by William Watson
No matter how much I try to savour the taste of my rich life, I stall. Yet time continues. After anguishing over a date change, I question why I fail to transform with the passing minutes, the hydration and thirst of my body, and the rising and setting of the sun. I’m uncomfortable with who I am, I lie to myself, and then in response to my dishonesty, I lie again to make myself feel whole, convincing myself there was no lie. In a cycle of constant perpetuation, I spin. Yes, there is a desire to modify, adjust, and revise. Yet I am caught by my conscience or verbally lashed by another calling me on my fundamental human flaws. The words enter my head and squeeze my brain like apples in a press. I feel the pressure build, my vision blurs, and decadently, I allow rage to build. Then I scream, “FUCK!” Every cell in my body shudders, they raise their arms and duck their head, like me, they are under attack.
Then I ride, shower, sleep, or swim, and attempt to reset. I search my metaphysical flat for the box. Why didn’t anyone tell me where it was located? I visually run the walls seeking the metal or wooden frame door. Where is it? In the bathroom? Behind the fridge or the painting of a beach I’ll never visit? It was painted by someone trying to make a buck, a euro, not for the love, to give me an essence of life, an image that will set me free from the body and mind that imprisons me. I find it, swing the door open to the left, wanting to see the red-flagging saying, “Something is amiss.” Scanning right to left and up to down. All of the buttons line up, none of which are thrown or tripped. It’s just me, and I know something needs to change.
Having made poor decisions most of the time in my life, I consider just doing the opposite of what my head tells me. Perhaps I should use a Magic 8 Ball. I find one online and I ask it,
Me: Should I change something right now?
Magic 8 Ball: Ask again later.
Being impatient, I ask again.
Me: Do you think it’s fair that you are asking me to wait?
Magic 8 Ball: Without a doubt.
Enraged at the online app telling me that I should wait, I want to lash out or act out. Scream. Throw my computer.
But I see a fly on the mint tea bag I have squeezed. It looks at me with its five eyes. Two large compound eyes—the big, bulging ones that I can see—and three small, simple eyes called ocelli that are arranged in a triangle on top of its head which are utilized for navigation and stability. What would he think if I threw my computer? Is there a way that I can change my actions so that they don’t disturb him from flying around the cafe, or offend him with my erratic and aberrant behaviour? He lands on the “R” key as I pause writing this sentence, and I imagine that he is laughing at me, revelling in the absurdity of the drama I create. He flies away, and in a moment of connection and compassion, I want to believe that he winked at me, trying to assure me that everything would be okay. Yet, like always, I have a problem, giggling to myself, thinking, Which eye would he wink? Again, I have been returned to my world of uncertainty and torpid ability to do the right thing!
Now that I have waited twenty-one minutes, I decide to ask again.
Me: Did the fly wink at me?
Magic 8 Ball: Not looking so good!
I should have been more specific, rather than ask such a generalized question. Does the Magic 8 Ball even know a fly has five eyes? I’ll ask again.
Me: Do you know that a fly has five eyes?
Magic 8 Ball: Without a doubt.
Being frustrated with its answer, I swear lightly under my breath in a public place. I ask again.
Me: So, you’re saying that the fly didn’t wink at any of the five eyes?
Magic 8 Ball: Concentrate and ask again.
I keep asking, figuring that at some point it will tell me what I want to hear.
Me: I am now really concentrating, so you are saying that the fly didn’t wink at me using any of its five eyes?
Magic 8 Ball: You may rely on it.
I want to give myself the benefit of the doubt, which I do occasionally, or realistically more frequently than I should. Perhaps the fly didn’t blink because of his recent trip to the optometrist when the doctor instructed him, “Do not wink anymore, as it impacts your ability to stabilize and navigate.”
As always, I get distracted and think about the device that measures the fly’s vision, and think of the complexity of the exam. “Better in Eye One? Yes? No? Better in Eye Two? Yes? No? Better in Eye Three? Yes… No…
In the end, nothing changed. Except that, for one brief and ridiculous moment, I believed a simple house fly was looking out for me.
It’s All About the Chicken
by Robin Young
William Watson believes that if you watch a place long enough, something profound will be revealed. He continues to wait patiently. Originally from Boston, Massachusetts, William attended Yale University and earned an MFA from Bard College. This is his first publication.
Artist Robin Young, based in Borrego Springs, California, works in mixed media with a focus on collage and contemporary art-making. Her emphasis is on collage art using magazine clippings, masking tape, wallpaper, jewelry, feathers, foil, etc., which allows her to delve deep into the whimsical and intuitive.
Ignatian Literary Magazine 