centre of the universe - the dreaming

I love you all. You know that, because I tell you all the time.

Buddy Holly, you were my first boyfriend. Coincidentally, you were also my first dead boyfriend. You know what? I'm not going to harp on little imperfections like not having a pulse.

What can I say to you, Johnny Depp? Oh! A little lower, please.

Gary Oldman, I never wanted to have to do this, but...it's just not working out. I will always think fondly of you, and we'll always have Sid and Nancy. I just...I've moved on. And really, what did you expect? You haven't returned my calls in years. And, since you'll probably ask anyway (yes, I do know you that well), I AM seeing someone else. Hugh Laurie. He and I share a birthday (on the BEST DAY OF THE YEAR), and, well...he's FUNNY, Gary. He plays piano. Have you even ever SEEN his work with Stephen Fry? Yeah. Well. Not to mention in Blackadder. I think it's hilarious, for the record, that someone who played predominantly awkward twits in Britain is cast as a brilliant dickhead in the States. Anyway, Gary Oldman...that's why you haven't heard from me lately. It's because I'm with Hugh Laurie now. If y'all feel the need to engage in an EPIC CAGE-MATCH BATTLE over me, let me know. I'll wear something more comfortable.

I know you and I have known about each other for a long time, Keith Moon, but it's really been in the last couple of years that we've been getting serious about each other. And, just let me say, you make me *very happy*.

Wolverine, you're beautiful. No one could ever replace you. And that thing you can do in Yoga because of your skeleton made of SOLID ADAMANTIUM...well, this public forum isn't the place, but suffice it to say...wow.


You and I have spent many, many sleepless nights together, Neil Gaiman, and I think it's obvious to everyone that as my International Literary Boyfriend, you have quite a big responsibility in our relationship. I'm not difficult to please, as you know; just remember, I'm not going to kick you out of bed for eating crackers, so please bring the tasty onion-flavoured ones next time you're by.

Robert Kroetsch and Donald Sutherland, as my Canadian Literary and Canadian Performing Arts Boyfriends, I expect the two of you to get along. Donald, just sit nicely while Robert reads; Robert, Donald would do a Wonderful treatment of voicing your work. Also, I think both of you do the chess?

Now, the main reason I've mentioned all of you is because i have something to tell you. It shouldn't surprise you, and it certainly doesn't change anything between us.

His Nibs is pretty much unsurpassingly awesome. I love hanging out with him (you'll know that, Keith and Johnny, because you've spent time with us together. **Think what you will, dear reader.**), and he pretty much rocks. Even when he's being a jerk, I love him. You know when you have friends and they get in to a new relationship, and they're all annoying and smoodgy and snuggly and disgustingly cheerful all over the place? Yeah. Well. I kind of turn in to a brainless teenage girl around His Nibs most of the time. Until he pisses me off.

Anyway, yeah. Doesn't change anything. I just wanted to make sure you understand that while I love each and every one of you, His Nibs is my HUSBAND.

We can still make out, though.

Labels: Button Theory, His Nibs, living in a tree, strings

"D- did WHAT!?" R- said, a hint of laughter in her voice. R- is Bri'ish, and her accent is best when she's talking about something ludicrous.

"He jumped out of a tree, and now he can't remember where his parents live, and his dogs need to be let out to go pee, and..."

"What the hell was D- doing jumping out of a tree?"

"Well, he was...plummeting. So I'm wondering if you know..."

"No, I mean, first, I can't even imagine him *getting* himself *up* a tree, but what the hell was he THINKING?"

"Um. Well, there's this poem," I said, twirling the phone cord around my finger.

"Stop twisting that damned cord over your bloody fingers!" My mother shouted from the living room.

"Ow," said D-.

"Sorry," I said.

"What?" R- asked.

"Nothing," I said. "Anyway, he read this poem about boys jumping out of birch trees and gently lowering themselves to the ground as the trees bent."

"...huh." She replied. "Bet the tree broke..."

