Dear diary,
After our koala-bear herding mission is accomplished, my fellow herdsmen Anna and Monica and I hang up a giant banner over that part of the outside world which sez:
THIS AREA DECLARED OFFICIALLY SO-SO FOR ARBOREAL FUZZBALLS. PLEASE HELP KEEP OUR ECOSYSTEM PREDATOR-NEUTRAL.
Then we offer to pay our bill at the diner, but the manager and staff all gather and sing a rhymed song to us whose lyrics explain that this day’s meal and beverages have no charge and that it was their pleasure to serve us. So we herdsmen blush and thank them. Then we say goodbye and return to our home, where we meet back up with our business partners Fernando and Jeanette; because it’s evening now, thus we’re all ready to hit the hay and get some shuteye. Tho we’ll probably watch a movie together before we actually fall asleep.
“Hail, fellow beast-watcher!” I say to Fernando Pessoa. “How was wildfowl-tending?”
“Good!” replies Fernando; “how did the koala-keeping go?”
“Mission accomplished,” I say, and I hold the screen of my portable computing device before his face, so that he can view the photographic evidence of my claim: for there is a picture of the abovementioned banner hanging in the trees, which I set as my background image.
“Neat!” sez Fernando.
Then I turn and face the rest of our group in the room and say “So, what now? Do we all climb into bed and get our beauty rest before another long day of livestock-wrangling and herdsmanship; or should we watch a movie first?”
“I like the idea of watching a movie,” sez Anna.
Monica agrees, and so does Jeanette MacDonald.
“What about you, Fernando?” I ask Senhor Pessoa directly, because he hasn’t given an answer yet.
“I said yes, that sounds great — you must not have heard me. I’d love to screen a film. It would help me relax before sleeping, and perhaps elements of whatever movie we watch will end up in my dreams.”
I clap my hands, “OK, then let’s move to the screening room.”
We all take our cocktail glasses in one hand, and the women use their other hand to carefully lift their formal dresses so that they don’t step on the hemline (which, when let fall freely, reaches to the floor); and we proceed into the screening room, followed by our robo-butler Devlin, who shall serve as our projectionist.
Before we sit down, I ask my company of herdsmen-at-leisure: “Any ideas about what to watch?”
“I suggest God’s Country (1985),” sez Fernando Pessoa. “I’m in the mood to see that title again.”
“God’s Country,” I confirm; “the documentary film by Louis Malle?”
“Yes,” sez Fernando; then he tips back and finishes his martini.
As everyone makes sounds of general agreement, I announce: “Alright, God’s Country it is.” Then I head over to Devlin the robo-butler and whisper directions about where to find the reels, and the rest of the party takes their seats in the theater. Soon the familiar clicking and whirring of the projector is heard, and we recline in our comfortable seats and watch the movie with rapt attention.
When the film ends, we all retire to the bedroom.
Each of us herdsmen enjoys a night of perfect slumber. Those who wish to dream of the events of the day and mix them creatively with the events of the movie that we just viewed are free to do so, while those who prefer to pass the night in a state of dreamless sleep have their wish granted too.
§
Waking at cock-crow, still wearing our formal dresses and suits from yestereve, we all now communally bathe fully clothed in the cold pond out back and then breakfast on white wine.
When it’s time to head out and perform our daily herdsman duties of protecting and serving our livestock, I turn to Fernando and say: “Fernando, I’m worried about something: it’s eating me up inside — I can’t stop thinking about a remark that you said earlier.”
“What is it, Bryan? Speak, for your fellow-herdsman heareth,” sez Fernando Pessoa.
“I’m just bothered by the fact that, even when given the opportunity to bow out of this obligation — for, recall that I gave you the chance to split and never look back, when we were doing our pirating exploits — you said that it would please you to stick around and star alongside me in some upcoming scenes of this adventure novel, which is what led to our present herding gig, because you said that my books are ‘so fun’ — I believe that those were the exact words you used…”
“Yes, that’s right!” Fernando smiles. “So, what’s eating you alive?”
“Well I’m just worried that the situations that provide the basis of these episodes that you’ve been a part of might not be living up to their potential. I mean, all we’re doing is standing around and staring at animals. Now, I know that we both love these creatures, and we understand that it’s not their fault that they smell sorta bad — it’s inevitable that when you concentrate an amassment of physical bodies in one area, the resultant aroma will not always match your favorite cologne — but, well, for instance, you spent all of yesterday staring at ducks: that cannot possibly classify as ‘fun’!”
“Oh, listen, my friend,” Fernando drapes his arm around me, “there were more than just ducks in that place — there were geese and blue herons and a sinister bloodthirsty peregrine, as well as other types of winged beasts that you yourself left out of our account. (Perhaps you don’t even know of their existence!) And consider: I had Jeanette MacDonald for company — from 1929! Go back and watch her in a film from that time: I recommend The Love Parade. Yes, screen THAT and then tell me that you would not consider it the HIGHEST HONOR to (as you put it) ‘watch ducks’ with that woman.”
I look down at the ground and think for a long time about this. Then I look up at Fernando Pessoa and say: “You have an excellent point. That was very well put.” Then I add: “Thanks for making me feel better about our ongoing escapades.”
Fernando extends his arms in a friendly way and gives me a hug.
We start walking down the paved suburban road, with all of our livestock cackling and lowing and grunting and hooting and screeching and growling and chirping around us.
“Well? What fun thing shall we do now!?” Fernando Pessoa smiles.
I look around and notice that there’s a birdhouse lying on the ground — I now remember that, last week, I yanked it out of the earth where it was posted, because I saw that it was cluttered with debris from former tenants and currently uninhabited; so I intended to give it a cleaning and then freshly stain its wood. (For if you remove the previous inhabitants’ stuff, the house is more likely to attract the type of bird that we want to reside here — we’re hoping for small songbirds who love to eat an invasive species of scarab beetle that’s threatening to overrun our farm.) So I point to the birdhouse, which is lying on its side in the dirt on the ground, and say:
“We could reinstall that, now that it’s cleaned and stained.”
“OK,” sez Fernando.
So we bring the birdhouse back to its normal location. There is a hole in the ground where the post goes — this represents where it was formerly positioned. The soil here is very sandy — it’s seriously almost like beach sand — so it’s hard to get birdhouses to stand up straight; they end up leaning over if you don’t plant them deep enough in the earth. Now, because a week has passed since I removed the house, the hole where its pole is supposed to go has had a chance to fill up with windblown sand — thus, it’s too shallow unless I remove quite a bit of material. Therefore, it is necessary for me to excavate handful after handful of loose soil from the hole, before we replant the birdhouse.
Now, here is the gnarly and hazardous aspect of this particular episode that I am engaged in with Fernando Pessoa:
While digging with my hands to re-hollow out this old post-hole, a small mound of sandy soil accumulates beside my worksite, representing the matter that I have been excavating. And, while performing this medium-hard labor, my face becomes sweaty, which causes my prescription glasses to slide down the bridge of my nose (I am facing earthward while digging). Before I can catch them, my glasses slip and fall from my face, lens-first, right in the dirt. So I retrieve my spectacles from the mound where they plopped, and when I place them back on my head, they are covered with sand. This renders my appearance generally comical.
Fernando laughs, and then I start to laugh. “Now the REAL fun starts,” I quip, tho I’m weeping inside.
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