Red yellow honey, sassafras, and moonshine...
At the beginning of each school year (sometimes second semester, too) I give my high school students a tour of the art classroom so that they have the means to be self-sufficient and also to clean up after themselves. Near the end of the tour I always show them our huge box of hygienic gloves and say, "Now, I want you to always protect yourself in the process of art-making. You're to treat everyone else like a biohazard. You've seen that we have plenty of sharp tools around the class and should Kramer, for example, carelessly stab himself with a linoleum cutter and begin to bleed profusely you've got to first protect yourself with gloves before helping him."
Each year I've said this my students have giggled; but I am deadly serious. I protect myself from the biohazardous body fluids of others.
One thing I have not yet learned to do-- I realized this yesterday on the walk from Michael's car into Clarette's-- is to protect my mind from the hazardous mental content of crazy people. With regards to unsavory experiences I've become very savvy and sensible; however, when it comes to the things crazy people say with conviction I'm completely naive and gullible. I want to believe what people are saying to me.
I realized this while acknowledging that it pertains to a very specific case in my life.
Not that of my cohabitant.
Now, I may live with the Dark Knight, but I'm about the most skeptic and critical Boy Wonder this side of Gotham: "Small Face" Espinoza is not crazy. He might currently be eluding authorities, failing at grammar and spelling fascism, and eating continental style, but he is not crazy.
He did block my car into the driveway, though, before leaving town for two days. The spare keys are in his jacket pocket.
I must say, though, that I've milked as much out of the motor vehicle experience as I want lately: I had a very pleasurable time riding my bicycle around town today and my time in Michael's car last night reminded me that I need a copy (of that 5th Dimension song) superior to the one that he has in his car stereo.
So now I, along with Alfred (who's been making every attempt to get into the great outdoors since Paul asked, "doesn't she ever try to escape?" and I responded, "Oh, no.") are homebodies with Disney movies and soul music for the duration of Thanksgiving break. It'll be loverly-- just like prosciutto di Parma.
TUNE IN NEXT WEEK FOR: "Other folks' wisdom on insanity"
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