"Heh. Yeah, it did. Anyway, do you know where his parents live, because we have to go and..."

"How far'd he fall?" she asked.

"Oh, about ten or fifteen feet," I said.

"Jeesus. Did he break anything?"

"Just his memory. Anyway, d'you know where..."

"His WHAT?"

"His memory," I said. "He got a bit of a concussion, and..."

"A BAD concussion," D- shouted from the couch. "Ow."

"...and he can't remember where his parents live and we have to go let the dogs out," I finished quickly.

"Oh. Well. They live on such-and-such street, but I don't know the number. Maybe if you got the phone book..."

"Got it! Thanks, R-!"

I got D- back into the car, then drove across town to his parents' place, answering the "where are we going?" questions every few minutes, and sighing at the "I remember someone named J-" comments. D- had to fiddle with every key on his chain before he could find one that opened his parents' front door. But when he got the door open, the dogs ran out at us, stopped for a moment to lick our shins, then bolted outside.

"Are they always this excited to see me?" D- asked.

"Yes. Especially when they really have to pee." The dogs took a *very* long time peeing. After a few cuddles and pettins, I insisted D- go to the clinic. He claimed he was fine, until I asked him where *he* lived, and after a blank stare, he got himself into the passenger seat.

The clinic wasn't too busy, but we had to wait for half an hour or so, and when it was D-'s turn, he asked me to come with him. I was decidedly uncomfortable.

"What if they have to check for a hernia?" I asked.

"You can step out for a moment," he said.

"What if they have to..."

"Please, just come with me," he said. I went with him. He sat on the examination table, and the doctor came in after another twenty or so minutes. While we waited, we went over the facts together, many of which were still a bit woozly in D-'s memory.

"So," the doctor said as he closed the door behind him. He glanced over the tops of his glasses at the chart in his hands. "Which of you is D-?" He waited for a brief moment before laughing. "I always say that," he said, "when I first meet my patients."

I stared. D- grinned weakly.

"What seems to be the problem?" he asked.

"Well," D- began, "you see, it's kind of a strange thing that happened."

"There's a poem," I began.

"By Walt Whitman," D- continued.

"No - Robert Frost," I said.

"Right. Robert Frost." He said. "About jumping out of trees..."

We both stared at the doctor expectantly. The doctor returned our expectant stare with one of his own. "Yes?" he said.

"Well," I began.

"I kind of..."

"He thought the tree would just bend and lower him gently to the ground, like in that poem."

"You didn't..." the doctor began.

D- nodded gravely. "I jumped out of a tree," D- said.

"You did WHAT!?" The doctor said, eyes wide.

"Well, I just...in the poem..." D- began.

"In the poem, the trees gently bend and lower the boys to the ground. But the trees in the Red don't do that." I said.

"I chose the wrong sort of tree," D- continued, "or the wrong size."

"..." the doctor said, staring. "..."

"He hit his head," I said. "He lost consciousness for about two minutes. He's experienced dizziness, headache, and memory loss."

"And memory loss," D- said. "Lots of that. I think."

The doctor stared and stared. "Normal people," he began, "Normal people do *not* jump out of trees."

D- just sat there, nodding sagely.

"Poets jump out of trees," I said, helpfully. The doctor shot me a fiery look. "Um. But poets...know the right...sorts of trees...and they don't....get....concussions..." I let the discussion slowly fade away.

The doctor checked D- over, muttering now and then about stupid people, and stupid ideas, and didn't we know that the brain is a delicate, delicate organ, and why on earth would you jump out of a tree? And sometimes he said something about literature being dangerous if it's going to be all jumping out of trees from here on in. And what do they TEACH you in school these days? Aren't there poets who don't write about jumping out of trees? Don't they know how DANGEROUS that is?

Finally, the doctor stood up, told D- to quit reading poetry and to take some aspirin and rest for a couple of days. He said, "most of your memory should come back, but you could have done permanent damage. PERMANENT DAMAGE; do you understand that?"

