it shall be pressed by lips or palm, steel or cord, and by squeeze or slice you'll spill your secrets bare."
I read that somewhere. I did. I forget where. But I believe in the throat. The throat is a special area.
The throat is vulnerable. The throat carries all your special fluids up, and all your special thoughts out. Ferried up, ferried out. A doorway. We like doorways.
So fragile, it is. Cartilage, a bone or two, a pendulous weight above and an anchor below, and with a shake or two it can all be over for some. The noose has circled and closed here in order to say 'Goodbye',and it still does in some places in the world.
In other news, it is a beautiful place, the skin often soft and white, which if smelled brings shivers to both, the ears nearby, the face containing most other senses inches away, eyes closing as lips part and a tiny breath escapes from that cartilaginous tube and out through those lips and creates a tiny moist cloud which may or may not be visible, it depends on where you live and what time of year it is, but that hot tiny cloud floats out and away without any help from your hands, which most certainly want to clutch at the source of it all, it begs for clutching, the perfect size and shape. Warm. Smooth. Precious.
Friday, April 29, 2011
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Il Ombre
I had heard about the man for several years by this time, if you were in this business in this part of the world, you had heard of him. He had a certain reputation, and the stories that circulated were just disturbing enough to not be forgotten quickly.
Some say he was a chef, or at least wanted to be a chef.
Others say he grew up in a place devoid of food, he grew up hungry, and he grew up with fantasies of food.
Still others say he tries to minimize his guilt by providing a last meal before he dispatches his commissions.
I do not know the reasons why, they all seem reasonable, but I do know this: He always cooks a fine meal for his victims just before he kills them.
He was the first thing I thought of as I opened my front door, and key still in socket, door swinging inward, I was greeted with the sweet smell of grilled peppers and onions.
Some say he was a chef, or at least wanted to be a chef.
Others say he grew up in a place devoid of food, he grew up hungry, and he grew up with fantasies of food.
Still others say he tries to minimize his guilt by providing a last meal before he dispatches his commissions.
I do not know the reasons why, they all seem reasonable, but I do know this: He always cooks a fine meal for his victims just before he kills them.
He was the first thing I thought of as I opened my front door, and key still in socket, door swinging inward, I was greeted with the sweet smell of grilled peppers and onions.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Easter Excerpt: Making Friends
"Well son, we don't usually accept children into our ranks here in the Marine Corps," said Sergeant Crabtree while taking a knee so he could look the weeping boy in the eye "But your daddy there died like a real Marine today, and they say the apple don't fall far from the tree, so if he was any indication at all of what sort of soldier you'll be, we'd be lucky to have you."
The boy continued to cry as white and black smoke curled up out of the bomb crater which just a few minutes before was a Hummvee containing several troops, one of them this boy's step-father. Sergeant Crabtree looked over both his shoulders, scanning for enemy threat, and then back down at the boy who was giving no indication of pulling his shit together anytime soon.
"I know it's hard, I lost men here too, your daddy among them. I'm going to miss them all and I am going to honor them. I am going to honor them by living. I am going to honor them by going on living, so I can go and kill me some more of these Haji scum." There he paused for a moment for this idea to sink in. "And I am going to need you to help me do it." By now several soldiers were lingering nearby with their weapons at the ready, awkwardly watching Crabtree try to withdraw with the child in a respectful manner. It seemed to be working, the boy began to wipe his cheeks with his dirty hands and now looked into the face of the Marine kneeling in front of him. "Will you help me, Packer? Will you help me to honor your father and the rest of the men who fell here today?"
Miles Packer sniffled a few times, and looking one last time over to the twisted wreckage of the blast, and then back at Crabtree, he asked "Do I get a gun?"
There were a few chuckles from the loose circle of soldiers as Crabtree stood up and ruffled Packer's hair. "Now THERE'S A MARINE FOR YOU!" he shouted back to his men, and then looking down at the boy he got this show rolling again. "OF COURSE you'll get a gun! But we got to get back to base first, and we're pretty exposed out here right now holding a roadside service like this. We usually do this sort of thing back in camp, or better yet, we wait until we rotate back into the world before we say our goodbyes. I'm just saying, you'll get your carbine as sure as a fish shits in the water, but I'm not going to lie to you Packer; you've got some training to do before you're going to get your own M4."
The boy began to look upset again and Crabtree quickly added, "You ever hold an M67 Frag before? Here. Why don't you keep an eye on this for me?" And he removed a grenade which was hanging with several others from his combat vest and handed it to the boy "Hold on to it real good now, and just be sure not to pull that pin there. Okay?"
Miles took the grenade cautiously, wide-eyed, and held onto it with two hands. "Okay." He said, and a moment later began to fiddle with the pin with a free finger.
