Sunday, Nov. 21, 2004 - 8:01 p.m.
Editor's note (added 08-09-05): This was the third in a six-entry series during which The Measure was taken over by a rabbit.
Today being the oft-vaunted weekend, I went to the park. I took the laptop I am borrowing from Eva so I could record some of my impressions. I anticipated a peaceful, naturistic experience -- gazing at the pond while my inward eye roved over dale and hill -- a return to simplicity.
However, the many parkgoers made the experience somewhat less pacific than I had anticipated. For one thing, there were babies. Babies were out in droves. They squirmed in strollers, mewled on blankets, pointed rudely at my diminutive figure (somewhat more stooped than usual with both a camera and a laptop hung 'round my neck). Their parents made no move to chasten their uncouth offspring. I was forced to glare back balefully until they either turned away or shrieked in high-pitched terror.
There were also insects of many varieties. I have made a picture of one that would not cease pestering me. Here it is:
This picture, you may also notice, departs from the realism of my previous artistic ventures in that the great sun appears far greater than my readers are no doubt accustomed to (being, I assume, residents of a planet much farther than nine centimeters from that orb). This, readers, is intentional. I have attempted to render my impressions in terms of their importance to me, and my park experience was dominated by that fierce, burning sphere that gives life even as it scrapes its fiery fingers along our tender mortal hides.
Bettina asks for insight into the animal kingdom. My dear, I can offer you little, not being a fraternizing sort of bunny, but I can tell you this: you are not the only one against whom the sun has a personal vendetta. The sun in the park was merciless. The bare pink of my inner ears darkened to an angry mauve, and I have had to spend all day rubbing salve into them.