The Imaginary Surreal Old Man Dialogues
March 12
Me: What a day I've had, Imaginary Surreal Old Man.
Imaginary Surreal Old Man: Feh.
Me: So I'm at work, right? And I had to carry all these big boxes--
I. S. O. M.: In my day, boxes were made of lead! And we had to carry them in our teeth, because only rich people could afford to have arms! And by "rich", I mean they made 2 cents a year! In my day, even rich people were poor, and they were grateful!
Me: Right. Totally. So in addition to box-carrying, which wasn't really all that arduous, I had to work at the computer a good bit--
I. S. O. M.: No computers in my day! We sat on a stump with a cow in front of us all day, and milked 'till our fingers cramped.
Me: The officebaby was watching Dumbo on the DVD on my boss's laptop, so now the "Pink Elephants on Parade" song is going through my head--
I. S. O. M.: The only laptops we had when I was young were the flaming rafters that pinned your legs when the old barn caught fire and collapsed!
Me: Hmm. I took a lunch break, and I read some of War for the Oaks, which is this great story about music and fairies and people who turn into dogs and--
I. S. O. M. Bah. We had proper stories in my day. No mucking about with fairies and such. They were stories about people who didn't have any food, so they tried to find food, and they couldn't, and they died, or they did find it, but it was poison, and they ate it, and they died. Or they didn't have shelter, and it was snowing, so they tried to find shelter, and they couldn't, so they died, or they did find shelter, and it caught fire, and fell down on them, and they died. Proper stories.
Me: Mmm. I didn't bring any lunch, right, and I was totally hungry, and there was nothing to eat but some little cookies in the shape of cats, so I ate some of those--
I. S. O. M.: In my day, there was nothing to eat, and if there was, it was poison, and it killed you, and in your last moments you were glad to have your belly full.
Me: You mentioned that. But work was pretty good, overall, and I came home in a good mood and made some lasagna in the microwave--
I. S. O. M.: Microwaves are bad for pacemakers. Evil brain rays. Exploding fish.
Me: And I vegged on the couch for a while, flipping through all two of our TV channels with the remote--
I. S. O. M.: No couches. Piles of jagged rocks, with bears under them. No remote control for the TV. Just vipers. No TV. Just vipers.
Me: And Heather came home, and we made a feast of tater tots and faux-chicken sandwiches--
I. S. O. M.: No chickens. Just vipers.
Me: And we watched Buffy, The Vampire Slayer.
I. S. O. M.: That's a really good show.
Me: And then talked for a long time, hung out, and such like. Nice. I came upstairs and found many submissions to Star*Line, which is nice; many poets have heeded my call.
I. S. O. M.: In my day, we never called for anything, except for help, and even then nobody came, or if they did come, they were wolves, and they ate your toes.
Me: And that's it, more or less. Nothing dramatic. Which might explain why I felt compelled to make up an imaginary surreal old man to dialogue about it with. To make it more interesting. Hmm.
I. S. O. M.: I don't know why I bother talking to you. You never listen.
Words written since February 1, 2002: 29,100
Words written since last entry: 0. Feh. In my day, we wrote with bits of charcoal on our own backs, and we were grateful for the opportunity.
Send me a magic mirror that ages my reflection 50 years and makes it into a Dadaist.
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