Only Shades of Grey

So I was sitting on a rock at Ruby Beach, sipping tea with a starfish. It had seaweed draped across its spines, the starfish, not the tea, like a shawl to ward off inclement weather. And it held the delicate china cup in one of its seven rays, the saucer in another. I sipped Lady Grey; it sipped Rooibos. The starfish exhibited splendid colour differentiation, violent purple shading slowly to crimson red, across its aboral side.

We sat and sipped and chatted about its life in the Indian Ocean, the adjustment from warm current to our much colder Pacific Northwest climate, and the resulting brittlization of its ossiclic self. I was quite fascinated, as I am sure you would have been, when I heard a strange sound, a groan...no...a bit of a wail more like, and I turned to the shore where stood a viking with arms outstretched to the sea.

I watched as this weathered norseman cried in anguish to the god of the sea, the god of the sky, whatever god he worshipped, his voice lost to the sound of ocean surf, breaking waves too loud for us to eavesdrop on his plaintive conversation.

Then he dropped his arms and took from the pocket of his furry vest a scrap of paper. Looking down, no longer at the sea, he began to roll the paper between the palms of his weathered hands until it was shaped like a cylinder which he then put between his dry, cracked lips and reached again into the pocket of his furry vest to withdraw, this time, a bottle. Holding it in one hand, he removed the corked stopper with the other, and took the paper from between his lips to slide it into the bottle. He then replaced the stopper and set the bottle down, firmly grinding the butt of the bottle deep into the sand.

He raised his head, again to face the sea, tossed his wild mane of white hair back, and raised one arm above his head as if to signal, "Forward MARCH!" Then he walked with determination into the ocean, chest puffed out as if to break the waves before they broke him, and slowly disappeared beneath the turbulent sea.

I watched until naught but the very tips of his fingers remained and, when they, too, slipped silently into the deep, I turned to the starfish and said, "Well. What do you supposed THAT was all about?"

The starfish gave a shrug, adjusted its seaweed shawl, and turned to look again to shore. My gaze followed, whereupon I saw The Grim Reaper who was standing in the very spot where only moments before a living, breathing man had stood, albeit from a past long gone. The Spectre of Death bent down to pick up the bottle and, carefully wiping the sand from the butt of the bottle with a long fringe of his black shroud, he turned to gaze thoughtfully at the sea.

He removed the corked stopper with bony fingers, but did not remove the contents; instead, he brought the bottle slowly to his lips, and blew a puff of spectre breath into the bottle. He then set the bottle down, firmly grinding the butt into the sand, pocketed the cork and then turned to focus a shrouded gaze directly at me.

I squeaked and turned, startled, back to the starfish. "Oh dear," I said, "Why is he looking at me?" Then I turned again, and the reaper was gone.

I set my gilt-edged saucer carefully down, then set my china cup upon the saucer, taking care not to spill a drop for I have only one more teabag of Lady Grey left, and I climbed down from the rock and waded to shore.

I walked slowly to the unstoppered bottle and picked it up and looked inside, but there was no paper, just a tiny little pile of grey silt ash. And a puff of seabreeze caressed my shoulder at that exact moment, and tickled my neck and chin, and stirred the ashes in that bottle to lift them and swirl them into the shape of a dead man's soul which dissipated as quickly as it had formed.

And I turned and looked at the sea and thought to myself, a dead man should at least have his coffin, and I flung the bottle into the ocean with all my strength and it landed in the exact spot where the tips of a viking's fingers had given up, and the bottle bobbed for a moment or two until the breaking waves filled it with their lifeblood, and then it slowly slid beneath the surface, into the deep.

And I turned and looked towards the rock and there sat my Dream Angel drinking the cup of Lady Grey, and she set the cup and saucer upon the rock and spoke softly, yet I could hear, "It's time for bed, fluff." And she reached down to take my hand, for I stood at the rock now, and she led me to my bed, the one there, not here in this world, and pulled the magic covers up to my chin. She kissed me softly on the forehead, dropped the starfish into my glass of water, and turned out the light...

