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Snowtakular (guest stories by Snowmit)
11.12.2002 by Rosemary, every Tuesday.

Happy Tuesday!
I like these stories very, very much.
Please direct all love here.

I saw you at the art show, debating spirituality while your pager went off. You were explaining to your friend how it is that God wants the world to be destroyed. Your sincerity was touching. I am glad to know that people like you exist.

Your pager went off a second time and you got up and disappeared into the crowd. Maybe you went to look at the paintings. Maybe you were late for your meditation class. Twice a week, ninety minutes per session. Has it calmed you? Remember to breathe.

When they started selling the paintings, you were nowhere to be seen. A wise move. Commercialism has ruined art, after all. I could say more about this but it's nothing you haven't already heard and I'm sure the crass materialism would bore you.
I can't help but wonder a little about your friend. What did he think as you explained about God's plan for global warming? Was he impressed with your reasoning? Was he afraid? He was still sitting in his seat when I left.

On my way home, I watched a group of kids vandalize a trash bin. It seemed appropriate to say a little prayer.

"What should I write about?" I asked.

"Write about what you know," they said.

What do I know?

The room is all in white. White walls, white sheets, white chair. Even the pictures are white; "Polar Bear in a Snowstorm", "Blank Canvas #42", "Milk". The names are mine. I make them up and set them down on a white typewriter that prints in white ink on white paper.

"Put the finished sheets through the slot in the door," they told me.

"I can't even read them, how do I know if they're finished?" I asked.

I am glad that I learned to touch-type.

Next to the bed, there is a radio. White. Sometimes I fiddle with the dials. I didn't like top-40 radio before and I like it even less now. I try to find news programs. I shout curses at the idiot callers on the idiot call-in shows. How can they be so insipid? I have a theory that the producers screen them for maximum idiocy. I wonder whether I might be allowed to speak on air. Am I insipid enough? In my more despairing moments, I fear that I am.

The President has just come on the air to urge calm. He says that it is only by remaining calm that we can weather the coming storm. He says that the Union is as strong as ever. He says that our enemies will not defeat us. He is brave and bold. His voice is strong and soothing. I love the President.

When the time comes, I will die for him.

The reason I have to do so much writing is that otherwise I get bored. When I am bored, I am not well behaved. The other day, I got bored, so I tried to blow off some steam when the orderly came in to give me my food. They had to fill the room with gas.
When the sedatives wore off, they came to talk to me.

"We need you to do some writing for us," they told me, nervously eyeing the blood, "We think it will help stop you from getting bored."

"If you'd just give me something to play with, I'm sure I wouldn't get bored," I said.

"We can't do that, you'll get over-stimulated," they said.

"What should I write about?" I asked.

"Write about what you know," they said.

What do I know, anyway?

I know that someone who says he is the President speaks on the radio in soothing tones. He says that everything is fine or at least that it will be. He never says exactly what's wrong. I don't even know what is wrong. The other day there was a press conference and he told a reporter that he couldn't explain because of National Security. National Security is very important. I have to stay in my room because of National Security.

At some point in the future, National Security will require that I leave the room and go somewhere.

"When that day comes, you'll be able to blow off as much steam as you want," they told me.

"Great," I said.

"In the meantime, keep writing."

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