The boy continued to cry as white and black smoke curled up out of the bomb crater which just a few minutes before was a Hummvee containing several troops, one of them this boy's step-father. Sergeant Crabtree looked over both his shoulders, scanning for enemy threat, and then back down at the boy who was giving no indication of pulling his shit together anytime soon.
"I know it's hard, I lost men here too, your daddy among them. I'm going to miss them all and I am going to honor them. I am going to honor them by living. I am going to honor them by going on living, so I can go and kill me some more of these Haji scum." There he paused for a moment for this idea to sink in. "And I am going to need you to help me do it." By now several soldiers were lingering nearby with their weapons at the ready, awkwardly watching Crabtree try to withdraw with the child in a respectful manner. It seemed to be working, the boy began to wipe his cheeks with his dirty hands and now looked into the face of the Marine kneeling in front of him. "Will you help me, Packer? Will you help me to honor your father and the rest of the men who fell here today?"
Miles Packer sniffled a few times, and looking one last time over to the twisted wreckage of the blast, and then back at Crabtree, he asked "Do I get a gun?"
There were a few chuckles from the loose circle of soldiers as Crabtree stood up and ruffled Packer's hair. "Now THERE'S A MARINE FOR YOU!" he shouted back to his men, and then looking down at the boy he got this show rolling again. "OF COURSE you'll get a gun! But we got to get back to base first, and we're pretty exposed out here right now holding a roadside service like this. We usually do this sort of thing back in camp, or better yet, we wait until we rotate back into the world before we say our goodbyes. I'm just saying, you'll get your carbine as sure as a fish shits in the water, but I'm not going to lie to you Packer; you've got some training to do before you're going to get your own M4."
The boy began to look upset again and Crabtree quickly added, "You ever hold an M67 Frag before? Here. Why don't you keep an eye on this for me?" And he removed a grenade which was hanging with several others from his combat vest and handed it to the boy "Hold on to it real good now, and just be sure not to pull that pin there. Okay?"
Miles took the grenade cautiously, wide-eyed, and held onto it with two hands. "Okay." He said, and a moment later began to fiddle with the pin with a free finger.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Frying the Fuck Out Of the Roast
What would have been great excitement was tempered with the many frustrations of the day, or the frustrations of the day were diminished by the great excitement he felt with the upcoming adventure today, he was confused as to which perspective was correct now, but, a trip to the Beachhouse, a journey with Her which he had been looking forward to for some time, some time away from work, friends, food, DRINKS lay directly ahead, but this day was not going easily, things did not seem to happen as he planned them anymore, he knew he was somehow to blame for these miscalculations and oversights, but he did not feel capable of making the proper adjustments that would bring reality and fantasy into sharp focus upon each other.
Things were chaotic in the shop for the preceding 48 hours or more. There was a big job which had to be finished in order to be able to leave, both by obligation, and by financial necessity. The 10-hour job had taken much longer, there were hitches, and as always things were being done at the last minute (for everyone, by way of his choices) and so things were becoming tight. Tense.
He drove to her apartment and picked Her up, got Her and Her bag into the car. He was impressed by Her thoughtfulness, She had brought a gift, which may be obvious for some people, but the majority of the population are not so thoughtful. They kissed. They drove back to the shop so he could now, at the last minute, pack his bag and pick up his check and try to remember whatever it was he was supposed to bring or leave or whom to call, or return some emails. They were beginning to run late. They had a five-hour drive ahead of them and they wanted to get there as soon as possible, he wanted to make a claim on his favorite room in the house, they were going to drink and spend the night together, this was the first time. Possibilities lay fresh and undiscovered in front of them, wrapped in laughs and the sound of the ocean breaking not-far-away through the open sliding glass door of the room in which they were going to sleep. This was going to be fun. This was what adults did together and he was excited to spend this time with Her.
Once at the shop, his Helper was there, dropping off the customer whose car had just been completed at the last minute. The Helper and She exchanged a tense 'Hello' while he dealt with the customer, got paid, apologized again for the work taking as long as it did. He was paid. As soon as the customer was out of sight, he sent the Helper to cash this check he just received, this money earmarked for this weekend now in his grip at the last possible moment. Why do I live like this? He wondered. The Helper gone, She asked for the fourth time that day when he would fire his Helper. It was a funny joke and he got it and even appreciated it, but he wondered still: Was she serious? He knew he would fire his Helper if She really wanted him to, but he was confused if She was serious or not about this. He was actually confused a good deal of the time about things she told him, if She were being serious or not. This was a big reason he was drawn to Her, he realized, he could not tell if she was sincere or not, and in this manner She became unpredictable to him. Most people were boring and followed a script, or so it seemed to him, and She did not. She had caused him some agony already earlier in the year, but he seemed to be drawn to it even though, if asked, he would deny that he wanted more agony in his life, but he pursued Her and eventually they were 'together' or entangled in some charade of it.
