Gluttonous mice terrorize my shelves of packaged food and I am grappling with how to respond. These Brooklyn rodents seem to have a penchant for dehydrated hot chocolate and organic granola bars. They wanted nothing to do with my bag of spices, nor did they prefer the box of quinoa. I am trying…I am trying to settle into this lifestyle of New York and it is a lifestyle. Suddenly, I find myself making lists of necessities. What do I need right now and if these mice played instruments or cooked ratatouille, I might feel differently towards their war on my kitchen.
What is needed to survive through a day?
Today my breaths are perforated and severed and panic pushes my skin in awkward directions. Do mice get anxiety attacks? Do they feel remorse post-binge?
Here is what I want:
I want to be surrounded by faces who carry books, rather than humans addicted to Facebook.
Is it too late to grow distinguished?
I want to be well-dressed. Instead, I am just…well…dressed.
I notice a woman in the subway in white linen, firmly pressed dress with calves carved like museum statues. None of her hair flies away from her scalp and her pale slate eyeshadow matches her shoes.
I notice a grey suit hemmed perfectly at each end wearing a man like a newly reconnected lover. I want to be the one who someone whispers about and thinks: “Well done, sir.”
Or maybe we are noticing the wrong things. Or could it be that we are announcing inaccurate feelings or observations.
[How do you want me to react?
Are you looking?
Look at me.
Otherwise what’s the point?
]
Is anything experienced in private anymore?
I am researching lands where I can indent its dirt with my weight. Clog my pores with earthwormed-soil and feast on gardens breathing out seeded surprises. (I think) my skin is rotting here.
*
My dad always says it is wrong to kill an animal when it is living in its natural habitat. Don’t bother a spider if it is just tip-toeing (sans toes) over leaves and locks of grass. However, if it begins to crawl the walls of a house from the inside, it is fair game. No excessive violence; in fact, my father has been known to trap the critters in jars and let them back out. I always wonder if they snicker to themselves as they turn right back around and head back in…
In this moment, men are spraying the crevices of my tiny shared apartment with some kind of poison, which is having an odd effect on my ability to keep my eyes open. (or, that early morning sunset stealing my hours of sleep may be to blame). Am I safe from their teethmarks or will this just become a mere intermission from their foraging.
Today, I need to climb out of my window and attach each limb to a tree branch. I want splinters to open me up and force me to commit to life.
And once I make that commitment, must I stick to it?
An intriguing poet with magical and invisible wings says to me: “Don’t stop existing, ok?”
But I wanted to say, “Even in existence, we tend to cease to exist.”
We suck on reality shows like they are medicinal lollipops; while mice shake up our “routine” more than some man out for vengeance with a gun and a hit list. I’m not sure of the politics of these mice. If they were pro-choice, would I like them more? If they believed in same sex marriage all across the world, would I buy them their own package of hot chocolate mix?
I am really not sure about making such a commitment. The only things I can commit to at this time is hair color and my addiction to coffee. Life is too broad and uncertain.
Now, I walk out of home, trying to let go of the chemicals of poison, and conversate with the farmer’s at their weekly market. Spread myself out on a patch of grass with another and bask in sun, NY Times, fresh fruit. I’m not sure about tomorrow, but I can commit to today.
Aimee Herman 