"Oh yes," D- said. "I think my tree-jumping days are numbered."

The doctor glared at him.

"He means over," I offered. "His tree-jumping days are over."

"NORMAL people," the doctor pontificated insistently, "do not *jump* out of *trees*."

And that was the time my friend D- jumped out of a tree because a poet said it was cool. Just goes to show you how dangerous books can be.

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

"Umm...D-?" I asked tentatively as we drove up the hill.

"Yeah?" he said, his arm across his forehead.

"Where do your folks live?"

There was rather a long pause. "My, uh, parents live with me?"

"No, but that's where your dogs are."

"I have TWO dogs," he said.

"You do."

"They like dancing."

"Um. Okay. But we can't let them out to pee if I don't know where they are."

"They're ...at ...my ...parents' ...house?" he asked tentatively.

I paused for a moment this time. "Yes. Yes, your dogs are at your parents' house."

"Ah," he said, and leaned back in the seat, putting his arm over his forehead again.

"D-?" I asked.

"Yes?"

"Where is your parents' house?"

"You mean you don't KNOW!!??"

"No, not at all."

"Oh GOD!" he panicked. "The DOGS!!"

"Hey, you know what? We'll go to my house, check out the phone book, and you can tell me which address looks familiar. How many W-s can there *be* in the phone book, anyway?"

He stared at me.

"Yeah," I conceded. "I know. IT's a common name."

He closed his eyes and covered his face with both hands. "Come on, D-," he said, "you need to remember this...." after a few moments, as I was pulling on to my street, he sits up bolt-straight. "I KNOW!" He shouts.

"You DO!!??" I ask, excited.

"Yes! I jumped out of a tree!" He shouted.

"I know!!" I shouted back.

"Because I read about it in a poem!"

"By Walt Whitman!" I was very, very excited.

"Or Robert Frost!" He announced.

"Yes!"

He was grinning widely at me. I nodded a couple of times, encouraging him to continue. "What?" he asked.

"Well, where do your parents live?"

"Oh, I have no idea," he said, still pleased with himself. "Why, are we going to see them?"

I sighed, pulled into my mother's driveway, and shut off the car. "Let's just go see," I said, "before we go to the clinic."

"I have a concussion!" he announced, his smile growing.

"Yes, you do." We walked into the house. He was *much* steadier this time. He didn't even need my help, although I walked close to him in case he got dizzy. The screen door banged closed behind us. My mother sat in her favourite chair, perched in front of the picture window.

"Hi kidlet," she said. "Hi D-."

"I have a concussion!" D- announced, happy as a pig in poop.

My mother glanced up at him. "Do you, now?"

"Yup! I jumped out of a tree!"

My mother glanced over at me. "There's a poem," I began.

"Robert Frost," my mother said.

"Or Walt Whitman," D- said, still grinning.

"No, it's Robert Frost," my mother said. "It's called Birches."

"I told you no good comes of Walt Whitman," I said to D-.

"But," my mother began, stubbing out her cigarette, "the boys in Birches did not get concussions."

"Well, yes," D- continued, sitting on the couch as I went to find the phone book, "I suspect my technique needs some work."

"He chose a tree that was too big," I called from the kitchen, "and the wrong sort of tree. And it broke."

"So, really, you plummeted out of a tree, more than jumped out of a tree?" my mother asked.

"Well, the plummeting was precipitated by the jumping," I called back.

"And now I have a *very* bad headache," D- said, still grinning, "and I can't remember a thing!"

My mother stared at him, a smile touching her lips. When my mother smiled, her mouth turned down instead of up. "cenobyte certainly has some interesting friends," she said.

"Ah-HA!" D- called, wincing at his own volume. "Your name is CENOBYTE! I knew I'd figure it out eventually."

"Actually, my name is Millicent," I replied. "cenobyte is just my nickname."

He stared at me for a minute. "I see you've forgotten that cenobyte is full of shite," my mother said.

"Yes, I had forgotten that," D- said.

