My day most properly begins when I pry the head from the pillow, or at least screw open one eye. Generally, my guinea pig wakes me - if my alarm or mother don't get me first - with officious squeals. I have taken the matter up with her on occasion, with a view to admonition, beginning by observing that we should always remember who it is that serves whom and strive to preserve this state; but she always interrupts there, to say that's exactly why she wakes me. I don't get it. In any case, once roused by the Sounds of Morning, I give in to the inevitable, roll over, and catch another forty winks; but the Sounds of Morning are dashed persistent. Usually they achieve their aim. I throw back the covers, sit up suddenly, to deliver a stern ultimatum to the Sounds of Morning � and invariably forget the low, sloping ceiling above my bed. I lean back, to massage my aching head, and contemplate the hole above me. Finally I slither forth, quite cowed before the day has half begun. I would like to read a bit in the mornings, as I hear some people do; but when I try, I have found someone will always make oat-meal and presently root me from between the covers to ingest the foul stuff. Therefore, solely to improve the odds against this contingency, I have ceased to read in the mornings. Oat-meal, I am surprised to say, is still made. After a breakfast of ambrosia or poison - that is to say, fruit-loops or oat-meal - I toddle back up the long stair, and collapse in bed until I have summoned the inertia to have my devotions.
Today I'm at Ecclesiastes 10. I read: "He who digs a pit will fall into it, and whoever breaks through a wall will be bitten by a serpent." But I am interrupted by my father, calling, "Hey, Bob, don't forget to come down later and help me dig that pit for Mom's new compost pile... Oh! And don't forget we're going to break down a few more walls in the middle floor for renovation this afternoon." "O.K." I quaver.
Every morning, I take a stab at the so-called morning exercises by stretching and doing about one hundred push-ups. Now, the push-ups have a visible effect, but the stretching is a funny thing. According to a book I read, practicing everyday, one should eventually be able to do a split; but it seems to get harder every day for me. I don't think I shall ever do a split, though I stand a good chance to make two of me.
My next order of business is to laze about, check my email, feed my animals, argue with my sister � and, you may have noticed, avoid anything in the shape of school. It's not that I dislike learning - why, you couldn't find anyone more aware of its peculiar benefits; I love knowledge; to me, wisdom is better than honey; but then, I dislike honey.
I have been known on occasion to even resort to poetry to avoid becoming wise. When geography looms like a dark cloud on the horizon, I quote the first line from Wordsworth's sonnet:
The world is to much with us late and soon...
He was very intelligent for a poet. When science tries to get a strangle-hold on me, I just thumb my nose at it and quote expressively, Poe's poem:
Science! True daughter of Old Time thou art!
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes.
Why preyest though thus upon the poet's heart?...
Hast thou not torn the Naiad from her flood,
The Elfin from the green grass, and from me
The summer dream beneath the tamarind tree?
Sometimes I really think they wrote those excellent poems in just such straits as myself. I thought, if it helped them, perhaps it would help me. And that's how I became a poet. For example, once I had a Bible Lesson on Proverbs - or rather was supposed to have - but chose, instead, to turn to my muse for help. She provided the following sample, unfortunately the Bible Teacher did not share my high view of it:
"The clear beauty of reason
And wisdom, sublimest thoughts
Which, Solomon says, "My son
Seek 'til your body rots!"
Well, I thought it was a handy epigram anyway. That was how I got started writing poetry; and now I make a habit of it, every morning. At length, however, I overcome my innate laziness; and once I set to it, �eddication' ain't so bad. Really, what can compare to ciphering an algebraic equation with one hand, and holding History of The Persian wars with the other? A great many things, no doubt, but I can't think of them off-hand.
I get more done while I'm supposed to be doing school, than all the rest of the day. I'd never clean my desk, or arrange my bookshelves, or feed my guinea pig unless I was supposed to be learning. But at length, I run out of things to do, and turn grimly to the task at hand. I start by parsing a little geometry, and ciphering some Greek - or is it the other way around? I always get confused. Then I make a kamikaze rush through grammar, classical roots, and fetch up with only a few scars before science. I quote the abovementioned poem by Poe then, so I feel properly incensed - I consider it native to the science experience. There is no way to give the Periodic Table of Elements greater charm than to imagine they were devised for the oppression of the poet within. So, flaming mad at what science has been doing to the Naiads and Dryads and Tamarind trees, I savagely slash my pencil along through a quiz, and revengefully perform my experiments. At last, science is past, and I turn to History. I like History - what I do is read some ancient tome and then write a couple of essays about it. But some ancient tomes are almost bedtime stories, since they are only read before you sleep, and will make you sleep even if you aren't tired.
