An existentialist tragicomedy in a couple of paragraphs
Scene is a placid, summer garden. The breeze tickles the pool’s surface, and her warm breath slowly tries to lull me to sleep. In spite of this, I stay awake and read about universal human rights and other things that mean the world but can never be measured or proved.
Human Rights and the Social Construction of Nature
reads a subtitle. This should be good.
Everything hangs; a couple hesitant, ho-hum notes from the wind chime, the laundry draped on a clothesline dangling from one vine-saturated wall to the next, and the sun has begun her spider-like descent, suspended on some invisible thread and drop, drop, dropping ever so slowly, spinning her web of light ever closer to my feet.
Enter Susana, exhaling a thread of smoke that hangs and floats toward the pool. Hair up, apron on, she looks surprised to see me, asks about my studies. She adds, “Hey, and those little notes that you leave me, I just love them. I find them so charming: “I’m at classes, won’t be home until such-and-such a time”… they’re so straightforward and sweet. You know, I keep all of them.” (Ah yes, I thought, that explains the gourds.) With that, she’s back to wandering through the house, humming a classical waltz.
The breeze continues. Humming. And Susi sprinting frantically out onto the porch. Fran follows hollering, “What has she robbed this time??” I hadn’t noticed anything in her tiny, ewok mouth. Fran stands, eyeing Susi as the latter calmly, without shame or remorse, continues chewing on her victory until it falls from her mouth—a piece of cork. She stares at it, head cocked to the side, and Fran’s exasperated form disappears through the doorway. The furry gremlin, who resolves that the cork is unworthy of her time and energy, sits sunbathing for a moment, and then leaves me alone again.
At least until Tono’s oversized tiger pantuflas lead him bleary-eyed across the stage to the computer room. Clicking is heard within.
Coping with Contentious Foundations
ENTER key (the loudest and most certain).
Above the walls of green and the vines’ bird-like footprints creeping across my door, little bursts of white, magenta, orange and yellow, and the last flourish of summer purple…
Enter Pelli. Hooked umbrella in hand, he struts across the patio to the lemon tree, green with unripened lemons. He is unimpressed. He futzes around a bit with the umbrella until PLOP into the pool falls the one yellow lemon that had been stranded in the tree. He fetches it out and, with dignity, collects his umbrella and is off.
Clicking from stage left.
Lunch is usually a difficult time for me; it’s simply unnatural to hold in that much laughter for that amount of time and while eating. It can’t be good for the digestion.