There is a demon in my television and at times I posses it

As many of you know, for the most part I am a mild mannered and one might even say genteel individual. I believe in the importance of being polite and I frown upon excessive swearing or "cussing" without due cause. However, sometimes the television.....

This didn't happen until Fiona moved out. The madness started to creep in afterwards. It is like the television could see that I was alone in the house, alone but for a white fluffy cat, and then it attempted to creep insidiously into the corners of my mind.

The other night I came home from a long office day and turned on the aforementioned television. I was sitting there watching ancient reruns of "Friends", half asleep on the couch with Anabel purring on my lap.

Then it happened. The demon I mean, I could feel it reaching its sinuous tentacles out attempting possession, attempting to brainwash me. I am not sure how long it was there staring at me before I noticed it, but notice it I did. Because in the middle of a shampoo commercial in which a sultry European voice promises strong, soft and shining hair. I found myself sitting bolt upright on the couch yelling "SHUT THE FUCK UP, SHUT UP!". The demon thus exorcised, I turned off the TV. I had visions of smashing the entire box Office Space style, but instead I coaxed Annabel out from behind a bookshelf and went up to bed with a novel.

It is true, I may be going mad. And you may pretend not to know me when you see me ripping out pages from the grocery store magazine rack or cursing the Stella Artois advertisements at the Landmark Theatres. But Reader, beware the demon that lurks within the network cables and sprawls on glossy print. She is waiting for you to let down your guard. She will coax you, amuse you, seduce you, annoy you. But if you let her in she will steal your soul and sell it for a premium.


I mean, really, just shut the fuck up.

Roma, still

My hotel room faces inward, looking down on the small courtyard and across to buildings that are not the hotel. From my window I can just see the corner of a room in a house or apartment across the courtyard. It seems to be a library or study since the wall is covered in messy overstuffed bookshelves. In front of the books there is a desk. When evening comes someone in the house turns on the green bankers lamp on the desk and sits working. From my angle I cannot see the person in the desk. I see only a hand that holds a cigarette and the smoke that curls in front of the shadows on the wall. The hand pauses to turn the page in a book and then returns to hold the glowing stick. Who is this who sits late at night as the smoke curls into the air?

Rome, Alone

In Rome it rains every afternoon. The mornings are clear, blue skies and warm, but every afternoon when I am done with work I am hit by a squall that quickly dissipates and returns to sunshine. I have learned by the 3rd day to carry an umbrella. My hotel, near the Vatican, is in a small alley of a street. An unassuming building but comfortable inside. I had stayed here once before with friends but this time I am on my own. Every morning I come down to the dining room and eat the bread, Nutella, and arrangement of chocolaty pastries served. The dining room and lobby are permeated with the smell of strong, rich coffee but, still, I take tea. This is not the first time I have come to Rome by myself it is in parts fabulous and lonely to wander the streets by yourself.

Airport

This is me at a cafe in the Frankfurt airport drinking a cappuccino and eating a sandwich.
What? You ask, am I not supposed to be in Italy, perhaps already arrived in my Roman hotel? Well, yes, but somehow the flight was overbooked and I decided 400 Euro was worth a day of napping and drinking coffee in the airport.

Germany is grey and flat today. I watch the jets lift and land as rain comes in over the low trees. For a moment a rainbow touches the runway and then the rain is here, splattering on window and drumming on roof.

I am writing to you the old fashioned way- on cocktail napkins. My computer has died and the converter inadvertently checked. Perhaps it is in Rome by now without me.

The rain is done now leaving behind high fanciful clouds and the palest of bluish-white sky. My coffee is gone but for a trace of foam and busy travelers rush to gates and awaiting planes. I wait.

on the 2 stuck behind the 36 trolley

On a cold, cold night the bus has come free from the electric cable. The drivers swing the wide poles back to the wire. The connection sparks causing a flash of blue flame into the bitter air. It is a magical moment. Then it is over and the drivers laugh, return to their respective buses, traffic moves, we all go our ways.

Snow Day

A pack of children walks down the sidewalk through the flurrying snow. They are about 30 in number, 4th graders perhaps, flanked by 4 or 5 adults. They walk, dance, skip and sing down the sidewalk, nothing like Madeline style. There are no two straight lines, but instead a bevy of boisterous children swinging their swim bags, seemingly oblivious to the cold and snowflakes. Probably more like my namesake in spirit if not in form.

Last night they dreamed of a day off from school, mounds of white fluff, snow men and sledding. This morning they awoke to disappointment and only a smattering of snow. Now, though, their disappointment is forgotten and they are happy to plot with their classmates, traverse to the local pool through the still falling snow.