On this matter of ancient tomes, I have observed a peculiarity. Namely, that the really old writer - Cicero, Tacitus, Plutarch, Josephus - have been excellently translated and make good clear, if not always simple, English. The writers from other nationalities also, except for Cervantes, make good English - Goethe, Descartes, Confucius. But the blokes that really annoy me, are those �early English writers. English, my foot! There Burns, whose Scottish brogue, liberally transposed spelling, and devious use of poetic license make him sound like an echo of babble; and there's always Malory, whose prose is as cumbrous as his knights, forever smiting and smoting and what not; and then, of course, there's Shakespeare. Now, Shakespeare was a good fellow, he tried, he really did. But sometimes, when he had old Burbage on his back, and a troupe of hungry actors haunting the Globe Theater, he just wrote whatever came into his head. He was just trying to find something for the actors to bleat at Queen Elizabeth. There can't be much more annoying than, in the throes of some great tragedy - Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, for instance - to encounter two court clowns solemnly discussing a point of absorbing semantic interest with the Queen. "What is madness," they ask rhetorically, "but to be mad?" I mean, you can't argue with that, but it doesn't do much for you either. Anyhow, the real trouble with �Early English Writers' is the term English. Now if, for a moment just suppose, someone were to call them prominent Russian Literati, some bearded professor bloke would probably translate them and never know the difference.
So that's my morning, and soon by late- middle morning school is done, and I can turn to my own ends. My first endeavor is always the acquisition of a good lunch. That is always high on my list of immediate priorities, and I have yet to fall from my lofty, philosophical standards. Usually I have a sandwich, on home-made white bread, with meat and cheese and onions and sometimes a tomato. I used to indulge in Ramen noodle soup, but one day I found a small, dismembered worm therein, and after much soul-searching have sworn of the stuff. Now I only eat it in some dire emergency - such as the alternative of macaroni and cheese, and even then I inspect it carefully with a magnifying glass. But enough about my culinary habits.
Some persons have indicated that they believe me to practice after lunch, upon the piano, for upwards of three hours. These poor blighters are vastly mistaken, though I don't have the heart to tell them - it would probably crush their self-esteem. But they are not far wrong: their error comes in supposing I do it one solid chunk. Really, I couldn't. Soon - perhaps a mere two hours from the touch-off point - I should become a zombie, unable to still my quivering fingers, and if you asked me a question I would stare vaguely past you at the ceiling, or perhaps build a major minor seventh chord on the tone of you voice. I would, if you'll pardon the expression, be in a very dissonant mood. Anyway, the point I'm trying to make - have used this entire paragraph to make - is that I do not practice after lunch. All clear?
What I really do after Lunch... I couldn't tell you. You see, that part of my day is blank. Whenever I try to remember what I did then, all I can see is black. I suppose I must write or something, but the eye of humor cannot see it.
Presently, though, I decide �tis time for the afternoon saunter. That is to say, I go for a walk. I have a pleasant course, winding around the back-roads near my house, which provides pleasant exercise and a little adventure. The adventure lies mostly in the incidents with the dogs. One day, in a particularly remote spot, I encountered a fierce grey-hound. I was calmly strolling past, when I heard a low ominous patter of foot-steps behind me, turned, and saw a dark shape, crouched low with gleaming eyes. Oh! A puppy, I thought. But the thing began to make unpleasant noises with its throat, and crouched like a wolf about to spring. At this point I ascertained the dog's intentions, and deemed it too late for flight. Crouching, myself, into the classic posture of self-defense from rabid animals - which is, in case you're wondering, to scrunch up until as little of you as possible is handy for the animal's consumption - I stuck out my fist menacingly to see if a little firm attitude would dissuade that attack. The animal sprang, I closed my eyes, and leaped in an agony of... surprise, when instead of sharp fangs, I felt a warm tongue roll along my hand. Looking down, I observed a Golden Retriever with friendly brown eyes. I've never been able to understand how a grey-hound transformed into a golden retriever, but I have a heartier respect now for Virgil's Metamorphosis. Besides this, my walks are generally very pleasant.
