Sundays at the Zoo
You’re the only imaginary thing left, so pay attention. You’ll have to make do. You see, there were nice baby zebras and there were human children with clumsy overshoes, each holding our attention with incongruous non-maturity-seeking behaviors. We found this amusing and we wished to be less mature. We wondered about what it would be like to impulsively reach for something we didn’t have, something grown abstract, perhaps, that might remain beyond our reach. We thought about acting thoughtlessly.
First let’s establish the perimeters. Weebles make poo poo in the lion’s den, for example, provides access to a dangerous amusement. Laugh if you must, but it’s one more approach to unprepossessing expectations that has thus far eluded us, like Weebles weeping over the demise of deliberately undifferentiated nutritious insects, or Weebles disguised as fresh raucous confessions in the Museum of Delinquent Care.
It has been said that Weebles illuminate each hidden blade of dissention with an evasive, rubbery and meticulous attitude. I don’t expect anyone else to find such purchase. Not all tenacious pretensions are transferable and it’s not currently me fouling the longed-for nursery soup. I don’t think so. I don’t think so at all.
So that’s the explainable part of why I brought you here and it’s true that we still don’t have enough overshoes. It’s a damn shame. A dirty disgusting overflowing damn crime of a shame.
Consequently, we have additional Weebles and then we have more Weebles. And Weebles again and Weebles once more. A whole zoo full of classic separation anxieties spawned by overabundance. I was previously reluctant to accept the idea that it helps one move on in life if you know who your real mother is, but I’ve always understood that it’s a gift if your understanding is engaged at the time you are awarded anything you might regard as a similar discovery.
I really wanted to blame the environmentalists, but that summer didn’t proceed as predicted. I wasn’t sure which dramas were natural anymore. I couldn’t seem to rise early enough to locate any actively gathering dew. Unattached zebras flew by, dry as kites. The zookeeper discussed this at length in his most recent letter of resignation. Indications to the contrary had been artificially encouraged and he wasn’t going to put up with it anymore.
Sometimes the wind gets caught in its own hair and has to be removed with tinsel. So, too, the appearance of the ancient blue ideal of restraint, which looks suspiciously like a driverless 1963 Camero.
Afterwards the director rested and resigned me again.
Rich Ives is the author of Tunneling to the Moon: A Psychological Gardener’s Book of Days currently being published in serial @ Silenced Press everyday in 2014 and forthcoming in paperback. Begin from the beginning, catch up, read daily. Just refer to the Burrow Guide.