For those of you who don’t know, I take a lot of brain pills to help me do things like get to sleep, stay asleep, and make it through a single day without curling into a ball and quietly weeping. I used to get those brain pills at Walgreen’s. No longer. Here is a comment I submitted via the Walgreen’s website. The poor assistant manager of the local store had to call me. I was nice to her, but let her know that I wouldn’t be back.
Here is the email I had to send to my Kaplan LSAT-prep students today.
Got my dog fix with Jesse who watched the bikes roll into Pella.
St. Louis, Missouri, 1957.
By Nina Leen
The Walker felt his jaw slacken and his breath leave him the instant he noticed it. He froze, no more able to move than the stones of the bridge on which he stood. It wasn’t tall in an absolute sense, this mesmerizing object of the Walker’s utter concentration: the top of its head was not likely to have been more than three feet above the ground. But its legs, no wider than popsicle sticks, made up just over half its height and seemed like impossibly thin steeples, perversely tasked with holding up the church that was its body. Sacred, thought the Walker, might not be a bad way to describe the flawless curves, the pristine whiteness, the irresistible flow from beak to tail that characterized the slender body of the bird. Just by looking at it, just by noticing that those tiny legs were the most sturdy part of its dynamic perfection, thought the Walker, one could discern this animal’s essence. It was all potential energy. Its legs were as still and sturdy as if the smooth, reflective water surrounding its tiny ankles had been concrete. They formed the sturdy base for its motionless body, neck curved, wings tucked, utterly devoid of motion, yet somehow bespeaking a fluid sense of pure, effortless movement.
The Walker, who had remembered to swallow, remained as still as the bird. Suddenly conscious of the ungainly weight of his static body own his own vulgar legs, embarrassed at the pendulous hang of his useless, meaty arms, he knew that he would not be able to move until it did. If such a thing so obviously designed to move with perfect grace and ease could stand as still as the unrustled morning grass that had earlier wet his feet, so, thought the Walker, could his bipedal, locomotive calamity of a body. He would stand and wait, watching, wishing he had the patience of this crane, to know its purpose, to declaim movement with its every perfect slope, to have its own self-actualization within the span of its wings at any time, and to wait, patiently, content in its potential.