Antacid

Jennifer Claire eats antacid tablets when she is sad. Not stressed or angry or upset, but when she is lonely and sad and maybe a little depressed. In the old days she used to eat food when she was sad. Fabulous mashed potatoes and gravy, chocolate mousse piled with whipping cream. McDonald's French fries, or a handful of M&M's that always sat on the receptionist's desk at her office. (Back when she used to be the receptionist, now she strides by without a second glance).

Jennifer Claire used to be fat, not horribly so, but just enough. She used to eat antacids then too, but back then it was for the heartburn and indigestion caused by so much food.

Now that she is thin she eats antacids instead of food. It is not so much the act of chewing on a minty disk that cheers her up. It is the chalky aftertaste that comforts her and gives her hope that everything bad can be neutralized into bland perfection.

Dream

“And as he fell asleep, he who had been a man comprised of head and fingers, penis, capillaries and lungs, thoughts and excitement, dwindled and became only ear. Bit by bit until he was only one enormous ear.” And the woman curled up beside him told him stories, whispered in his ear. She told him stories of her dreams until the stories became his dreams. “Once upon a time there was a tree, a green green tree on a hill blowing in the wind. But the leaves were stylized like painted floating dots and they scattered from the tree in the wind. The tree was painted on a blue, blue background and the trunk of the tree was thick and brown and gnarled.” (The painting was hung on the wall in the basement bathroom above the water heater on the farm).“And in the next panel there was a painting of the branches of a Japanese tree in Autumn. These leaves were stylized too and were orange with white splotches. There was a large goldfish that swam between the branches of the tree. If you looked very closely you could see the faint outline of a goldfish bowl around the fish as he swam through the air.” And then they were no longer voice and ear or sleeping lovers, but only dreams.

A supervillan(ess) is born

Somewhere between watching Spanish television and "chatting" with customer service online*, I came to the realization that I was going to make a career change.

I am going to go into marketing. (It is true, I have quit the non-profit and have accepted a position with a marketing firm).

Not because of the age old adage if you can't beat them, join them. Well, maybe because of this. But also because of the fact that I have secretly always wanted to be a supervillan. Make that supervillaness with a velvet cape, a mask, and maybe some patent leather stiletto heels...

But, Anyway I am looking forward to forming your physche and selling it to you.

As everyone knows it is important to start by advertising to the very young. In this way you can more easily shape what your victims, I mean target audience, thinks they should believe, think, act like, sound like, dress like, speak like.

My aspiration is to get so good at this that I will be able to shape my vict...target audience's method of rebellion and counter culture. Then, when I have formed the aesthetics, tenants, vocal intonation, and catch phrases of this new culture-counter I am going to sell back to you. Just like the White Stripes song. I guess hipster culture already did this. But originality is not a pre-requisite for selling stuff (or for evil).

Due to a potential conflict of interest with my sometimes-anarchist hobbies AND because, by convention supervillains are normally the alter ego of a mild mannered nerd (or is that super hero convention?), I am going to work on developing my super villainess persona.

In fact, due to a intellectual property and non-compete clause in the contract for my new firm I have invested in a new license, passport, social security number, references, and a silver 2008 Lexus. (I still can't afford this year's model of car). I am hoping to rent a highrise apartment in Belltown to use as my super villain lair.

I think I may have to forgo the cape and mask except in the privacy of my lair. Instead I will be outfitting my closet with business casual, khaki trousers and tight suits from Express. Unless the contract calls for a more hip appearance. For this I will have a collection of vintage inspired designer clothes. I will keep the patent leather stiletto heels.

With out further ado, may I introduce you to 'Jennifer Claire Schaefer'. Super villain by day, mild-mannered author by night.







*you know that stock photo of a smiling Asian woman with perfect teeth is NOT actually your customer service representative, and contrary to what he types he is not delighted to assist you. In fact he become quite petulant and insistent when you tell him you don't want to hear what amazing offers his company has tailored for you.

Spiders

There is one spider clinging to the side of my apartment building. I can't say it makes me happy, but nevertheless, I admire it every time I walk under the web where it is hanging. (I cringe and side step too). In autumn Seattle becomes a mass of spiders, casting their webs on ever corner, bush, tree and railing. I don't know why, but I certainly do shudder internally when I look at their fat, fat, frog like bodies and excessive pointy legs. Perhaps it is because they move so unpredictably, or because they look so alien. Or, because they bite. I tell myself that they are good for insect control and that most spiders found in Seattle are not poisonous in a lethal sort of way. Still, the older I get the less I like them.

This lone spider has somehow survived winter. Or it was hatched too early and now it struggles in a February world where there is a paucity of insects and frequent rain and wind. I admire you little spider, but please stay far from me.