Dana Hamby
Writing 1
Mr. Cannon
Two 10-Minute Bunny Meditations
SATURDAY
4:00-ish
I can’t help but slouch a little in the heat. Bunny maintains astonishing posture in the sun. He’s got people to look good for: the couple armed to the teeth with clunky camera gear; the two faculty women with a flatbed of flowers—whoop, there goes a hose attachment of some sort—anyway, one of them gathers it back up as they head off away from Bunny. A woman, whom the flower women pause to talk to, alternates between eye contact with them and the sweatless sun-worn back of Bunny.
It’s hard to believe he could stay so deep in thought in so hot a sun. Oh God, but that cool breeze is nice. Maybe he’s thinking: “Why do so many kids have rolling backpacks? They appear to be more trouble than they’re worth.” Or: “That damn noisy A/C machine outside Mallinckrodt—iPod! That makes 31 this afternoon.” Or: “Six Asian girls; look how their legs walk in unison.”
He’s staring at something. I can’t tell what from here. Maybe the West Face of Olin?
Bunny subtly composes himself for the solitary beauty strutting softly through the trees, out from under the overhead banners and into the sunlit central sidewalk crossing at Bunny’s feet. Two boys dressed in hey-ladies summer attire throw a Frisbee ahead of themselves across the lawn. The damsel doesn’t notice, doesn’t bat an eyelash. It’s just too hot to care.
SUNDAY
4:00-ish
Someone was taking pictures of Bunny from various angles as I walked to sit at my favorite vantage point. I figured out what he’s looking at. On that West wall of Olin, interrupting a wrapping row of floor-to-ceiling windows is a lonely section of brick. It got me to thinking maybe is gaze has simply fallen upon the one most out of place architectural feature around him. People-watching does get redundant after awhile.
It’s windier today. I can’t feel it where I’m at, but I know Bunny can. Out there in the open. The Undergraduate Research Symposium banner is flapping more wildly today, too. I noticed that? That’s how dull this afternoon is, I guess. Today, four Asians are wearing strappy sandals—no, that’s not an iPod, Bunny, so you don’t count that one.
Sunday’s forecast: cloudy, 60s and 70s, with a few—wow that kid’s pants are pulled up high. And his shirt is a dazzling turquoise plaid. I’ll bet Bunny has his favorite characters, you know, students and faculty he keeps an eye out for. I do.
(A girl is doing the same assignment as me on a concrete bench near the chapel. She’s more distracted than I am, I think. She keeps scratching her legs and looking behind her as though nothing’s going on. Nothing is going on, which should give her all the more reason to write.)
That banner twisted itself up. There’s no breeze at the moment, though, so it’s stuck advertising: “Und (…) ium.”
Maybe Bunny wonders: “Did they put that brick wall up so people in the library wouldn’t feel like I was staring at them?” I’m going to go spank him so (that girl) has something fun to write about.
Actually, you don't have to revise this. It's just transposed straight out of my notebook, and it's for some grander assignment I've got to do in a couple weeks. Thought maybe you'd want to climb inside my head for twenty minutes, though--how was it?
Towel says:
I've got a sore throat. Not the volcanic, relentless kind. No this is more like my sinus is on its period--as long as I leave it alone, all it does is be icky, but as soon as I so much as swallow, it gets super bitchy right up in my shit. I choose my words carefully there, too.
Something to think about between paragraphs: Did you know that Ed Gein made a belt out of human nipples?
I'm not sure why they keep making lozenges that don't work. But that's not the point of this story. Though maybe it is. Maybe I should have learned that lozenges don't do jack shit but take your mind off the violence inside your throat and instead put it to work trying to analyze the ass nasty flavor combination that is cherry and menthol. Maybe I should have learned that I shouldn't pay money for these tooth-rotting placebo anticandies. Maybe I should have brushed my teeth by now so that I wouldn't feel tempted to have a lozenge right before bedtime. But the psychosomatic cure is semi-functional, the lozenges were a gift from my aunt, and I don't brush my teeth before bedtime cause I told my mom I wouldn't when I grew up. Don't think less of me. It's only temporary. Hey fuck you. I floss!
Something else to think about between paragraphs: If you are hung upside down, the blood rushes to your head, preventing the blood from rushing from your head, preventing you from going into shock; if someone then cuts you in half using a two-man-back-n-forth saw, starting at the scrotum/labia, you stay utterly aware of the damage being done to you until the saw teeth eat through the major arteries in. your. fucking. abdomen.
The point is, fate brought me back to that medicine box in my desk. It's a different desk than where the medicine box was previously hidden in that January essay, "TOWEL." The medicines have changed, as I have exhausted initial supplies of aspirin and antacids because my body is a pioneer and unafraid of frequent illness. But I don't too often get sore throats. And even when I do, I have the clarity of mind to not use lozenges because spit tastes better and accomplishes roughly the same task. Over these months, via natural selection, the Robitussen lozenges made their way to the bottom of the box.
I just now reached in, grabbed the bag, popped a drop, and was about to replace the sack when there before me--patiently, sinisterly, two-dimensionally--was Benjamin fuck all Franklin. That fat bastard. I feel so bad for the thank you note I almost wrote to Alex's mom. The kid was irresponsible with my feelings, but I made some really harsh accusations.
But I mean they made sense right?
Wrong. Alex is nice. He talks weird, he's a dick to his family, but that's none of your business. I mean I made it your business, so it is your business, but I just to like to say that it isn't because I rarely feel justified using such a stupid remark. Thank god I don't ever ever ever write thank you notes, even poignant ones. Alex quit all drugs--except alcohol, but pshhh--and is working his ass off this semester. Like me, except I quit architecture and am now working determinedly towards a Psych degree which should secure me a bright and shining spot in no where. Psych degrees don't get you shit, evidently. But whatever. I live in the moment.
In this moment, I am $100 richer than I thought I was a few moments prior. That's so tremendous.
