Have you ever seen those commercials, or those movies, where one guy is standing still or moving in sorta slow motion while everyone, and everything else, is whirring past him in a blur of motion, a frenzy of activity?
Well, I'm that guy.
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That person is me, especially in the mornings around our house. Every morning the alarm goes off as if it were the starting gun in the race for the kitchen. My wife and daughters are there minutes, and miles, ahead of me.
Now, these are the people that I love and cherish most in my life, and at this point in the day I can only identify them as various-sized blurs.
Taz in the kitchen
It's like being surrounded by several “Taz Devils” all at once. They're UFBs — Unidentified Frenzied Blurs.
The tallest, and slowest, of the blurs would be my wife, Janet, I'm pretty sure.
The second tallest blur would be my eldest daughter, Liza, the blur that either body slams or karate-chops any hapless being that gets between her and the refrigerator.
And the shortest blur, that would be Frances, by far the quickest of all the blurs — too quick for the human eye to actually see, in fact. With an IQ of about a million, “Francie” (or “Frenzy,” as I like to call her) basically blazes through life at, or very near, light speed.
Before I go much further, let me mention here that Indians, in general, are lovers of stillness. We savor moments of quiet, moments of peace and solace. We suffer the mouse to stir, as it were.
We like to sit quietly, find the calm place within, and listen to the soothing voices of the Earth, the wind, the birds — or, as in my case, the voices in our heads.
“Frenzy's” many talents
“Frenzy” knows not about calm or stillness.
To her, calm is something that I write every week for the newspaper, which she'll (speed) read, before she moves on to an art project or to making her own frappuccino.
“Frenzy” knows not about quiet either.
Picture this sweet, childish oval of a face, framed by thick beautiful hair and set with large, innocent brown eyes. Her youthful countenance and blemish-free olive skin complimented by rosy lips from which, one expects, would issue forth the songs of angels.
Instead, what issues forth is a window-rattling, seismograph-busting belch that would make a pterodactyl proud and a longshoreman blush.
“Frenzy” has other talents, as well.
She is an accomplished pianist (you ain't heard nothing till you've heard Beethoven's Fifth, all in allegro), an exceptional artist (watch out, Leroy Neiman!), and, as if all this isn't enough, she has just learned to whistle!
Oh, happy day!
If you're wondering where your dog is, he's probably one of the many, doubled-up in pain and howling, in my front yard.
God help us when “Frenzy” discovers espresso.
And thank God I get to spend most of the day home alone, quietly, just me and the cat and the dog, heavily medicated, where the only thing blurred is my vision. We sit savoring the stillness, and the bonbons. We listen to nothing but the quiet. We watch nothing but the clouds passing overhead and our favorite soaps.
Well, “Frenzy” will be home soon, so I'd better get something done around here, like batten down the furniture. I'll do it slowly, methodically, quietly and with calm purpose.
After all, if you want something done right, do it yourself.
But if you want something done in a blur, wait till “Frenzy” gets home.
Originally published Oct. 13, 2001
Copyright © The Billings Gazette, a division of Lee Enterprises.
John Potter, an Ojibwe from Wisconsin, is a gifted artist, illustrator and writer. After more than 20 years as an editorial artist and columnist with the Billings Gazette (Billings, Mont.), he now spends his full time and energy on his oils, painting the landscapes of the West that he loves the most. His work can be seen online at www.lonewolfgallery.com.