Sometimes, on my way back, I stop at a little park. It is very secluded, and generally I can catch up on my interrupted morning sleep. But once, as I trotted to my favorite bench, I observed something which has made me more wary in my gallivanting. Just ahead, through the shady trees, I could see a man, in the buff, laying flat out on top of a zebra striped car, listening to acid rock. It gave me a slight start. It was a hot day, and the roof of that car had to be burning his back; so I assumed it was some kind of voodoo ritual, though why an voodoo practitioners would choose the Numidia park for their operations is beyond me.
As you can see, however, I have always survived my walks. Upon returning, I'm generally in a reflective mood, and remain so during supper - whether from shape-changing dogs, mysterious voodoo rituals, or merely nature's own faculty to impress depends entirely on circumstances. Sometimes, in the Autumn, I'm also rather stiff with cold, but that helps the meat-loaf slide down.
I will skip through the evening hours, since they are mostly spent in reading, until the little bit of drama that occurs directly after I've taken a bath. It is that of the Bug and the Bathrobe. Having soaked sufficiently, I leap from the porcelain to strike a pose before the mirror, and I am seldom unimpressed - - at my dazzling footwork when wet foot slips onto slippery floor. I usually fetch up from my little tarantella somewhere in the vicinity of the rug, and proceed to don evening wear - pajamas, that is - but then, I inevitably encounter the bathrobe. It is usually in the farthest corner of the room. As I set out thither, the following sequence occurs: I espy a lady-bug heading parallel to myself, and hail her heartily before realizing where she is headed. She is aiming for the selfsame robe that I am aiming for! Not being in a particularly vindictive mood, I hesitate to squash her with a handy tissue, but instead engage her in a head-long race, the goal being, of course, my robe. This may seem unfair - to the bug, I mean - but you see, she has a head-start of several feet, starting from a mere couple of inches to the end-point, whereas I am a good four yards away. It is a close thing. Especially when I hit the straight-away and slip on the wet spot again, hurtling dangerously to the finish. I scoop up the robe gracefully, before smashing into the wall. After a space, I pick myself up, and look about for the lady-bug. She has disappeared. I look some more - under cabinets, on shelves, on the bottom of my feet. Maybe she was a mirage after all.
Post-ladybug, having regained my strength, I teeter up the stairs, merely pausing to swipe a pen from a handy desk, collapse in bed, and think about writing something. I give my muse a holler, but at this time of night she is as tired as I am, so sometimes she responds and sometimes not. When she does hearken to my voice, and leaver her airy bed, she is always grudging. Therefore she usually shoves off stuff like Darkness, and How I Killed My Mused on me; it's not a good preparation for the sleep-time. Sometimes, when she's feeling particularly malicious, she will make me dream about what I just wrote. This makes for good stories, but bad nights. I really did have the dream about monsters coming to life, though the bit about the dead muse was just a calculated insult to that grumpy woman. She gives me a nightmare, so I write a story about killing her. She was very hurt, and kept me awake all night sniffling up in the rafters.
On a normal night though, I don't get many ideas after nine. So I turn out the candle, fluff up the bed-roll, and bid my guinea pig and hamster a good-night. Then the cat jumps on my bed, usually as I'm just dropping off, so I grab her in the delusion she's a burglar - or perhaps a revengeful muse - and nearly begin pummeling her to death, but she meows quite pitifully, and I escort her down-stairs instead. I return to the bed, and finally fall asleep. Then my experience takes on a whole new dimension - flying through dream-worlds of infinite space and greater ideas...
But that's another story.
*N.B. � to whom it may concern: perhaps, having read the previous chronicle, you will be under the impression that I'm a moron. Whether that impression has any credence, I am not prepared to say; but if you would be so kind, please call 1800-IS-HE-A-MORON to give us you views on the matter. The editor and I have little bet going, you see. ~ R.M.M. ©Copyright, 2004, Robert Quiller