I showed him the phone book. There was a choice of several W-s, but only four D-- W-s. "I'm not sure," he said. "I can't remember."

"Well, would you like to have a cool drink and just sit for a minute and try to remember, or would you prefer to go to the clinic?"

"I think I'd just like to sit for a minute."

My mother lit another cigarette. "You could ask R-," she said. R- was friends with D- as well, and she taught with my mother.

I phoned R-.
"Hello, R-," I said. "This is cenobyte. I'm wondering if you could help me with ...erm... a rather strange request..."

Labels: living in a tree, vacation

We sat together under the tree, the broken tree, for a little while. Every now and then, my friend would say, "Gee, I have a bad headache," or "this is a very odd day". I sat beside him, agreeing with him that it was indeed a very odd day, or that it made sense that his head hurt, owing to the fact that he had a concussion. Then he looked at me, his eyes wide, and said, "What day is it!?"

"Tuesday."

"Oh," he said, seemingly calmer. Then, "Er, what *month* is it?"

"July".

"Oh," he said thoughtfully. "I wonder if I have a job."

"Yes," I answered, "you do. You work mostly evenings, but your schedule is open until Saturday."

"You seem to know quite a lot about me," he said. "Are we romantically...inclined?"

"We are not," I answered hastily. Perhaps too hastily.

"Ah," he said. "I see. Is your name...J-?" he asked.

"No," I answered, momentarily feeling very bad indeed. Then I realised he wouldn't likely remember how quickly I'd insisted we were not romantically involved. "But J- is a friend of mine. She works with you."

"Ah," he said, "because I think I remember J-."

"Mmmm." I said. Earlier that day, we'd quarrelled a little over the fact that he wouldn't shut the eff up about J-, and I was quite tired of it.

"You know, I have the *worst* headache," he said.

"Would you like to go to the clinic now?" I asked.

"I think I'll just sit for a moment. If you don't mind my asking," he said, "what am I doing out here in the woods? And what, furthermore, are you doing here with me, if we are not romantically inclined?"

"We were walking together. Hanging out. Then you decided to jump out of a tree. That did not end well for you."

"I don't suppose it would," he said. "Walt Whitman wrote a poem about young boys climbing trees and they would hold on to a branch, or the sapling's trunk, and then let go with their feet, and the tree would bend gently and lower them to the ground."

"Well," I said, "I've always said that no good comes of Walt Whitman."

"Or maybe it was Robert Frost," he said. "I have the worst headache."

"I think it's a good idea for us to go to the clinic," I said. "After all, it is Tuesday."

"What's special about Tuesday?" he asked.

"Headache days at the clinic," I replied. He glanced suspiciously at me, then started to laugh. It was the first time he'd laughed in half an hour. I figured things would be okay, then.

Slowly, I helped him to his feet. He was unsteady, and a little dizzy. He leaned heavily on me as we climbed the forested hill on the way back to the car. "I think I'm starting to remember, now," he said. "I remember someone called J-."

"Yes," I said, a little out of breath from half-carrying him up a hill and across a field. "I suspect you do. You wouldn't shut up about J- earlier."

We rested often, and discussed things like headaches and trees and Walt Whitman. Sometimes we discussed Robert Frost, as well. Once, I broached Gerard Manley Hopkins, but that caused a great deal of consternation, so I backed down. After a couple of hours, we were in sight of his car.

"Oh look," he said. "A car! Perhaps we can flag them down, and..."

"That's your car," I said, tired, sweaty, and a little short of temper.

"I see," he said. "In that case," he reached into his pocket and drew forth some keys. "One of these ought to do the trick."

I grabbed the keys out of his hand and shook my head at the look of offense he shot me. "You can't even remember your name or where you live. You can't stand up on your own. You have a concussion because you JUMPED OUT OF A TREE. I am NOT letting you drive."

"That's probably a good idea," he said. Then, as soon as he opened his door, a look of fear crossed his face. "Oh my God," he said.

"What!!??" I asked, suddenly alarmed at his ashen look.

