Home stories As We Speak, The Sounds

As We Speak, The Sounds

written by M.E. Evans May 27, 2016

As we speak, Francesco is lying in the backyard bleeding to death. At least, that’s what I’m imagining since I left him unsupervised with a weed-whacker. You would think that his life calling was to be in lawn care. I’ve yet to see another human being who looks as happy as Francesco does while doing yard work. Seriously, drive by our house on any given day, and you might find him out front, shoving the old ass lawnmower unevenly across the yard as happy as a crackhead who just scored a free rock. As energetic as one, too.

I’m inside trying to calm Oliver who hates machinery like you wouldn’t believe. In Florence, he’s attacked the sides of the street-cleaner trucks-twice. He attacks lawnmowers, weed whackers, as well as non-motorized monsters such as brooms and rakes. He fucking hates rakes. And for no reason. Nobody has ever attacked him with any of the above and he’s never had a bad experience, yet, you’d think that in his past life he was a survivor of Maximum Overdrive (haven’t seen that movie? Lucky.) I’m not sure what goes through his mind, but he becomes instantly rabid as soon as we take the vacuum or any other contraption out. He paces, he stalks, and once the monster comes to life, he lunges. OR, he runs and jumps into the arms of whoever isn’t next to the shitty, scary thing. I’ve tried to figure out the root of his fear to no avail because the thing about Oliver is that since he grew up in Italy, he’s not afraid of loud noises. And he’s never had a bad experience. He just innately believes that those things are evil. Or maybe he sees them as evil, autonomous, alien objects out to kill his family. Probably. Since he also becomes jealous when I talk to my plants (read: He runs over and dives on top of them). And yes, I talk to plants. And anything else that can’t get away from me (that’s probably the root of Oliver mental duress).


Update on Francesco: He’s not dead apparently. But it is super windy and he’s now raking things into our compost bin.

I’m still inside watching him through the back window. And celebrating by myself with inner monologues of “yay,” because….

I MIGHT HAVE FINISHED MY GODDAMN BOOK.  CAN I GET A WOO-HOO! And someone, please, drink a bottle of wine for me. With me. Everyone just drink. 

Check out the dirty manuscript picture on instagram, here. Thoughts on the title?

For those of you who are new here: A book that I’ve been writing (I know, I’m scared of the idea, too), not one that I’ve been reading. That would be a lot of enthusiasm for reading a book. Unless you just learned how to read and it’s your first book ever. In that case, it’s exactly the right amount. Oliver is celebrating, too, by howling incessantly at the backyard where Francesco is practically tap-dancing across the grass with a rake. It’s like broadway back there, that’s how much goddamn enthusiasm he has right about now. It’s like a musical, only instead of music it’s just the sound of me typing, and my yappy ass dog trying to save Francesco from himself.

What are your sounds right now?

 

 

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