| I
seem to be experiencing a significant lack of first-hand violence
these days, and with the constant barrage of violent scenes
that I observe via the internet and televised news, I am beginning
to wonder whether perhaps this dearth of aggressive behavior
is marking me psychologically. If so, will I find, down the
road, that my non-violent existence has handicapped me in
a world full of both perpetrators and targets of violent acts?
Shall I be at that great a disadvantage?
In response to these concerns, I have begun the pursuit of
both symbolic and fantasized violence in my daily routine.
By symbolic, I mean that I will verbally assault things like
books, tomatoes, and traffic signals. By fantasized, I suppose
I have to admit that I visualize one particular act of aggression
about a quintillion times each day.
Now, before you go surreptitiously inching and mincing your
mental way away from me so as to create some minuscule distance
betwixt yourself and I, allow me to fully illustrate this
fantasy of violence because, in the reading of the figments
of my otherwise pacific soul, you may begin to see why it
is I am so puzzled at the behavior of the world--which, with
real and heinous acts of violence, we are turning into a place
where non-participants in violent living are not the standard.
(The above should not be taken seriously; what follows should.)
There is a lovely stretch of grass, that, just over a rise,
drops down onto a beach where low waves break idyllically
under a cerulean sky. Up ahead, a small group of laughing
young soccer players are kicking around a ball; off toward
the sound of the water, sunbathers are beginning to appear,
toting their beach towels and coolers, leaving the beach and
thinking about supper under a lazily descending sun; all around,
joggers and walkers are converging on the path for an evening’s
constitutional after a day in the office. I am among the latter.
As I trot along the blacktop, singing what was probably the
last Springsteen song I heard before leaving the house, I
notice an immobile white cylinder about 20 feet ahead on my
side of the path. My eyes are for shit, so I cannot immediately
tell what it is, but as I near it, it becomes the definite
head, torso and scrawny legs of the common cranes seen everywhere
around here (but most often following lawnmowers and engaging
in an insect feast worthy of the gluttons of royal legend).
Normally, they hop or fly away when a car or person approaches,
but this one just stands there, facing me, as though it knows
what I’m thinking. Does it?
I realize that I may never get this chance again, and if the
bird will just stay still for the few seconds it takes for
me to stride the last couple of yards to it, I will, at last,
have the answer to my query: What sound will one of these
birds make if I squeeze it?
It holds its ground. I reach down and grasp it with both hands.
It is the perfect size for a nice double-fisted grip. I squeeze.
It emits an orgasmically satisfying, “rrrrrraaaaa?”
OOOOOOOOO, yes, rrrrrrraaaaaa. How long have I wanted to hear
that!
I merely hoped that I would one day get my hands on a Squeezie
Bird and that it would make my dreams come true--it would
indeed sound like Mothra waking up next to Godzilla after
a drunken night on the town. “Rrrrrraaaa?” (i.e.
“Tell me we didn’t…” Mothra crows
to the giant lizard lying sleepily next to her.) For over
a year, I have asked nearly everyone I have met if they thought
that Squeezies would make that exact noise; and now I know
that they do!
Ha! All of you who thought they would crunch or, better yet,
peck my eyes out--I told you so! They are like bug-eating,
feathered Squeaky Toys for your dog, or teething rings for
your toddlers! They walk away from these encounters unscathed!
Rrrrrraaaa?! It kind of makes me giggle.
 I
set the Squeezie back down and smooth out its feathers. I
thank it with extraordinary politesse and then run on. No
longer is it Springsteen’s gravelly reminiscences of
New Jersey running through my mind, but now choirs of Squeezies
are “rrrraaa-ing” the "Hallelujah Chorus"
gaily in my mind! God! Can’t you see it, rows upon rows
of people each with a Squeezie tuned to a different note,
squawking out Handel’s masterpiece! And now the Bass
Squeezies join in…
(I shall consent to return to reality at this point.)
As I pulled into the parking lot at the plaza this morning,
I glanced to my right and saw a Squeezie Bird standing beneath
a hedge, calmly plucking its breakfast from the leaves. I
watched, wondering… I nearly ran over an old lady, absorbed
as I was by my reverie. I admit that I wanted to squeeze it,
but I leave that all to fantasy. Instead, I parked, shaking
off the residual smug satisfaction that my imaginary “rrraaa”
had engendered, and I went into the Brew, poured a mug of
coffee and jumped back in my truck to come down to work where
I sit, reading about violence and aggression around the world.
Am I the only one whose violent tendencies are satisfied by
the imagined squeezing of birds? Am I merely widening the
blackened hole in my soul where any resistance to hatred used
to be? By allowing myself refuge in even symbolic and fantasy
violence am I, too, perpetrating violence, even in the name
of humor?
Finally, do Squeezies look at me and wonder what sound I might
make if they squeeze me? |
