the cartoon death of a robot
When I was growing up, we spent most of our summers at campsites. We burned things, learned to tie knots, searched for tree frogs and swam in lakes. We buried a time capsule and climbed the fire tower. We ate things off of sticks and wiped our hands on our pant legs. At night, the air was cool but smelled like fire. Those were the best times.
The National Parks System was my Mom's idea of a family vacation and a squat rolled into one. Around the time I was old enough to recognize the infamy of off brands and the reduced lunch program, I detected my Mother's ulterior motive. Her enthusiasm for the great outdoors spurred from her inability to afford our utility bills, sometimes rent. We were too busy vacationing to understand the severity of our financial situation. We'd return from our camping trip to a new apartment or relative's house, ready for the school year. My sneaky mother, so cleverly survivalist and whimsically downtrodden. In retrospect, I am really glad for that.
This week, a storm came and our neighborhood didn't have electricity for four days. After the initial technophilic withdrawl symptoms (foaming at the mouth, hunting for brains, chewing my arm off), I started to really appreciate what was happening. I had forgotten how the breeze traveled through our apartment when the windows are open. The weather was nice and the air smelled like a charcoal grill and dead leaves. All of the neighbors were sitting on their porches, hanging out with their dogs and drinking beers. Everyone was out walking around, and I had become more comfortable participating in conversations with strangers. The nights were quieter and for once, I could see the best stars from our parking lot. It was like a camping trip, or a vacation I remember.
I got home last night and they had fixed the power. From outside, I could see a light in every window. I stood outside my door and listened to the whirring appliances, a sounding alarm clock and a blasting television set. It sounded like the room was full of people, but I knew it was just the sound of me when I'm alone, plugged in and distracted. I'll sit there with every light on, with the TV going even when I'm not watching it.
Inside, it was exactly how I'd left it four days ago, every wasteful light and turbulent sound - except something was on fire. I had been cooking when the power went out, and although I cleaned up the kitchen, I had forgotten to turn the stove off. The left front burner was on 8, and smoke covered everything. At that moment, my house was like the cartoon death of a robot, buzzing and smoking, beeping frantically.
I turned on the fan and turned everything else off. I opened a book.
The National Parks System was my Mom's idea of a family vacation and a squat rolled into one. Around the time I was old enough to recognize the infamy of off brands and the reduced lunch program, I detected my Mother's ulterior motive. Her enthusiasm for the great outdoors spurred from her inability to afford our utility bills, sometimes rent. We were too busy vacationing to understand the severity of our financial situation. We'd return from our camping trip to a new apartment or relative's house, ready for the school year. My sneaky mother, so cleverly survivalist and whimsically downtrodden. In retrospect, I am really glad for that.
This week, a storm came and our neighborhood didn't have electricity for four days. After the initial technophilic withdrawl symptoms (foaming at the mouth, hunting for brains, chewing my arm off), I started to really appreciate what was happening. I had forgotten how the breeze traveled through our apartment when the windows are open. The weather was nice and the air smelled like a charcoal grill and dead leaves. All of the neighbors were sitting on their porches, hanging out with their dogs and drinking beers. Everyone was out walking around, and I had become more comfortable participating in conversations with strangers. The nights were quieter and for once, I could see the best stars from our parking lot. It was like a camping trip, or a vacation I remember.
I got home last night and they had fixed the power. From outside, I could see a light in every window. I stood outside my door and listened to the whirring appliances, a sounding alarm clock and a blasting television set. It sounded like the room was full of people, but I knew it was just the sound of me when I'm alone, plugged in and distracted. I'll sit there with every light on, with the TV going even when I'm not watching it.
Inside, it was exactly how I'd left it four days ago, every wasteful light and turbulent sound - except something was on fire. I had been cooking when the power went out, and although I cleaned up the kitchen, I had forgotten to turn the stove off. The left front burner was on 8, and smoke covered everything. At that moment, my house was like the cartoon death of a robot, buzzing and smoking, beeping frantically.
I turned on the fan and turned everything else off. I opened a book.