He entertained the joke and the idea, then the Helper returned with the money and he took her into the front office and paid her, discussed the coming week with her, thought about how he would miss her, gave her the number where he would be should she need him for anything. The Helper provided another element of painful confusion in his life, but for completely different reasons than She did. At any rate, she was dismissed for the weekend and he got his stuff together, after a few quick errands She and he were headed down the freeway and toward whatever promise lay ahead in the following days.
The drive was was just as fun as he had imagined, the hours passed by as quickly as possible, there were no uncomfortable silences or arguments and often his hand rested on her leg beside him and he felt calm, which was unusual most of the time. Soon, they were turning off of the freeway and heading due West. In another hour they could smell the salt in the air, see the rust eating away at the cars sunken in the front yards of the houses here along the river, the bay, the coast. Giant green trees provided shade usually, and every now and then the road would open up and the sunlight would warm them as sand dunes could be seen off to the left. A few more turns and they were pulling through a gate and up a driveway and shutting the car off in front of the big gray house.
In the relative silence of the sudden vanished carnoise, he looked over at Her, the soundtrack of crashing surf thrumming powerfully in the background, and leaned over and kissed Her. As natural as could be. They disembarked. They collected their shit. They entered the house.
Things were chaotic in the shop for the preceding 48 hours or more. There was a big job which had to be finished in order to be able to leave, both by obligation, and by financial necessity. The 10-hour job had taken much longer, there were hitches, and as always things were being done at the last minute (for everyone, by way of his choices) and so things were becoming tight. Tense.
He drove to her apartment and picked Her up, got Her and Her bag into the car. He was impressed by Her thoughtfulness, She had brought a gift, which may be obvious for some people, but the majority of the population are not so thoughtful. They kissed. They drove back to the shop so he could now, at the last minute, pack his bag and pick up his check and try to remember whatever it was he was supposed to bring or leave or whom to call, or return some emails. They were beginning to run late. They had a five-hour drive ahead of them and they wanted to get there as soon as possible, he wanted to make a claim on his favorite room in the house, they were going to drink and spend the night together, this was the first time. Possibilities lay fresh and undiscovered in front of them, wrapped in laughs and the sound of the ocean breaking not-far-away through the open sliding glass door of the room in which they were going to sleep. This was going to be fun. This was what adults did together and he was excited to spend this time with Her.
Once at the shop, his Helper was there, dropping off the customer whose car had just been completed at the last minute. The Helper and She exchanged a tense 'Hello' while he dealt with the customer, got paid, apologized again for the work taking as long as it did. He was paid. As soon as the customer was out of sight, he sent the Helper to cash this check he just received, this money earmarked for this weekend now in his grip at the last possible moment. Why do I live like this? He wondered. The Helper gone, She asked for the fourth time that day when he would fire his Helper. It was a funny joke and he got it and even appreciated it, but he wondered still: Was she serious? He knew he would fire his Helper if She really wanted him to, but he was confused if She was serious or not about this. He was actually confused a good deal of the time about things she told him, if She were being serious or not. This was a big reason he was drawn to Her, he realized, he could not tell if she was sincere or not, and in this manner She became unpredictable to him. Most people were boring and followed a script, or so it seemed to him, and She did not. She had caused him some agony already earlier in the year, but he seemed to be drawn to it even though, if asked, he would deny that he wanted more agony in his life, but he pursued Her and eventually they were 'together' or entangled in some charade of it.
He entertained the joke and the idea, then the Helper returned with the money and he took her into the front office and paid her, discussed the coming week with her, thought about how he would miss her, gave her the number where he would be should she need him for anything. The Helper provided another element of painful confusion in his life, but for completely different reasons than She did. At any rate, she was dismissed for the weekend and he got his stuff together, after a few quick errands She and he were headed down the freeway and toward whatever promise lay ahead in the following days.
The drive was was just as fun as he had imagined, the hours passed by as quickly as possible, there were no uncomfortable silences or arguments and often his hand rested on her leg beside him and he felt calm, which was unusual most of the time. Soon, they were turning off of the freeway and heading due West. In another hour they could smell the salt in the air, see the rust eating away at the cars sunken in the front yards of the houses here along the river, the bay, the coast. Giant green trees provided shade usually, and every now and then the road would open up and the sunlight would warm them as sand dunes could be seen off to the left. A few more turns and they were pulling through a gate and up a driveway and shutting the car off in front of the big gray house.
In the relative silence of the sudden vanished carnoise, he looked over at Her, the soundtrack of crashing surf thrumming powerfully in the background, and leaned over and kissed Her. As natural as could be. They disembarked. They collected their shit. They entered the house.
