Archive for September, 2008


Slumped over her worn white desk, resigned to the shifty incompetence of a few, she stares blandly at a page again for the first time ever. The summer of repetition. The ink has invisibled like the many pointed optical illusion that no longer remains an illusion when the entire field of dots, utterly offended by the constant, purpose-less ogling, vanishes before you, escaping presumably to an affair more worthy than this tiresome game. A sigh, she hears, she does. A bravely sluggish fly, conscious of the manic stillness, hovers down, yes – hovers unlike a fly ought to, and lands down heavily to her right atop a list of claimants and defendants, sweating beneath the glare of the lamp. Slow! Fat! Confusing! Why are you here?! She wonders if it is a congealment of the illusion dots and page letters, come to catch her attention with a new airplane of food strategy, as though she were a child. Or a spy sent by one with super-ordinary powers.

 

She remembers how Mr. Miyagi spoke in smooth undistracted breaks, explaining how one could (not really ever) catch a house fly with a pair of chop sticks. ‘An impossible task!’ Skinny brother had exclaimed, furiously, at Mr. Miyagi. Chubby brother had snorted. Unlike the tricky, clever children [‘it may be difficult to catch a fly that way’] she had thus concluded it was near impossible to catch one altogether. Skinny brother bought a Venus fly trap. Chubby brother snorted. In the market one day not long after, she stood a few yards back from a stall selling household stuffs and observed the sale of fly swats. Yes, people manufactured them. Yes, people purchased them. Was this luminous plastic stretch an instrument of fools’ hope? She pictured these purchasers thrashing around in their hoovered living rooms and spangly conservatories with their fly-swats, laughing as lunatics might as they, for the moment, believed they were on the verge of the impossible. The Hope of False danced around their skits (with utmost glee), hopping and limboing with each swing. Was this the purpose of flies? She pictured goblin men cashing in, on and up on all kinds of false hope tools whilst flies shrunk into vanishing like illusion dots.

It sat there and stared right at her, with her all the while blowing and shooing and threatening to do this and that to it. Eventually, she rolled up another list of claimants and defendants and held it high, waiting to hear the gulp. It didn’t come. She swung it down with Spartan precision and strength (it was) and watched in slow motion as it approached the back of the fly andFILUWIT! It glumly dodged and repositioned itself only inches away from where the now scrunched paper tube had struck, bent against the desk. These rolling up events continued until the next morning, even after the lights went out.

Somewhere, chubby brother knowingly snorted. In the background, Tchaikovsky brings the Sugar Plum Fairies. From time to time throughout his life, he would demonstrate his slow, slow, so slow it was hard to understand what he was doing, hand swipe that would quite simply knock his tiny zooming target sideways and unconscious – in one go! Or rather awfully, dragged by his palm and flattened and juiced against the nearest surface – also in one go. His hand was so large and the movement so lazily orchestrated that the prey, most certainly, had no idea what chubby brother might be about to do and probably gazed with a curious longing, unsuspecting, like its predecessors right into the Death Palm.