If anything, this ride was making story time easier. Oswald recounted each new day’s worth of experiences for his children, Hattie and Warren, as he tucked them into bed. Pamela had agreed not to take this away from him, even as she continued to question him and he continued to insist everything was fine. He had always told his children stories before bedtime, even when he was in space and his only inspiration was the less than obsequious duo of Pliny and Volkov, who had perhaps forever ruined his appreciation of humor. He used no books, no familiar conceits. He simply told his children stories. Oswald did not possess a literate mind in the traditional sense. He had no aspirations for the Great American Novel, no ambitions to become a bard on the street corner, or subway. He just wanted to entertain his children, if even for a moment. They knew so little of him otherwise. Some day they would no longer be so eager to fall asleep to his tales, and perhaps then he would vanish from their lives forever.
Just not right now. Oswald was regaling Hattie and Warren, captive as always, of the tale of the mourning dove, who fought for her meal with robins and blackbirds, and she was one of two species unwanted by the man who left the seeds in his backyard. Knowing this, she offered a truce with her longtime rival, the blackbird, so that they would, together, stand up to the tyranny of the man, withstand the arrival of the robin, and enjoy the meal that had been provided for them, for whomever might come upon it. They sealed their pact around noon, and made their stand at the feeder hanging from the abandoned jungle gym, rusting in the backyard of the man who chose favorites but left food for all. The robin chastened, it withdrew, and it and its friends flew away, all aflutter. The dove and the blackbird, the chastened and unwanted, then had their fill, and moved on. The man in the house, having observed all this, rapped his window, but was too late.
The story, of course, was true, and Oswald had experienced it himself, upon observing his neighbor’s yard and hearing the rapping on the window as he stood outside his own house. He determined then and there to set up his own feeders, and after going to bed, reflected on the thought all night. The next morning, he found his wife already gone to work, with a note requesting he consider doing something productive today. Oswald only grew resentful, and stewed by going back on the Internet, with the intention to compare feeder models, but he fell back into the familiar habit of the past few weeks as he began to search for similar conditions as his own. Different phrasings, different aspects, they all brought up the same results, alien abduction conspiracies and other ramblings of what Oswald firmly considered nutcases. He knew he was rational, but all he could find was the irrational. Finally, out of desperation he looked up “Dolittle,” and found, after several dozen pages, a reference made by a blogger calling himself by that name, who described experiences remarkably familiar:
Feb. 23
As if I pealed away one fabric of existence, I’ve discovered a new way to look at the world, one that doesn’t necessarily revolve around humans, but rather features us in a kind of play. Like Shakespeare said, about the world being a stage (and how Q made it out to be the galaxy, and how Picard, as always, got annoyed, as if there was no other way to handle an imp). Y’know, just thinking about that episode, it gets me thinking, how the only way Q was ever seen was as a pest, until he began to play things in a more cooperative way, like the time he became human, or the time, in the last episode, where he helps Picard prevent himself from destroying human life entirely. The Captain, who was never a bigger fuddy duddy than when he was around Q, can never seem to grasp the notion that what humans are doing right then, is not all they are capable of. And then there are other times, when Q isn’t around, when Picard thinks humans are the best thing since sliced bread. In fact, the only time humans aren’t presented that way is when Q is around, but the writers go out of their way to approach him condescendingly, as if to say we’re not all that we could be, even there in the future, even if that’s the stance they always take when presenting the latest aliens to hassle with. All Q wants is for them to acknowledge there’s plenty they don’t understand, and the first thing would seem to be tolerance, despite what they insist.
That’s a little of what I’m experiencing, and I don’t know what else to do but write about it here. There’re individuals like Q here. What to do about them?
Oswald was dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to do next. He stared at the words “0 comments” and wondered if he should change that. It would expose him. If he was wrong about this Dolittle, of whether they were experiencing the same thing, he would sound like an ass. He could easily be incredibly obtuse with his note, such as “Yeah, righteous,” and leave it at that, but he needed more. He needed to know there was someone out there who shared this…curse with him. It was a curse, all right, knowing there was something he couldn’t share, not if he wanted Pamela, or Pliny, to still talk to him, and not demand more than just continued counseling. This Dolittle, this blogger, could take this curse, this stigma away, at least in spirit. Oswald did not want to lose his new vision, just the isolation of it, which was the ironic thing about it. He could see, he could understand so much more now, but he was forced to keep it to himself, as if he couldn’t.
Dolittle could change this. At least potentially. Could Oswald risk it? This was even greater agony, having even a thought that he could find release, and relief. 0 comments, it continued to read, almost to mock him. He hovered the cursor over it, saw as it lit up, in anticipation, a link waiting to be followed. To hell with it. Oswald decided he would, and wrote a message to Dolittle, speaking of seagulls, mourning doves, and blackbirds, and then noticed there was another post waiting, and this one said:
Q does talk, and Q is annoying, but he always proves useful. There was also the time he made Picard aware of the Borg, and maybe that was his most profound statement. It’s not safe out there, but that’s no reason to back away.
