Coyotes; Time As An Abstract
NPR runs a weekly audio essay entitled “This I Believe” in which average folks hold forth on an issue or idea that they hold dear; NPR describes this segment as a forum where people “…from all walks of life share the personal philosophies and core values that guide their daily lives.”
Since I walk and have a life, I must also have philosophies and values, ja? And dammit, but I’ve held back with my personal views long enough on this blog. It’s time to cut loose.
Thus, I’ve decided I will occasionally feature my own “This I Believe” posts, from time to time, especially when blogging time is at a premium, and I need easy filler. My “This I Believe” posts are just me vamping a bit (again, not something we’re familiar with on this blog).
But let’s keep that vamping part just between you and me, okay?
Shake on it?
Cool. But your palms are a little sweaty. Are you hiding something?
After much consideration and vetting (I had to toss out gun control and the death penalty–too thinky for this hollow noggin), I have arrived at this week’s issue of deep passion:
I believe pillows, like my belly, should be fluffy.
When punched and scrunched, a good pillow should change shape. A good pillow, after the fashion of my husband, should give and give and give and then, to top it all off, be a little more flexible.
I detest a hard pillow. Those unforgiving ironing-board-like pillows that never take on an indentation, even when brass knuckles are applied with great force? They’re just mean.
And after my early thirties and a particularly-bad break-up, I made a solemn vow that never again would I allow Mean into my bed. Whether a wolf in sheep’s clothing or an ironing board in a pillowcase, I will not abide the mean.
The thing about an adamantine pillow is that it hurts me, even when I’ve been nuthin’ but good to it. I give it flannel and jersey; I speak to it gently; I lay the freshest of heads upon it. But then, during the night, it gives me, in return, a bloodied cauliflower ear. It makes the side of my head feel like a lugnut has been soldered on during dreamtime, and I do have ever so difficult a time hanging earrings off a lugnut.
Hard pillows, those compressed anti-downers, need to be fired. Take away their jobs; put them in the incinerator; glaze them and shove them into a kiln–but fire them.
This, I Believe.