Silence

Dawn is near, and it is not yet cool. I can't even fetch e-mail because the program crashes. Outrage Express. This summer will not give up without a fight, but Sluggo will.

Though the sky is bright, not a single bird has made a sound. The stillness is so profound that it seems as though town and forest have been placed under some enchantment which only I have escaped.

I'm recalling a moment when the moon was low, and the only shaft of its light to pass the wall of trees silvered the boles of two pines next door, and illuminated a single window where I thought I saw a ghostly face. All else was darkness.

I hope there is a newspaper lying on the driveway. If not, I will worry.

Confession

The other evening, I was treated to the sight of thuggish neighbor attempting to start his motorbike by having it towed by a rope tied between the bike's fork and the rear bumper of a pickup truck driven by one of his equally thoughtless friends. Thuggish was, as is his custom this time of year, shirtless and wearing baggy shorts, and was also in violation of California's strict helmet law. As he wobbled and lurched up and down the street in a series of vain attempts to get the bike's engine started, I watched through my window, expecting at any moment to see the almost inevitable disaster. But disaster failed to happen. No blood was spilled, no skin abraded, no bones broken, no unconsciousness achieved. Dusk fell, and the drama ended with thuggish unconcussed. I'm certainly not proud of the fact that I was a bit disappointed, but honesty compels me to admit that I would most likely have felt some guilty pleasure had he been injured. Certain people arouse in me some highly uncharitable feelings, and thuggish is certainly one of those people.

In truth, I don't enjoy my own malice, but I do feel pleasure when misfortune befalls those toward whom I feel some antipathy. I never go out of my way to take revenge, but I do borrow vengeance from random events. I would never take a dump on my enemy's lawn, or attempt to cause anyone else to do so, but if a stray dog happens to leave a steaming pile there, I am churlishly pleased. Should the object of my dislike then step in it, my most likely response would be unworthy laughter, quickly stifled, and the thought of the event would bring me shameful delight long after. Oh, schadenfreude! More tempting than the tasty whipped cream that turns the arteries to stone!

Punishment

I do believe that this is now the longest comment thread ever to appear in my journal. After more than three years, that's just sad.