Tuesday, August 3, 2010

Trillsome Pre-flash Whimsy

The open document stares from my monitor like a blank page with hidden eyes, a sheet of white pixels in a silver frame with wires dangling from the back near a potted cactus.

“If you won’t blow, I’ll suck,” the monitor says,

“That’s the hoover’s line,” I reply, “for when I can’t be bothered to do round the skirting board.”

“Well spotted. Let’s try again.” The monitor makes no attempt to cover up its embarrassment — monitors feel no embarrassment, they are robots. “Very well. If you won’t create, I’ll suck you into my vacuous sargasso of dpis; force you to pound at keys till you to intrude your imprisoned psyche on the bleak white limbo—”

I cough — an interrupty don’t-actually-need-the-Tixylixy kind of cough that says, “sorry to butt in, but you’re back on that whole suction thing again. Is there something going on between you and the hoover I don’t know about?” Then I actually say it — because suggestive coughs mean little to electrical appliances, even those positioned close to cacti.

“The hoover and I are as chalk and cheese to a wok and an underwatered hydrangea. It’s the toaster anyhow. What a hunk, what a hot rod, what a lover.”

I do that thing NLP practitioners call the Bruce Forsyth Cogitate Aloud Hands To Chin Stroke Gesture (but which I call Clutching At My Stubble For Want Of An Exit Strategy To This Horror Unfolding Before Me). “I’ve got to go,” I say, “and...find a horse.” It just comes out. Heh, if you’re going to blurt, blurt equine.*

The monitor loops its flex round my ankle as I speed to the door. “You think Toastie Woastie and I are weird?

I come straight to the point, before I’m boa constrictored. “To be honest, what I think is weird...” A pause for effect, till the ellipse's dut-dut-dut synch with the monitor’s sudden flicker. “...is Toastie Woastie and Hoovie Groovie.”

The flex falls limply round my foot, like the hair extensions Ozzy Osbourne dropped prior to his 1997 Comeback Tour, and with a single mortal zuumf, the monitor shuts down, whisks away its open document.

I walk downstairs, make a coffee; wonder what might have been. On the cusp of my tongue/brain, just prior to all the sucky nonsense stuff, the butterfly wings of a poem fluttered.

From the pad by the phone, I grab a single sheet of paper and a pen, then sit, cross-legged in the window seat, bathed by an amber glow more Seville than Suburbia.

The ickle furry caterpillar
climbed up the ickle lettuce,
undulating like half a pair of tights
wrapped round an enfeebled midget go-go dancer...

* No relation to Burt Reynolds, btw.


Old Kitty said...

Yay! You were filled by the spirit of the monitor and got inspired!


Hope you give monitor and hoover some alone time now..
Take care

fairyhedgehog said...

What a fascinating life your appliances lead.

Whirlochre said...

Old Kitty
Never give electrical appliances alone time. They just abuse it.

It's what they get up to when no-one is looking that bothers me. Toy Story III is just the start of it.

Peter Dudley said...

questions on the poem, which is Pulitzer stuff, certainly:

is it the caterpillar or the lettuce that is undulating?

and... top half, or bottom half?

Robin B. said...

1. I'd love to see you Hoovering...in your kilt.

2. I wrote a novel in my head once, in my 20's. Lost it before I could write it down. Damn. That's going on Facebook....

Whirlochre said...

Right now, everything is undulating.

But that's Friday morning for you.

I'm beginning to think you've been gene slpiced with a terrier.

Somewhere, I have two poems I wrote down at twilight...on the same piece of paper. Problem is, I remember before I discovered what I'd done thinking that both of them were pretty good.

Robin B. said...

I cackled like a fool, thinking about the terrier. What worries me is, John laughed, too, like he was agreeing with you!!!

sylvia said...

I would have commented sooner but I'm frightened to be in the same room as my monster-monitor now.

Whirlochre said...

Have no fear — I'm sure you can lick it...