An oven, forgotten about for more then four hours, will apparently just keep on cooking, even when empty.

Forgetfulness, like everything else, is simply a matter of perspective.

In 1666, London burned to the ground because of a neglected oven.
The London fire of 1666 saved thousands of lives by killing most of the plague-carrying rats.
My house seems warmer tonight.
If I were forty years older, my children would lock me in a nursing home for my own protection.
I have better things to do then worry about an oven.
After four hours, I might very well be hungry again.  Preheating is avoided, saving valuable time.

This morning I am like a little boy at the dinner table, staring down at a plate of untouched food.  Nothing looks good.  I poke it with my fork, hoping time will somehow come to my rescue.  Everything has grown cold, except for my parents, who only eat faster and grow more angry by the minute.  The air over the table is tense and electric.  Something is about to give if I don’t get down to business.  Thunder rumbles in the distance, and I know that the lightning is not far behind.  I have never won this fight.  I know this.  But I sit there still, not looking up.

This morning I sit at my desk, once again afraid to move.  No, not afraid.  Just not wanting to.  Wanting anything except the meal that’s been placed in front of me.

My plate is my life.  Work is my meal.  Writing my desert.

Without even having to take a poll, it seems that at least half of Word Shadows readers feel a dog is just the thing I need to scarf up left-over pizza crusts.  Sounds good!  I’m almost persuaded except for that one teeny tiny problem with this unofficial non-taken poll - 50% readership means Katy and Daisy.  I would have a hard time breaking my newly signed lease agreement (I moved only last month) because two women I don’t know thought it was a good idea.  For crying out loud, one loves pink and the other tortures her husband, although in a loving and caring fashion.  And always with the best of intentions.

But I’ve made bigger decisions in life based on shakier grounds.  Once I bought a new truck even though I didn’t have a job.  It seemed like such a good way to get rid of three junker cars.  Such a deal!  I thought I was coming out on top, which, of course, I wasn’t.  One is seldom on top in a car dealership.  Young and naive, my will power weakened by the highly waxed shine and new-car smell, I hadn’t yet figured out that salesmen bend boys like me over their desks several times a day.  I signed my name and walked away smiling.  Sure I was sore, but I just thought the problem was with the seats.  They just need to be broken in I thought.

There once was a real, live hermit in the family.  I never met him.  He was my grandpa’s brother, and lived in a small, one-room cabin somewhere in the middle of a Minnesota woods.  He died, I think, before I was born.  I was led to the cabin once, but could only see it from across a partially frozen pond.  It called to me like an empty place in need of company.

If I ever get a graphics tablet and pen, I will return to that cabin for the remainder of my days - provided hermits are allowed electricity.  And internet access.  And hot water.  And their children.

Everything is easier these days - even being a hermit.  I even believe long, dirty beards are no longer a requirement.

Work has grabbed me by the scruff this morning and will soon drag me off.  I’m growling and shaking, but its a tight grip.  I will continue my tale as soon as I break free.

I should have went back to work a long time ago.  I’d forgotten how much is going on out there.  For instance, stopping in to rent a movie after work, I found myself face to face with a pair of door to door Crayola salesmen.  Each carried what had to be the biggest box of crayons on the face of the Earth.  Unfortunately, they were both chased out of the store before I had a chance to intervene.

Now that is one job not on my resume.

And then there are the many things our customers say, during the course of a day, that completely give away what soft, vulnerable creatures we Americans really are.  Today’s jem (said with much drama and exasperation):

I can’t believe I live in a state so behind the times!  Whoever heard of above ground utilities?  This is really, really just crazy!

Just because they pay me, they think I’ll listen to anything.  Which is probably right.

Dear Department of Motor Vehicles:

It was nice of you to write to me today.  Your letter arrived in a timely manner, and has filled a void in my life that often appears on the heels of the holiday season.  Knowing that my driver’s license was current, my vehicle’s tags all up-to-date, and that I had no outstanding speeding tickets or other infractions, I could only imagine that you had written simply to wish me a happy and prosperous new year.  For that I was most appreciative.  I believe I was even smiling as I carefully opened the letter.

So imagine my surprise when I see that your letter’s intent is not to wish me well, but rather to scare, frighten, and intimidate me into action.  The paragraphs, filled with threats and promises of punishment, seemed to go on and on forever.  I could hardly take it.  As a compliant citizen of the state of Oregon, a peaceful and rule-abiding man, I was devastated.  What had I done, I thought, to deserve such a verbal pounding?  Have I somehow given offense?  (As a struggling writer, however, I found myself more then a little impressed with the letter’s ominously effective syntax.  But I digress.)

I could assure you that I never received the “previous attempt” your letter assures me was mailed some months ago.  But what would be the point?  Your letter has opened my eyes to the fact that our relationship isn’t built upon assurances and trust at all.  We are nothing more then a balance between money and desire.  You are transportation’s whore, and I am weak. 

So I have enclosed the paperwork you required.  Yet another bean to add to your staggeringly high pile of unnecessary work, which leads me to my last and final question: if you complain when I don’t send in the paperwork, do you also complain when I do?

Sincerely,

Keith

I’ve accomplished more in the first fifteen minutes of this day then I did in the whole of yesterday.  If you take out the two hours I spent going to see Big Fish, then yesterday was a complete bust.  No work, no thinking, no writing, no cleaning . . . no nothing.

My shadow of the day:  lethargy.  And I think it even had a boring day.

But that was yesterday, and like I said, I’m already off to a good start.  Coffee is brewing, the kitchen is clean.  Even the small pile of cashews that had taken up residence in a back, unused corner of the kitchen counter - gone!  Clothes - hung!  Toys - away!  Living room - straightened!  Office -  well, okay, ignored.  There are limits to my super hero cleaning powers. 

But today I am a working boy.  Boot up, soldier, and hit the door running.  Circumstances beyond my control have me reporting for work today sharply at 9:00.  If ranting and raving would have any effect on the boss, I’d give it a try.  But I usually reserve talking to myself for when I write.

The Typepad free trial countdown clock seems to have paused dramatically on “1 day remaining”.  Time is standing still, it seems.  There is the outside possibility that I count time differently then the folks at typepad, who most likely began my ticking countdown the very day, hour, minute, second I clicked the “Sure I’ll Try Anything Once” button. 

God dammit!  That’s just not right.  I have become a dull knife.  My writing has no edge.  Where’s my edge?  I used to handle words like a sword, slicing clear to the bone with meaning so clear and precise.  Look at that crap up there!  Looks more like pretentious, prepubescent journal fodder.  Looks like a butter-knife fight.  Looks like a good example of how to waste five minutes and a handful of perfectly good words.

It’s a telltale sign that a 42 year old man needs to find his edge.  Fast.  He needs to grab the blade that separates clarity from safety.  He needs to hang there until the words are all written.

I guess I’m in, typepad.  Even if it kills me.