A raging torrent

You feel intense rage. There isn’t anything you can do with it. It’s not directed at a particular person, although people are part of it. It’s not about any given company or organization or institution, although all of those contribute to it. You want—need—to express something. You imagine if you could just find the right words, and put them in front of the right person then your rage might have some effect.

All the while you imagine this you also know it’s futile. There probably isn’t a “right person. If there was, how would you know, and how would you reach them? If you did, why would they listen to you? If they did, how could one message convince them or change their mind? Why should their mind need changing anyway; can’t they see what is so simple and obvious and infuriating to you?

All the while you know this you are still enraged. Frustrated. Disappointed that people make decisions you can see are wrong for reasons you can see are foolish or misguided or worse.

That rage, though. You need to express it, some way. Any way at all.

You’re not a violent person; you’re not going to physically attack anybody. And besides, you know that wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t do what you want, which is to change minds. Even just one mind. That’s not going to happen, but your mind is talented at ignoring what it—you—find uncomfortable. Everyone’s is, and in a less rage-filled moment you might reflect on how that connects to the very rage you’re feeling, and your feeling of impotence.

Your mind is talented in other ways, too, and so are other peoples’, and so you have some alternatives that you can at least hope will make a difference. You have Twitter and Facebook and SMS and email and even posterboard and markers. So you pick one, or two, or all of them, and start expressing yourself. your rage. Maybe it makes you feel better — the simple act of expressing. The feeling is there even though you know, really, that even if you can identify a particulr target of your rage, they probably won’t read your message. If, by some mind-boggling oddity they do, they most likely won’t care.

But you’ve created the message and put it out there in the world in some way. Like indecipherable graffiti on a never-again-seen boxcar, it rolls away on infinite rails and you think that has to count for something. Somehow, it’s got to. You need it to.

Even if it just serves to make somebody angrier.

Honestly,

by John Ashbery

Honestly,

we could send you out there
to join the cackle squad,
but hey, that highly accomplished,
thinly regarded equestrian—well there was no way
he was going to join the others’ field trip.
Wouldn’t put his head on the table.
But here’s the thing:

They had owned great dread,
knew of a way to get away from here
through ice and smoke
always clutching her fingers, like it says
to do.

Once we were passionate about the police,
yawned in the teeth of pixels,
but a far rumor blanked us out.
We bathed in moonshine.
Now, experts disagree.
Were we unhappy or sublime?
We’ll have to wait until the next time
an angel comes rapping at the door
to rejoice docently.

(I know there’s a way to do this.)

Tales from the Forest

“Ferret, you really should stop taking Sally’s doll clothes,” said Dog. “Sooner or later you’re going to lose something and then you’ll be in trouble.”

“Will not,” said Ferret, who was trying on a space suit. “I’ve never lost any part of a costume. Not even a hat.”

“I’m just warning you,” said Dog. “One of the Pet rules is that you’re supposed to make sure nothing disappears. Or at least if it does, it’s not your fault.”

“Sally doesn’t even know I like to wear her costumes,” said Ferret. “And I only use the ones she hasn’t touched in a long time.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure that she doesn’t know,” said Dog. “People can’t surprise you very often, but every once in a while they do. Like the time Andy found out I can talk.”

“What?” said Ferret, “he knows you can talk?”

“He knew I could talk,” said Dog. “He doesn’t know it any more. Or, well, really he just talked himself into thinking he made it up. When he got older, I mean.”

“What happened?” asked Ferret, who was so interested he forgot to finish tying his space boot.

“You know how slow humans are, right?” said Dog.

“You’re not kidding,” said Ferret, “Sally can’t ever catch me unless I let her.”

“True,” said Dog, “but that’s not the kind of slow I mean. I mean they take practically forever to grow up. When they’re babies they can’t do anything at all, and it takes them years and years to learn the simplest things.”

“Oh. I guess you’re right; I hadn’t thought about that before. Is that why they’re so hard to train?”

“Probably,” said Dog. “I’d say they’re just about impossible to train, except for basic tricks. They’re pretty good at delivering food on demand, but more complicated things? Well, I think most of those might just be too difficult. They just can’t manage them no matter how hard you try. And that’s where my story starts.”

“Finally,” sighed Ferret.

“Oh hush,” said Dog. “This goes back to when I first moved in here. I was a young pup, and I didn’t know about how limited humans were. I was trying to train Andy, and I didn’t know why nothing I tried was working. I finally decided he just wasn’t going to be able to learn how to talk, so I took a couple of days and learned his language instead.”

“I was wondering about that with Sally,” said Ferret, “you mean she’s never going to be able to talk?”

“Afraid not. None of them seem to ever get it.”

“Shucks,” said Ferret. “I really like Sally. I’ve been looking forward to actually talking to her.”

“You could learn that stuff they call talking,” said Dog. “You have to be careful though; they can be dangerous when they finally grow up, and you know the rule about letting them know too much.”

“But that’s what you did, right?” said Ferret. “By accident?”

“Yup,” said Dog. “I was practicing, and Andy heard me. I still remember when he walked in and said ‘you can talk?’ It was pretty funny, really.”

“What did you do?” asked Ferret.

“I was young and silly,” said Dog, “but I knew the rules. So I kept my mouth shut and just started a game of wrestling. Andy was little too, and he mostly just wanted to play all the time. So he did. A few times after that, when I was alone with him, he tried to get me to say something in his language again, but eventually he stopped. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even remember it any more.”

“But Dog,” said Ferret, “why did you bother to learn how to talk like them anyway?”

“Sometimes it comes in handy,” said Dog. “I can pretend to be his mom and call Andy from another room, and he’ll come see me. Also they have that over on the wall they call a “phone.” You can use it to talk to them because they can’t see who you are.”

“Why would you want to do that?” asked Ferret.

“Usually you don’t,” said Dog, “but one time I ordered pizza, just to see if it would work.”

“Oh. What’s pizza?”

“It’s almost like food,” said Dog. “It’s okay. Not great.”

“So what it comes down to,” said Ferret, “is if I want to really talk with Sally I’m going to have to use her way of speaking, and I’ll have to keep it super secret?”

“Yup.”

“Hmmm.” said Ferret. “They never really have anything interesting to say, do they?”

“Not so far.”

“Oh well,” said Ferret. “At least I can stop wasting my time trying to do any training.”

“Right,” said Dog, “it’s disappointing, but they just can’t learn very much.”

“At least I can keep using these costumes, though,” said Ferret, cheering up.

“I guess,” said Dog, “just remember to put everything back where you found it.”

“I never lose anything,” said Ferret, strutting out of the room.

“Ferret,” called Dog.

“What?” said Ferret, peeking back through the door.

“Here,” said Dog, “one of the gloves from Sally’s space suit. You lost…I mean you left it over here. Make sure you put it back.”

Photography

The meaning in the world. Hover.