"I have DOGS," he said.

"Um. Yes?"

"I have two DOGS!"

"I know."

"We have to go back for the DOGS!!"

"Oh, ah, yes, well, you see, your dogs are at your parents' house right now. In fact, we might want to stop there first so they can pee."

He sighed heavily in relief. "That's good to know. Do you know J-? I think she works with me."

I sighed heavily and started up the car. I was a tad rusty on driving standards, but after a few bunny hops, I got us going. "This is a nice car," he said. "What year is it?"

"Um," I said. I glanced over at him.

"This is *my* car, isn't it?" he asked.

"Yes. Completely. I'm driving because you have a concussion."

"Oh! That would explain this terrible headache I have."

"Which you got from...."

"...jumping out of a tree?" he asked tentatively. I was very pleased.

"You remembered something! Good for you!" I exclaimed. It was a very Princess Bride moment.

"You know, I could have sworn I have dogs," he said. "Two dogs. Little things."

"You do have two little dogs," I said. He glanced around the car. "They're not here right now because they're being featured in a commercial for pet food, and their handler says it's best if you're not there to distract them, so we came for a walk in the woods," I said.

"Ah," he said. "Of course. I remember."

I glanced at him. "Do you also remember that you perform in the lounge at the hotel in town?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. "I sing Elton John songs."

"And Kim Mitchell," I said.

"Only in the summers," he said.

It should be noted that my friend was the night auditor at the hotel in town, didn't sing Elton John tunes, and his dogs were never featured in any commercial. I am a bad, bad person.

"Do you remember my name?" I asked.

"You know, I'm terribly bad with names," he answered.

"Well it's okay, owing to your having a concussion and all."

"I have a concussion! That would certainly explain this headache. It's a doozy."

"My name is cenobyte," I said.

"I knew that," he said. "It's just that I'm really quite bad with names. What day did you say it was?"

"Tuesday."

"Ah. That's good then. I work on Friday, I believe. Hopefully this headache will go away by then."

I glanced at him. We were driving through the city now, toward his parents' house. "You remembered something else!" I said.

"Well!" he said, leaning back in the chair and closing his eyes. "Good for me."

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

It was difficult not to panic, really. We were several kilometres away from the car, through hills and hummocks and light forest. My friend was not a big man, but I was fairly certain I couldn't carry him the whole way. I began looking around for something with which I could lash together some boughs to make a travois. I figured I could use my (and his) shoelaces and strips from our shirts, etc., if I had to.

I was kneeling with one knee at either side of his head (but not in a naughty way. Sicko), making sure he didn't move his head too much. Staring down at him, I sighed.

"Sometimes those are very difficult questions," I said. "People struggle with their identities all the time. Sometimes for their whole lives."

He closed his eyes. "My head *really* hurts," he said.

"Well, that makes sense. Do you know what happened?" I asked.

"I was hoping you knew that."

"I do. But I'm trying to assess how bad your concussion is."

"Oh. I have a concussion, then?"

"Yes. You do."

He tried nodding. I put my hand on his forehead and told him, "Please don't move your head. I'm not sure if you have a neck injury."

"A neck injury?!"

"Yes."

He opened his eyes. "You know, looking up at these trees, it reminds me of a poem I read once."

"Was it the one by Robert Frost? About young boys climbing trees?"

"Or maybe," he said, "it was Walt Whitman. How did you know that?"

"I'm terribly clever," I replied. "Do you remember what happened?"

My friend glanced around, trying not to move his head. "My neck doesn't hurt at all, you know," he told me. "I think I can sit up."

"I should get you to sign a waiver," I said.

"A waiver?"

"Because all those people who broke their necks thought they were fine and then the people with them let them move, and SHABANG!" I shouted. "All busted up forever."

"I see." He stared up at the sky. After several minutes, he asked, "if I *have* hurt my neck, what can you do?"

"Well, I hadn't really got that far. I suppose I'll stabilise it as best I can with splints and fabric, and go for help."

