Bird As Fish

Well, I work at the front desk of a hotel. There is someone at there twenty four hours a day. We are the hub of the hotel wheel so to speak. We smile at everyone, regardless of whether or not they are customers, and they come to us and tell us their woes. Understandably, therefore, we come to know a lot about pretty much everyone. It is also understandable if, to cheer others up we tell a few choice details about a particularly woeful person's troubles, you know, to let them know that their life isn't that bad.

No, really, it's a terrible habit. It's called Gossip, and it's something that sadly, even I, the soul of descretion, have picked up. The other day, a little situation made me realize how bad it's gotten. I had just come on shift when I detected a terrible burning smell. I talked to the boss, but he just mumbled and turned back to his work. I therefore assumed that it was not an emergency, and went about my business, shaking my nose at the increasingly terrible smell. People walked by and, as if I coudn't smell it myself, told me that there was a horrible burning in the air. "Yes" said I, "It's being taken care of", sounding very much like a failing airplane's stewardess. In the next few minutes, the accountant walked to the front desk, talking to the catering manager, keeping her voice down so the front desk staff wouldn't actually know what was going on, she said, and I heard her quite clearly, "It is the rats in housekeeping. They were burning." Well, said I, this is quite extraordinary news! The rats in housekeeping! How disgusting. The first thought in my head was, I can talk to the other underlings around me, and tell them what a dungeon this is (we delight in mocking the place). I told the other girl at the front desk in secretive, salacious tones what we were actually breathing in. She quickly set out for home. The porter came to the front for his keys. "Hey," I said, keeping an eye out for any admin in the area, "you know what that burning smell is?" He shrugged, and looked at me curiously, obviously not expecting the shocking answer which I quickly delivered to him. He looked like he was going to be sick. I told him not to spread it around as he left for less fragrant territory. I thus walked alone around the front desk with a strutting air. They didn't want me to find out, but I did. I found out about those rats that they'd tried to keep a secret. The proletariat will prevail! Feeling pretty self righteous, I watched my boss and the banquet manager out of the corner of my eye. They began to comment on the smell and on how the rags in housekeeping got set on fire in the first place.

I looked around and hoped no one saw me hiding behind the desk.

So, don't gossip.

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

Travelling home at 4:00 am from a friend's house, I was entranced by the birds singing. They seem to sing at all hours of the day and night here. Maybe they are happy for the springtime. I did not stop when I reached my destination, indeed, I kept going. They reminded me of morning. Though the sun had no thoughts of coming up yet, though the air was chilled, though it was 4:00 am, and I was wasting time, nothing could stop me while the birds sang. And while the birds kept singing, I kept pedalling.

But then, being sensible, I turned around in an empty parking lot, and returned home. After all, who cared that the birds were singing? My better sense told me that I needed rest, told me to go to bed. But little eyes poked out from behind the skirts of authoritarian good sense, and I smiled a mischevious, happy smile. I had, after all, triumphed momentarily. I had got to hear my birds sing. In a moment of uncontrolled, unscheduled freedom, I kept pedalling.

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

I'm only human
Only fragile
So fragile
Broken.

I am not a doll
In fact, utterly unlike perfection.
Imagine a china doll
Glazed cheeks, so fine
Rosebud lips,
Cold
(for porcelain is always cold to the touch)
Unmoving, unbending
And set far above child's play.

I move
I breathe
I feel

When you break a doll,
It does not hurt
When you pluck out it's eyes
It does not see any worse
- It does not cry.

Imperfect perfection,
Mass produced,
Mock me if you will,
I cannot contend with your accusation of my being human
(lowly, humble)
I see it more everyday.
I am not a doll
I am singular.

I am not a doll
(and so fragile)
But my skin,
It's so soft
How?
God, it's beautiful.

Not perfection
But satisfaction.
Not flawlessness
But contentment.
Which would you rather have?

Yes, I am only human,
Thank God, I'm just that human.

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

Nineteen is a good age.
It is the age when I smile more than ever.
Young, but not too young.
No wrinkles, no worries.
Carefree late nights.
Money for clothes.
Thinking for my own feet.
It is the age when I become a child again.
It is the age when I dance down the walk singing about how groovy I feel.
It is the age when I feel adorable.
Basking.
Oh yes, nineteen is a good age.

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

When everyone's gone to bed, it's just me and the blog. He doesn't answer back very well, but he's a great listener.

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

Do you ever get thirsty?

I am thirsty right now. Thirsty, thirsty. You know that feeling? When you want something so badly, and you will do anything to get it. I feel as if I am just waking up from some long sleep, and I am thirsty, so thirsty. I look around with my eyes half closed.

Stop.

That is where I am right now. But I know the symptoms of it, I know where it will go. I know that this feeling I get will only get worse and worse. It will make me awake. It will make me open my eyes wide. It will make me run, and oh the pleasure in running. The pleasure of itching legs pumping up and down, of shoulders moving smoothly. Of being breathless.

C'mon, c'mon, I tell my cobwebbed brain. Stir yourself, shake off the dust, stretch. Enough of dreams, enough of mist. The real world is waiting. IT is waiting. And why should it wait for me? I'm not sure, but I am thirsty for it. It is what awakens me, it is what stirs me. It is what takes me from warm bed, from comfort, from drowsiness, from achy unawareness. We shall not talk about IT too much, in case it disappears from my sleepy vision, but it is now a question in my head, which I shall ask as soon as I wake up.

What is IT? I shall yell into the distance. And I will run until I have an answer.

In the meantime, I am thirsty, I think, as my mind mulls over why I have been awakened from such a long sleep. I yawn, and stretch my legs.

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.

He'll think I'm amazing. He'll think I'm great. He'll fall in love with me as I dance down the hall, when I think no one is watching. He'll fall in love with me when we dance in the kitchen while we're doing dishes. My smile will hold his gaze. He'll put his hands on my waist and look at me, and tell me he likes me better than anyone else in the world.

He thinks I'm amazing. He thinks I'm great. He falls in love with me as I dance down the hall, when no one is looking. But what good is it if he doesn't put his hands on my waist and tell me he likes me better than anyone else in the world? Speechless, mute, maimed. Still, spitting in your face. How can I take such love and trample it? I don't know. Crucify, I am no better.

©2004 All Rights Reserved MJ Jackson
This article may not be reproduced in whole or in part without the permission of the author.