For the last couple of months, a dove has chosen to park itself in the tree just outside my bedroom window to woo its prospective lover. I MUST believe it's trying to get laid. The alternatives scare me. But. This wooing occurs every morning. Five o'clockish. Which is fine. Would be fine. Honest to god. IF said dove didn't sound exactly like Freddy Krueger if Freddy Krueger were a dove. He either needs prescription-strength throat lozenges. Or an exorcism. OR to cut back on the unfiltered Camels for awhile... maybe all of the above. SOMETHING is not right with this dove and it's making me crazy. I'm dreaming elaborate early-morning dreams about the government giving me subliminal messages via covert, feathered animals that need their batteries replaced. It would be great writing material if Orwell hadn't kinda done it already... well... without the kitschy bird messenger.
Speaking of writing, I read the following quote today and it inspired me to get my bony ass up and blog about it.
Here's the quote: I do not so much write a book as sit with it, as with a dying friend. During visiting hours, I enter its room with dread and sympathy for its many disorders. I hold its hand and hope it will get better ~ Annie Dillard, A Writing Life.
It's so apt! Capital A Apt. My working title for novel #2 is The Art of Avoiding Pain and, until lately, I had been avoiding it like it was, oh I dunno... my boss... infected with the plague. In this scenario, my boss can't stop crying. He's CONSTANTLY asking me for a fresh glass of water when he isn't begging me to rub his large, dessicated feet. He likes me to sing him Journey songs, too. If this weren't enough, I'm also expected to sit for hours upon hours and listen as he laments about the good ol' days when his feet weren't so nasty... 'cuz everybody knows The Plague causes feet probs, right? He's a high maintenance nightmare of the Freddy Krueger variety. So with all it's personal issues maybe one can see why I have taken to pretending he doesn't exist anymore. OR. Maybe I'm just overwhelmed with the subject matter... divorce... death... unplanned pregnancy. Lovely as it sounds, I'm actually shooting for "comedy of errors." Sort of. The ART of Avoiding Pain... get it?? Did I mention this is a WORKING title?
Anyway, I'm doing everything in my power to NOT avoid this beast of a project anymore. I'm bringing the damn water. Rubbing the nasty feet. Singing the songs of yore. And letting him lament in peace. It's eating away at all the time I would normally be staring blankly into the fridge in contemplation of whether it's empty enough to warrant a trip to the grocery store. But it's worth it. I MUST believe that The Plague isn't fatal and that my time, patience, sincerity (and maybe some extra REO Speedwagon for good measure) will not only bring my boss to a full recovery, but make him Employer of the Year or something. Believe with me, won't you?
Meanwhile, any advice on how to spook a horny, strep-infected, demon-possessed dove would be much appreciated.
Speaking of writing, I read the following quote today and it inspired me to get my bony ass up and blog about it.
Here's the quote: I do not so much write a book as sit with it, as with a dying friend. During visiting hours, I enter its room with dread and sympathy for its many disorders. I hold its hand and hope it will get better ~ Annie Dillard, A Writing Life.
It's so apt! Capital A Apt. My working title for novel #2 is The Art of Avoiding Pain and, until lately, I had been avoiding it like it was, oh I dunno... my boss... infected with the plague. In this scenario, my boss can't stop crying. He's CONSTANTLY asking me for a fresh glass of water when he isn't begging me to rub his large, dessicated feet. He likes me to sing him Journey songs, too. If this weren't enough, I'm also expected to sit for hours upon hours and listen as he laments about the good ol' days when his feet weren't so nasty... 'cuz everybody knows The Plague causes feet probs, right? He's a high maintenance nightmare of the Freddy Krueger variety. So with all it's personal issues maybe one can see why I have taken to pretending he doesn't exist anymore. OR. Maybe I'm just overwhelmed with the subject matter... divorce... death... unplanned pregnancy. Lovely as it sounds, I'm actually shooting for "comedy of errors." Sort of. The ART of Avoiding Pain... get it?? Did I mention this is a WORKING title?
Anyway, I'm doing everything in my power to NOT avoid this beast of a project anymore. I'm bringing the damn water. Rubbing the nasty feet. Singing the songs of yore. And letting him lament in peace. It's eating away at all the time I would normally be staring blankly into the fridge in contemplation of whether it's empty enough to warrant a trip to the grocery store. But it's worth it. I MUST believe that The Plague isn't fatal and that my time, patience, sincerity (and maybe some extra REO Speedwagon for good measure) will not only bring my boss to a full recovery, but make him Employer of the Year or something. Believe with me, won't you?
Meanwhile, any advice on how to spook a horny, strep-infected, demon-possessed dove would be much appreciated.
I think if you play some Sister Christian for the dove, that might do the trick...
ReplyDelete"You're motorin'...what's your price for flight..."
Though this plan could backfire...lots of people (and doves) like that song. He might just start coo-ing along.
Other than a gun, I don't know. They get annoying around here because they never change key and it's over and over again. Same with the cuckoo bird which enchanted me when I first heard a real one but drives me nuts now.
ReplyDeleteWe have a whip-poor-will that drives my husband nuts. It is bad enough when it is in the nearby trees but sometimes the little shit will sit right down on the window sill and sing his little heart out and you just can't sleep through it. I wish he'd find love!
ReplyDeleteI would help you with your dove problem, but now I'm so disturbed with the image of the large, nasty, plague-infected dessicated feet.
ReplyDeleteGringa, you're right, girl... now I'M cooing that song.
ReplyDeleteLinda, what's up with the not changing key thing? That's my dove's prob. Maybe I could withstand his creepy singing if he'd try some new tunes.
Deana, I don't think I know what a whip-poor-will sounds like. The name alone scares me though!
Sweatpantsmom, you gotta love the imagery, though, right??