27th
the lost
there is no point. only breathing, eating, finding shelter. somehow trapped in this close space, this asylum, wondering always if anyone at all is like her. no, not always, not anymore. that stopped years ago. an inconstant yearning, a foolish hope, running neck and neck with the hope that this need to breath, eat and find safety would be put to rest, finally. only fear and ineffectuality kept her breathing, as fear an ineffectuality kept her from wanting to.
that pot of beans. “is it ok if we put hot dogs in it?” “ok”, she says. what could she say? it’s not like she even has the money to buy her own dried beans or a place to cook them. so she thinks she will eat around the hot dogs and just eat the beans. for some reason she can’t understand, these carnivores always take exception to her abstaining. it puzzles them. the story goes like this:
the little girl loves animals. they don’t make her feel aberrant and lower than everyone else. they are beautiful and perfect when they are in the wild. she is beautiful and perfect when she runs with them alone in the woods. around people, especially in zoos, they become twisted and ugly inside like the humans.so now has she.
pass the roast beef. a slice of ham. they never told her what these things really were. “you mean i’m eating a cow!?” i don’t like it. but i’m 6, so i can’t really shop and cook for myself. this goes on for 9 more years, until two things happen in quick succession to turn things.
the fetal pig. “you will now learn intimately the internal anatomy of a pig.” they want me to cut this thing open and see it’s organs. i’m squeamish, but it is interesting. the formaldehyde is vile. on day three the smell has become unbearable, formaldehyde and decomposing pig. i take the strawberry perfume from my purse and sprinkle it on the pig. immediately i realize my mistake. now these three pungent odors battle it out, formaldehyde, rotting pig, and sickly sweet strawberry. i struggle through the rest of the class somehow coming close, but not passing out. then it is over; the relief is palpable.
arriving home that evening, i find my mother well-pleased with herself, announcing the rare treat of baked ham for dinner. i spend that night in my room with no appetite.
one week later, i am at my grandmother’s house. i just ate some soup she fixed for me.
“that was an odd clam chowder”, i say.
“it wasn’t clam chowder”.
“what was it?”
“pepper pot”.
“those weren’t clams?”
“no”.
suspiciously, “then what were they?”
“it was tripe”.
nervously, sure i don’t want to know, “what’s tripe?”
that was when i became a vegetarian. after throwing up for 20 minutes.
