Life of Luxury

I have chosen this picture because while it is difficult to decipher, it is representative of my current situation. If you look closely, you'll see a profile of a leopard in the face of a mountain. I'm assuming the peaks our furry friend is superimposed on depict mount Kilimanjaro. The grassy plains sweltering in the African heat below the leopard and the mountain are possibly Tanzania. For my purposes though, the mountain is Jordan, the plains are Nebraska and the leopard is an attainment not yet reached. What the picture is lacking is a man in the shade, dying in a hammock, which would represent me.

I'm stealing Hemingway's The Snows of Kilimanjaro. In this short story, one of my favorites, a writer safaris in Africa with his wealthy wife. He contracts gangrene from a mere thorn prick and slowly withers away, anguishing in the sun and lamenting over the mistakes he has made throughout his now shortened life. The bulk of his regret comes from his lack of writing, or action of any kind, because he has been lulled into a life of complacency and luxury. What used to matter to him were his experiences among those living on the edge of life, the poor, the artists and adventurers, people interesting enough to write about, not the dull upper crust he is surrounded by. When he passes, his death is not a graceful exit. His wound is wreaking and devouring his leg and much of his body. His end is gruesome and lonely in the harsh climate of the plains, dramatically back grounded by the awesome beauty of the towering peaks. As if heaven rises above him while he is eaten alive in hell.

There is one other death detailed that the author uses as a comparison. The story begins with the image of a leopard frozen in the snow of the mountain, climbing to the top for purposes we know not. Some argue this leopard represents Hemingway's pessimism, his attitude that if you look up for better things you will get shot down. But I disagree. While the leopard has been stopped in his pursuit of grandeur, he has been perfectly preserved in the lofty peaks above the writer's horrible demise. I believe what Hemingway is trying to convey is that pursing a difficult path filled with challenge and hardship is better than an easy path in which one becomes boring.

It's not hard to read the symbolism for my life. In Nebraska, lounging in a large house, with a TV in every room, a fridge filled with food and all the amenities I could ask, I have become unproductive, uninteresting and longing for life. So even though I am scared to face the challenges of living in a foreign country, I know the rewards will far outweigh the comforts I will be sacrificing. And really the locations, such as Jordan and Nebraska, need not be so specific, though they fit aptly for my present circumstances. It could be a metaphor for my unforeseen future, accepting a well-paying job in a US city with a good man to share my time and giving up my dreams of traveling, experiencing and growing. I try to remind myself of this whenever I feel queasy at the thought of my fast-approaching voyage and new life.

When Spiders Attack

CITIZENS BEWARE!!! A strange fog descended over the city this morning. Residents on a walk or their way to work noted that there was an eerie hush throughout the neighborhoods. As if the white haze was hiding something. When the alien fog lifted, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of spider webs lined the porches and windows and wove through the trees.

Experts can only speculate at the reasons for this freak occurrence. There have been whispers of terrorists or top-secret government experiments. Some are even looking to the skies for answers and have prepared their bomb shelters in case of invasion.

Others believe the spiders have a more altruistic purpose, "I believe them insects are tryin to tell us somethin. I been out here with my pen and paper all day waiting for a clue but I ain't seen a dern thing yet," said one local.

Authorities warn not to be alarmed but to stay indoors whenever possible and not to take any foolish chances.

Verisimilitude

At our Household Hazardous Waste collection, we were lucky enough to be joined by volunteers from The Rock, a church at the University. Eight God-fearing Christians appeared bright-eyed and ready to work at 8 in the morning on a Saturday and because the event was not too demanding, and definitely did not require more than three or four extras, I spent much of the day lounging in the sun, supervising and getting to know the help (i.e. eavesdropping).

As I sat and sweated and directed cars containing either paint or cleaning fluids which line to stay in, a tall, male volunteer said loudly to the girl beside me, "Hey, I know how much you like stories about open wounds. I've been meaning to tell you this one about my brother." He walked over to a youngin not a day over eighteen, in sunglasses and blond ponytail and squatted down beside her. He began to describe in detail a large, black pustule that had developed on his sibling's knee. Its appearance was blamed on exposure to toxic chemicals (much like how super hero's gain their powers), which his brother was frequently vulnerable to as he works in sanitation. His brother sought a doctor to attend to his wound and the infected area had to be squeezed, pulled and ripped open, leaving a rather large, gaping hole on his knee. Since, three more abscesses have developed and the painful removal process will need to be repeated.

When the gruesome story was finished, the tall male stood. The girl stared up at him with her mouth open, sunglasses now in her lap, looking strangely satisfied. After the storyteller left, I turned to the girl and asked her if I had heard correctly? Did she really enjoy stories about open wounds? She replied with a serious, wordless nod. Her blue eyes piercing my own. It appeared as if she was waiting expectantly for my own gaping wound story. I had none. I felt strangely inadequate.