This could not have been a reply to his message. No, it couldn’t have. Oswald reserved too much optimism. It was mere coincidence, but it was also affirmation, which he was comforted by. All this Dolittle could do was read his message. It wasn’t as if he’d sent an e-mail address or anything. Oswald had ventured, and he had done it safely. There were other things for him to do, such as research feeders. Birds were going to become his new hobby, whether Pamela approved of it or not. She’d already struck down the possibility of a pet dog, after Pliny had gone and she had returned with the kids. She’d remarked on it, like an afterthought, and kissed him, and gone off to bed. He’d told his story to Hattie and Warren, and that was the end of that day. If only Pliny had not come over.
All the same, it might have been the last time. Oswald was committed to returning to work soon, and so he now made a phone call to the office, to feel out their readiness for him. “Yes, I’d like to talk with Bob,” he said.
“One moment please,” the voice on the other end replied. “While I’ve got you, didn’t it used to be Uncle Bob?”
“It used to,” he said. After the workshop had been closed to elementary school-aged students, Oswald noticed Bob’s continence around children, even Hattie and Warren, had grown colder, more remote. “He doesn’t still go by that, does he?”
“Well no, only around you,” the voice said, lingering longer than Oswald would have liked. He hadn’t spoken with Bob since before the mission, and he was less interested now than he’d become then.
“Bob here,” the new voice announced, as if Oswald would have taken Bob Taliaferro to be anyone else, although he would have given anything.
“Nice to hear your voice again,” he said. “I might not be long now.”
“Good news,” Bob said, absently, and Oswald knew why. “No rush. Come back when you’re ready.” As if off cue cards, he sounded like.
“Thanks,” Oswald said, and hung up. He was soured enough, and returning there specifically, with Bob, was the last thing he was interested in doing. It would make Pamela happy to know he’d made the gesture, and Oswald was not the kind to tell her he did so and not actually have done it. He wanted to rack up some points with her, he needed to, or what remained of his old life would completely unravel. If only he could guarantee himself the opportunity to return to work, the same work, at a different place. That was impossible, especially now, and there was no use denying that. He sighed heavily, and had a look out the window, where the neighbor’s yard was being visited by the dove again, in search of what everyone else wanted. The only denying going on was being done on him, and by him.
It was a rotten situation, and he tried to ignore the dove, who assured him everything would be fine. Easy for the bird to say. Who else was listening to it? Maybe this Dolittle. And then again, maybe not.
Just not right now. Oswald was regaling Hattie and Warren, captive as always, of the tale of the mourning dove, who fought for her meal with robins and blackbirds, and she was one of two species unwanted by the man who left the seeds in his backyard. Knowing this, she offered a truce with her longtime rival, the blackbird, so that they would, together, stand up to the tyranny of the man, withstand the arrival of the robin, and enjoy the meal that had been provided for them, for whomever might come upon it. They sealed their pact around noon, and made their stand at the feeder hanging from the abandoned jungle gym, rusting in the backyard of the man who chose favorites but left food for all. The robin chastened, it withdrew, and it and its friends flew away, all aflutter. The dove and the blackbird, the chastened and unwanted, then had their fill, and moved on. The man in the house, having observed all this, rapped his window, but was too late.
The story, of course, was true, and Oswald had experienced it himself, upon observing his neighbor’s yard and hearing the rapping on the window as he stood outside his own house. He determined then and there to set up his own feeders, and after going to bed, reflected on the thought all night. The next morning, he found his wife already gone to work, with a note requesting he consider doing something productive today. Oswald only grew resentful, and stewed by going back on the Internet, with the intention to compare feeder models, but he fell back into the familiar habit of the past few weeks as he began to search for similar conditions as his own. Different phrasings, different aspects, they all brought up the same results, alien abduction conspiracies and other ramblings of what Oswald firmly considered nutcases. He knew he was rational, but all he could find was the irrational. Finally, out of desperation he looked up “Dolittle,” and found, after several dozen pages, a reference made by a blogger calling himself by that name, who described experiences remarkably familiar:
Feb. 23
As if I pealed away one fabric of existence, I’ve discovered a new way to look at the world, one that doesn’t necessarily revolve around humans, but rather features us in a kind of play. Like Shakespeare said, about the world being a stage (and how Q made it out to be the galaxy, and how Picard, as always, got annoyed, as if there was no other way to handle an imp). Y’know, just thinking about that episode, it gets me thinking, how the only way Q was ever seen was as a pest, until he began to play things in a more cooperative way, like the time he became human, or the time, in the last episode, where he helps Picard prevent himself from destroying human life entirely. The Captain, who was never a bigger fuddy duddy than when he was around Q, can never seem to grasp the notion that what humans are doing right then, is not all they are capable of. And then there are other times, when Q isn’t around, when Picard thinks humans are the best thing since sliced bread. In fact, the only time humans aren’t presented that way is when Q is around, but the writers go out of their way to approach him condescendingly, as if to say we’re not all that we could be, even there in the future, even if that’s the stance they always take when presenting the latest aliens to hassle with. All Q wants is for them to acknowledge there’s plenty they don’t understand, and the first thing would seem to be tolerance, despite what they insist.