The Conceptualization of Vagina Prick

My mother is Siamese, born and raised in Bangkok. It is said she once touched the Emerald Buddha, a story I sincerely believe because my mother must touch everything. In fact, my father says it's how I "came into being."

My father is Scottish, Hebridean really. He says very little and none of it comprehensible. He is said to have touched my mother in "that special place." She neither confirms nor denies the story, claiming I was the result of "divine intervention."

As with most religious icons, the Emerald Buddha is a bit of a fake. Not emerald at all, it is made from the most common and imperfect form of silica, green jasper. Emerald is one of three precious stones, those being diamond, ruby/sapphire and emerald, while jasper barely makes the semi-precious list for a variety of reasons.

In fact, the most valuable thing about the Emerald Buddha is actually his wardrobe consisting of three pair of golden garments. It is the ceremonial changing of these garments that led to my mother's indiscretion.

You see, my mother had been suffering some strange pangs in her lower abdomen which proved to NOT be pregnancy, worms or the avian flu. She suspected she might have developed a kidney stone wrongly attributed to the huge quantities of milk she consumed when more likely it was due to her indiscreet lifestyle of fooling around with every tom's hairy dick.

In any case, she had a pain in her lower abdomen and, being a naturist as well as a naturalist, she looked to a homeopathic remedy for her bellyache, i.e., rubbing jasper on her bare naked belly.

(Seriously, my mother will rub anything on herself. It's absolutely disgusting the things she comes up with. In fact, she once...oh, never mind...)

Not being one to do things in half-measures, and living as it were near perhaps the largest piece of polished jasper, she planned accordingly and determined to mount the Emerald Buddha. This being her grand plan, and her tummy issues having coincided with the first waning of the lunar month of November, she made her preparations to approach the green deity during the ceremonial changing of his summer to winter garments.

The Emerald (Jadeite) Buddha's clothing is changed three times a year by either the King of Siam or a representative of his kingship, corresponding with the changing of the seasons, spring, summer and fall (really, dry, rainy and cool). The ceremony is brief, the clothing is heavy, and there is no room for surprises when changing the garments. My mother's intrusion upon this sacred ceremony certainly constituted a "surprise," especially considering the method by which she chose to mount the statue and the position she was thus discovered in.

Needless to say, there was some strong language followed by the dropping of one set of royal garments followed by more strong language followed by a misstep upon the other set of royal garments followed by even stronger language and a bit of caterwauling.

Well, the rest of the story is rather dull. My mother's pain ceased, and a representative from the King informed her parents she was no longer welcome on palace grounds. Since the emmissary carried a very large and curved sword, my mother and her parents determined she should perhaps relocate to another country which led to the fortuitous meeting with my irascible father.

There is one inconsistency in this little bit of family history that is quite often debated - my mother claims that, during her session with the buddha, he spoke to her and I was begotten. Her parents claim she was always one to stretch the truth and my da's habit of tom-cattin' had more to do with it than any touch of divinity. The king's legal representation has steadfastly refused to either confirm or deny any part of the story or subsequent allegations. Needless to say, the Emerald Buddha remains unavailable to speak on his own behalf or to take a paternity test.

My father, however, is dogged in his support of my mother's version - he claims, adamantly so, offering me as evidence, that my mother is quite capable of making even the hardest substance beg for something he laughingly calls "mercy."

