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Sunday, December 27, 2009

12/27/09

My small fan, bought from Target when I first moved to America, has been a constant beacon of light and hope when it comes to my nocturnal excursions. Its sonorous hum began as nothing more than a rather restrained John Cage piece, but has now acquired the rhapsodic sounds of Symphony Number 9; I can't live without it.

When I stay with the in-laws, I sleep in the living room, and my wife sleeps with her sister. You can already see where this is going.

I had just settled into the chair and was checking out the mating rituals of amphibians and their sociological implications for the West, when I realized that it was two in the morning, and my scintillating sandman-of-a-fan was stranded in my sister-in-law's room. Now, given a choice between a bed and the fan, I'd take the fan without a second glance. In fact, I'd take that fan over a luxury vehicle.

I crept up to the closed door of my sister-in-law like a hooded assailant; I had thought about putting a stocking over my face, but given the fierce cold, ended up putting them both on my feet instead. Furtively, I turned the nob and pushed the door gently open. All was black. Having already sent an S.O.S. via my cell-phone, I lifted the device and shined it into the cave, but saw only utter desolation. Earlier I had tried to text for help but in my distraught condition had only managed to bring out: "And I alone am escaped to tell thee!"

A voice cried out in the darkness, "Whose their?" Without thinking I replied, "Call me Ishmael."

Defeated, I returned to the living room and began researching Simon Weil in order to discover the secret to making suffering fun.

As it turns out, my new little brother had a nightmare and woke everyone in the house, and a couple of folks in the local cemetery as well. I got my fan, it was five in the morning. For the next two hours, I dreamed of its rapidly-soaring blades, and woke up with motion sickness the next day.

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