"I must be very lucky to know you," he said.

"Oh, of course you are. But maybe," I said, "maybe you actually *don't* know me. Maybe I'm just a kind stranger who happened upon your nearly lifeless corpse in the woods."

"Oh, I hadn't thought of that," he said. Then he closed his eyes again. "Do you know why I have such a bad headache?" he asked.

"A better question is, do you know why?"

"Did I..." he began, "have an accident?"

"Yes, you did!" I was very excited. I thought perhaps he was remembering something.

"I'm guessing, you know," he said.

"Oh."

"It's more likely than having been lured into the woods by a beautiful young woman who then hit me over the head with something very heavy, only to have her nurse me back to health."

"There could have been two women," I suggested. "The first one bludgeoned you, and then perhaps I happened by and took pity on you."

He opened his eyes and stared up at me. "That's ridiculous," he said.

"It's no more ridiculous than jumping out of a tree," I said, somewhat insulted that he'd shot down my flawless theory.

He closed his eyes again. "People don't jump out of trees," he said, as he rubbed his temples.

"Careful," I said. "You're moving."

"I think I'm okay to sit up," he said. "I'm pretty sure I didn't hurt my neck."

"Yeah? How are you sure of that? What happened, anyway?"

"You know, that's the strangest thing. I don't remember."

"Tell you what. I'm going to just wrap this sweater around your neck, okay? I want you to keep your neck as straight as you can."

"That's very kind of you," he said. Then he looked at me quizzically. "I'm sorry, do I know you?"

"Yes," I said. "Do you know you?"

He furrowed his brow. "Well that's odd, now. I couldn't tell you my name. Huh."

"Your name is D- W-," I said. "You were named after your father, who is also D- W-, but they don't call you junior. They call him D--, and you D-."

"Oh, that's nice," he said. He began a slow attempt at sitting up. "I'm sorry, it's just that I have such a bad headache."

"That's all right. It's what happens when you jump out of trees."

"What!?" he asked, shocked.

"Sometimes, when you jump 20 feet out of a tree, you end up hitting your head and getting a headache. Due to the concussion."

"I guess that makes sense," he said. He was sitting up, leaning against the selfsame tree he'd leapt from. "I can't imagine why anyone would jump out of a tree. That's ridiculous."

"Maybe I lured you out into the woods, and then bludgeoned you."

He glanced up at me. "That's a more likely explanation. Who jumps out of trees?"

"Robert Frost might," I said. "Or maybe Walt Whitman."

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

"Birches" by Robert Frost

When I see birches bend to left and right
Across the lines of straighter darker trees,
I like to think some boy's been swinging them.
But swinging doesn't bend them down to stay.
Ice-storms do that. Often you must have seen them
Loaded with ice a sunny winter morning
After a rain. They click upon themselves
As the breeze rises, and turn many-colored
As the stir cracks and crazes their enamel.
Soon the sun's warmth makes them shed crystal shells
Shattering and avalanching on the snow-crust--
Such heaps of broken glass to sweep away
You'd think the inner dome of heaven had fallen.
They are dragged to the withered bracken by the load,
And they seem not to break; though once they are bowed
So low for long, they never right themselves:
You may see their trunks arching in the woods
Years afterwards, trailing their leaves on the ground
Like girls on hands and knees that throw their hair
Before them over their heads to dry in the sun.
But I was going to say when Truth broke in
With all her matter-of-fact about the ice-storm
(Now am I free to be poetical?)
I should prefer to have some boy bend them
As he went out and in to fetch the cows--
Some boy too far from town to learn baseball,
Whose only play was what he found himself,
Summer or winter, and could play alone.
One by one he subdued his father's trees
By riding them down over and over again
Until he took the stiffness out of them,
And not one but hung limp, not one was left
For him to conquer. He learned all there was
To learn about not launching out too soon
And so not carrying the tree away
Clear to the ground. He always kept his poise
To the top branches, climbing carefully
With the same pains you use to fill a cup
Up to the brim, and even above the brim.
Then he flung outward, feet first, with a swish,
Kicking his way down through the air to the ground.
So was I once myself a swinger of birches.
And so I dream of going back to be.
It's when I'm weary of considerations,
And life is too much like a pathless wood
Where your face burns and tickles with the cobwebs
Broken across it, and one eye is weeping
From a twig's having lashed across it open.
I'd like to get away from earth awhile
And then come back to it and begin over.
May no fate willfully misunderstand me
And half grant what I wish and snatch me away
Not to return. Earth's the right place for love:
I don't know where it's likely to go better.
I'd like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.

