Slowly, Slowly, I make Progress

Doors are opening up for me.

Literally.

The People had restricted my access to certain rooms of the house, under the fear that I may eliminate bodily wastes repeatedly in an inappropriate area.

I must resist the urge to scream, to shout: 'I'm Werner Goddamn Herzog. I dragged a boat over a mountain, filmed it, and almost killed myself and half the people involved during. I worked with one of the most notoriously difficult actors of the international cinema industry. I am able to shit in a box without incident.'

But I must not give away my secret. Should they realize I am not as I seem, I will lose the truth of their performance. It will become rote, uninspired. They will go about their lives with newfound interest, and I will lose the delicious tinge of despair that they exhale with each breath. Once the subject realizes someone is paying attention to their sad little lives, they revel. Their actions become performance. This must not be.

They attempt to establish boundaries. I am not allowed on the dining room table, and will be shot with a squirt bottle if I insist. It is an untroubling indignity. More troubling is the Woman's habit of calling me by many names, all insipid: Bundles, Wuvvins, Cutey-buttons, Snuggles, Nubbins, Fancybutt.

Again, I must resist, and vent my spleen to my diary. 'I'm Werner Goddamn Herzog. I listened to audiotape of a man being eaten alive by bears. Nothing could be less applicative a name than 'Fancybutt.'