Archive for October, 2008
Of course they lived in fear of the zombies. What with the footage of their violent escapades in otherwise peaceful places.
The people were encouraged to obtain shot guns. The preschoolers adapted their school yard games; the shot gun and the zombie the shot gun and the zombie, we all go kapow.
This is just to say
That I am not an ice sculptor. And that sometimes the bad idea which looks like a good idea really actually is a bad idea.
Boris the Russian Astronaut
I wanted to make a documentary about Boris. I was going to play it for the children, so that they might learn about him. Unfortunately, it is hard enough to organize the talents and efforts of one, let alone of many. And so I have chosen the efforts of one, fearing the loss of his story in the indefinite forestallment of making the documentary.
So follows the story of Boris the Russian Astronaut, to the best and extent of my knowledge.
I met Boris in Scotland. Seeing that this story is not about me, the hows and whys of my coming to be there is beside the point. The hows and whys of his coming to be there is a different story, which is to say it is the story. But, in our speaking, for we did speak to one another, he never apprised me of the hows and whys of his ending up in the second largest isle of the inner Hebrides.
The strangeness of his being there was his not being from there and looking the part. Boris is Russian. And an Astronaut, although on this point he often suffered me to endure the pedantics of title, Boris preferred to be called a Cosmonaut. I will give him the satisfaction of this inclusion; however, it is improbable that he will ever come to read this account, considering where he is now. I have strayed a little, forgive me. The strangeness of his being there was his not being from there and looking the part. Boris is Russian. And an Astronaut. He cut a queer figure strolling as he liked to do across the moors and amongst the sheep in his Astronaut suit. Both he and I enjoyed our walks, and this was how we met. He walked a lot. And so did I. Our meeting was therefore inevitable.
I was pushing a gas canister in wheelbarrow one day and there he was. He stopped and I stopped and there we stood. Boris was, as I later always saw him, in his brown orange mechanic suit and fogged up fishbowl helmet. I stared into the reflective surface of his helmet back at my self and he, as I first imagined, stared at me. We stood quietly. Some sheep walked past, some stood and joined our staring. He broke the moment, the sheep dashed off: “This is (a gas canister and) what is (the reason for your bringing) this (gas canister and also where are) you pushing (this gas canister and) why (are you) bringing (it and) to where (are) you taking (the gas canister)?”
I will take a moment here for purposes of clarification to let you the reader know that Boris’s speech, as you may already be aware of, is somewhat lacking. Boris cannot be blamed for this retardation. He is not English born or taught and so is not privy to the finer delicacies of English syntactical grammatical conventions. And to compound the matter, everything he said was a muffle. The helmet, you see. It took me a moment to register his speech, to fill in the blanks. Henceforward, his speech will be similarly rendered as above. And so to return.
The Vote
I voted for the first time ever. I was led to believe that my vote could change it all. I was disheartened to find that it didn’t.