A friend of mine and I were walking in The Red, and he said, with a wistful look on his face as he stared up at the tall young poplar trees, "You know, I read a poem by Walt Whitman about these boys who jumped out of trees, and the trees would just lower them down to the ground."
And I said, "No good comes of Walt Whitman."
And he said, "Well, maybe it was Robert Frost."
And I said, "He's no Walt Whitman."
And he said, "Is that a good thing?"
And I said, "Absolutely."

I think this friend of mine may have been trying to impress me with his vast knowledge of poems about young boys who jump out of trees. And then my friend shimmied up a poplar tree. I think he was also trying to impress me with his vast tree-shimmying ability. Then my friend grabbed the tree up above the teeny tiny branch he was standing on, and he jumped out of the tree.

And the tree bent, and bent, and bent, for about ten of the twenty or so feet he was above the ground. And my friend shouted: "Look! It's just like in that poem by Robert Frost!"
"Or Walt Whitman," I called. "And no good comes of Walt Whitman!"

And then the tree, which was just a bit too big, and also the wrong sort of tree, snapped in half.

And my friend plummeted to the ground.

And the top of the tree he'd been holding on to plummeted to the ground after him.

And he hit the ground. And his head hit the ground. And the tree hit his head. And he lay there for a while. Probably he was thinking of Walt Whitman. Or Robert Frost.

I went to him, and made sure he was breathing (he was) and that his heart was beating (it was) and that he had no compound fractures (he didn't) and that he wasn't moving his head (he wasn't moving anything). Then I did the knuckles-on-the-sternum thing and I called his name, and he opened his eyes and he said, "Hello."

I thought that was a perfectly reasonable thing for a man who's just jumped out of a tree to say. "Hello," I said. "How are you?"

"Well," he said, looking up at me, "My head really hurts."

"You lost consciousness," I said.

"I did?" he asked.

"You certainly did," I said. "I was a little worried."

"Oh," he said. "That's nice of you."

We stared at each other for a moment.

"Do you know who I am?" I asked.

"Not a clue," he said.

"Do you know who *you* are?" I asked.

"Not so much," he said.

Labels: just wrong, living in a tree, vacation

The Berenstain Bears live in a tree house. They have branches growing in their hallways and bedrooms. When Max (who was being a nuisance of one kind or another) had a forest grow all around in his room, I was terribly jealous. Piglet and Pooh bear had it made. Me, I never had a treehouse.

That's not *entirely* true. A couple of the neighbourhood boys nailed some planks of plywood into a couple of trees in the alley. It was terribly unsafe, but incredibly cool, and we loved it. Then the neighbours complained to someone and the father of one of the boys (the father who was a carpenter) took it down. So the boys spent the rest of the summer shooting squirrels out of the trees with slingshots.

You don't know how desperately I wanted to write "so the boys spent the rest of the summer shooting squirresl with slingshots out of the trees". **Sigh**

Squirrels with slingshots are dangerous critters, you know. Terrible accurate with the aiming.

Anyway, I've always wanted to live in a treehouse. Then, quite some time ago, I saw what this guy did, and I've upped my desire to live in a tree a thousandfold. In a tree or on a boat. Possibly even in a boat that's in a tree. In a tree that's on a boat would be more problematic...although living in one of those spheres, suspended from the masts...now that *would* be cool.

Labels: living in a tree