Writing a blog post on Friday afternoon is like going to New Orleans for Mardi Gras two weeks into Lent. I suppose I could just admit that no one reads this anymore anyway and so writing for an audience is not germaine and therefore the fact that I’ve written something when everyone has gone home for the weekend is my own problem.
I’ve missed two days of posting here because my hands were stepped on by the Iron Giant, put through a mangle and then injected with battery acid. Or so it feels. This latest bought of ow! has had the sad (for my husband) side effect of renewing my fascination with Service Monkeys.
I truly hope I never lose the use of my hands. Of course if I do I’m sure God will open a window. I’m becoming more and more convinced that The Window would be a trained monkey. How could you not kind of love the idea of a monkey trained to feed you, wash your face and change your DVD? (Seriously==they must expect The Disabled to watch a lot of movies. Because the training video I watched showed the monkeys mastering DVD swapping before they mastered eating with utensils.)
I am senseless in my enchantment with monkeys. The valuable real estate at my desk which should be devoted to the MLA Handbook and Thesauri and other writerly tools is instead piled high with stuffed monkeys collected in the various eras of my life. No matter how down you are, I don’t think you can help but smile when you look at a monkey.
Now, I don’t like all monkeys. Some–chimpanzees–creep me out with their maniacal grins and screeches. But Rhesus monkeys, gibbons and those other little fellas are just the cat’s meow in my book. I’ve heard they’re kind of mean, though. Figures.
I’m fixated on this idea of people not doing things for themselves. As I’ve grown more enfeebled (or whatever word we want to use here) I’ve become acutely aware of the preciousness of able-bodiedness. That means that I’m incensed when able-bodied people foist their basic duties off on other people. So I’m really having a much harder time dealing with the concept of slavery than I ever have before. I mean, I’ve never EVER been one of those “well, slavery was okay” or “slavery was a product of its time” people. I’ve always thought it to be one of the basic evils of mankind–worse even than murder. Since I was taught from an early age to prize liberty it strikes me as a death of a thousand cuts to take away another’s liberty for one’s own convenience.
As I read this Washington Biography everyone around me is sick to death of hearing about I am struck by the paradox of our liberty. If it weren’t for his slave-rich empire it is doubtful Washington couldve prosecuted the War For Independence. I’m free because of slaves. And that rankles. Mightily.