose her condition. However, believe me, she is like no other. She's learning me how to 'Goose-Step' to 'Achy Breaky Heart'. I know this may sound simply-minded, however, every time I mention Gabriel Daniel Fahrenheit, she gets hot under the collar. Any ideas?

Reflections: The time will come when everything one does will be just a memory, including one's notion of paradise.