That’s a little of what I’m experiencing, and I don’t know what else to do but write about it here. There’re individuals like Q here. What to do about them?
Oswald was dumbfounded. He didn’t know what to do next. He stared at the words “0 comments” and wondered if he should change that. It would expose him. If he was wrong about this Dolittle, of whether they were experiencing the same thing, he would sound like an ass. He could easily be incredibly obtuse with his note, such as “Yeah, righteous,” and leave it at that, but he needed more. He needed to know there was someone out there who shared this…curse with him. It was a curse, all right, knowing there was something he couldn’t share, not if he wanted Pamela, or Pliny, to still talk to him, and not demand more than just continued counseling. This Dolittle, this blogger, could take this curse, this stigma away, at least in spirit. Oswald did not want to lose his new vision, just the isolation of it, which was the ironic thing about it. He could see, he could understand so much more now, but he was forced to keep it to himself, as if he couldn’t.
Dolittle could change this. At least potentially. Could Oswald risk it? This was even greater agony, having even a thought that he could find release, and relief. 0 comments, it continued to read, almost to mock him. He hovered the cursor over it, saw as it lit up, in anticipation, a link waiting to be followed. To hell with it. Oswald decided he would, and wrote a message to Dolittle, speaking of seagulls, mourning doves, and blackbirds, and then noticed there was another post waiting, and this one said:
Q does talk, and Q is annoying, but he always proves useful. There was also the time he made Picard aware of the Borg, and maybe that was his most profound statement. It’s not safe out there, but that’s no reason to back away.
This could not have been a reply to his message. No, it couldn’t have. Oswald reserved too much optimism. It was mere coincidence, but it was also affirmation, which he was comforted by. All this Dolittle could do was read his message. It wasn’t as if he’d sent an e-mail address or anything. Oswald had ventured, and he had done it safely. There were other things for him to do, such as research feeders. Birds were going to become his new hobby, whether Pamela approved of it or not. She’d already struck down the possibility of a pet dog, after Pliny had gone and she had returned with the kids. She’d remarked on it, like an afterthought, and kissed him, and gone off to bed. He’d told his story to Hattie and Warren, and that was the end of that day. If only Pliny had not come over.
All the same, it might have been the last time. Oswald was committed to returning to work soon, and so he now made a phone call to the office, to feel out their readiness for him. “Yes, I’d like to talk with Bob,” he said.
“One moment please,” the voice on the other end replied. “While I’ve got you, didn’t it used to be Uncle Bob?”
“It used to,” he said. After the workshop had been closed to elementary school-aged students, Oswald noticed Bob’s continence around children, even Hattie and Warren, had grown colder, more remote. “He doesn’t still go by that, does he?”
“Well no, only around you,” the voice said, lingering longer than Oswald would have liked. He hadn’t spoken with Bob since before the mission, and he was less interested now than he’d become then.
“Bob here,” the new voice announced, as if Oswald would have taken Bob Taliaferro to be anyone else, although he would have given anything.
“Nice to hear your voice again,” he said. “I might not be long now.”
“Good news,” Bob said, absently, and Oswald knew why. “No rush. Come back when you’re ready.” As if off cue cards, he sounded like.
“Thanks,” Oswald said, and hung up. He was soured enough, and returning there specifically, with Bob, was the last thing he was interested in doing. It would make Pamela happy to know he’d made the gesture, and Oswald was not the kind to tell her he did so and not actually have done it. He wanted to rack up some points with her, he needed to, or what remained of his old life would completely unravel. If only he could guarantee himself the opportunity to return to work, the same work, at a different place. That was impossible, especially now, and there was no use denying that. He sighed heavily, and had a look out the window, where the neighbor’s yard was being visited by the dove again, in search of what everyone else wanted. The only denying going on was being done on him, and by him.
It was a rotten situation, and he tried to ignore the dove, who assured him everything would be fine. Easy for the bird to say. Who else was listening to it? Maybe this Dolittle. And then again, maybe not.
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