Dunderhead

Myself: (muttering)...so 1 and 10 cross first, and 1 comes back..
Me: I had the best time last night!
I: Yeah? (drops a slice of bread and a pat of butter in the frypan)
Myself: ...then 1 and 2 cross, and 1 comes back...
Me: Yep. The fairies had a game last night and they SMOKED the dragonflies. 12 to 1!
I: Game? (flips the bread)
Myself: ...that's ten plus one plus two plus one...
Me: Yep. The final for badminton. They were ON FIRE.
I: How does a fairy play badminton? Aren't the birdies a bit too big for the players? (chuckles)
Me: Very funny. You KNOW they don't use real birds, right?
Myself: Dude, YOU know the FAIRIES aren't real, right?
I: (shakes head sadly) Don't.
Me: ExCUSE ME?
Myself: You heard me. The fairies. Not real. imaGINation.
Me: Em...wrongo in the congo! They ARE real - just ask monkeyboy!
Myself: (snorts!)
I: Oh, this is gonna get ugly...
Me: You know, I've asked you NOT to do that.
Myself: What? What did I do?
Me: You SNORTED.
Myself: No I didn't.
Me: Yes, yes you did.
I: You did, actually...
Myself: Ok, I snorted. So what?
Me: I've asked you several times not to snort at things I say.
Myself: No, I don't think you have. You've asked me not to guffaw. I didn't guffaw.
Me: I've asked you repeatedly NOT TO SNORT.
I: It's true. You're not supposed to snort, it just causes friction.
Myself: Friction?? Dude, she's livin' in a fantasy world!
Me: AM NOT.
Myself: are too...
Me: AM NOT!!
Myself: ARRRRRE TOO.
I: Oh, geez. (looking up) Serenity now?
Me: You know what? I WASN'T EVEN TALKING TO YOU, so why don't you just go back to whatever you were mumbling about and leave me alone!
Myself: Works for me. I'll be in my room. If anyone needs a healthy dose of REALITY, feel free to join me.
I: (waits a moment until a door closes down the hallway) You know...
Me: Oh crimony. Can't I just tell you about the game?
I: (shrugs) Sure.
Me: The fairies are using a new birdie, they found this company that manufactures slightly larger but lighter dandelion fluff. They've been practicing with it for a couple of weeks, so they technically had a slight advantage over the dragonflies who couldn't pull their strength back enough to not keep hitting it wayyyyyy out of bounds.
I: Don't you think that's a bit of bad form?
Me: Not really. The company, DunderHead Sports, has been advertising the new birdie for months. If the dragonflies would read a sports magazine once in a blue moon...
I: Yeah...that's a bit thin, you know. Dragonflies aren't really known for reading up on the latest technology.
Me: Well, that's hardly a logical argument.
I: Hm. So, can I ask you a question?
Me: Sure...
I: Do...you...really think the fairies are real?
Me: ...
I: I mean, you've been...you know...going to see someone about all this right?
Me: You mean my weekly appointments?
I: Yeah. Isn't that supposed to, you know...help you figure out what's real and what's...let's say not?
Me: Well, no. Not really.
I: Then what's it for?
Me: (hesitates) Can I show you something?
I: Sure.
Me: (leads the way down the hall to a door)
I: Dude, are we going into your bedroom?
Me: Yep.
I: I'd rather not.
Me: Trust me.
I: I'd rather not.
Me: You want the answer?
I: Not if it's in your bedroom.
Me: Too bad so sad, cry a river, build a bridge and get over it. (opens the door, sunlight floods into the hallway)
I: WHAT THE FU...
Me: Yeah :)
I: What the hell happened in here? Six months ago, this place was a pigsty!
Me: I know :)
I: A PIGSTY! How'd it get so clean??
Me: I do a little each week :)
I: Are those sheer curtains on the windows? What happened to the damasks?
Me: They're gone :)
I: You have a WINDOW SEAT? When'd you get a window seat??
Me: It's always been there, just covered in junk!
I: Can I get a window seat in my room?
Me: (raised eyebrows)
I: God, even the smell's gone! This is what she does?
Me: Yep.
I: So, it's working.
Me: Yep.
I: I...I don't know what to say! You realize that means there's likely not going to be three of us living here much longer...
Me: (laughs) Oh, don't worry about that.
I: Why? What does THAT mean?
Me: It'll take me a lot longer to reconcile myself to the three of us than me to the rest of the world. Trust me :)
(they hug and a door across the hall opens)
Myself: Whoa. Now we're doin' group hugs?
Me: Want in?
Myself: Not a chance!
I: (glances at open door across the hall) Dude, what IS that nasty smell??
Myself: When'd you get a window seat?