Nice Little Tuesday
Karl pulled up behind his brother’s car and for a moment considered mashing the accelerator, ramming the other car and then making a getaway, disappearing off into the night. Kyle was never on time to these things and so it upset Karl that he was the latecomer this evening. He figured Kyle must have got here early to ask for money and didn’t want him to know about it, didn’t want him to say anything. Well, Kyle was in for a big surprise if he thought he wouldn’t find out or say anything. He had not even stepped out of his car yet, and Karl was already in a bad mood and ready to get in an argument. That’s what working all day will do to you. He opened his door, got out and stretched, spat on the ground, closed his door and stepped up the path double-time toward the front door of the house. He then remembered the bottle of champagne and flowers in his car and had to turn back around for them. He wondered if his brother brought her anything at all? He hoped he didn’t, as this would underscore his thoughtful gesture all the more. He was starting to get a headache. He stopped walking for a moment and bent over, hands on his knees, taking slow, deep breaths.
Inside the house Kyle heard a car engine and then the sound of a door slamming outside. He assumed it would be his brother Karl arriving and he felt a twinge of excitement to see him, they had not hung out in a few months, not since Christmas, actually. He hoped Karl wouldn’t be in a bad mood tonight. When Karl was in a bad mood, he could really be mean and make Kyle uneasy. It was weird. It had always been this way, at least ever since they started going to school. He didn’t know why Karl was so serious all the time, but he wished the guy would just take a Xanax or a rip off the bong with him and look at the bright side sometimes.
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“It’s so nice to have my boys with me here! Thank you both for coming. I couldn’t ask for more. I know you’re both very busy and have better things to do than drive – “ she said, brightly lit on her side of the table.
“It’s no trouble, mom!” said Kyle
Karl was silent for a moment, glaring at Kyle before he said “No problem. What else would I rather be doing with my free time than seeing my family?”
Kyle shot a glance at Karl, wondering if he was being sarcastic. Karl got up and walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Is there a beer or something in here?” he shouted back. Kyle shot a glance at his mother to see how she would react. Was there beer?
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“That looks great, Mom! I’ve been thinking about your meatloaf all week!” said Kyle while eyeballing the sad and blackened log. Karl stared at him silently for a moment before adding “Yeah. It looks great.” After another moment he asked his mother “Have you had your hearing checked lately? I heard they give free tests at Costco.”
“Hearing? No. Why?” She answered while sawing a fat portion of the loaf with a dull knife before placing it on the plate in front of Kyle.
“ I just figured the oven buzzer must have been making a lot of noise for a while, maybe the fire alarm too. Have you checked the batteries lately? Would you like me to do it?”
“The buzzer? What buzzer?” said his mother while carving off another piece with some effort. He could see the thing was raw and pink in the middle. His mother knew only one setting on the stove or oven, and this was HIGH, five hundred degrees or more, and everything seemed to emerge burned in appearance, but uncooked within. He had tried to think of some analogy to their life with this culinary constant, but could not. “Would you like one piece or two, Hon?” she continued, dropping a double-slice on the plate in front of him.
Inside the house Kyle heard a car engine and then the sound of a door slamming outside. He assumed it would be his brother Karl arriving and he felt a twinge of excitement to see him, they had not hung out in a few months, not since Christmas, actually. He hoped Karl wouldn’t be in a bad mood tonight. When Karl was in a bad mood, he could really be mean and make Kyle uneasy. It was weird. It had always been this way, at least ever since they started going to school. He didn’t know why Karl was so serious all the time, but he wished the guy would just take a Xanax or a rip off the bong with him and look at the bright side sometimes.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
“It’s so nice to have my boys with me here! Thank you both for coming. I couldn’t ask for more. I know you’re both very busy and have better things to do than drive – “ she said, brightly lit on her side of the table.
“It’s no trouble, mom!” said Kyle
Karl was silent for a moment, glaring at Kyle before he said “No problem. What else would I rather be doing with my free time than seeing my family?”
Kyle shot a glance at Karl, wondering if he was being sarcastic. Karl got up and walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. “Is there a beer or something in here?” he shouted back. Kyle shot a glance at his mother to see how she would react. Was there beer?
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
“That looks great, Mom! I’ve been thinking about your meatloaf all week!” said Kyle while eyeballing the sad and blackened log. Karl stared at him silently for a moment before adding “Yeah. It looks great.” After another moment he asked his mother “Have you had your hearing checked lately? I heard they give free tests at Costco.”
“Hearing? No. Why?” She answered while sawing a fat portion of the loaf with a dull knife before placing it on the plate in front of Kyle.
“ I just figured the oven buzzer must have been making a lot of noise for a while, maybe the fire alarm too. Have you checked the batteries lately? Would you like me to do it?”
“The buzzer? What buzzer?” said his mother while carving off another piece with some effort. He could see the thing was raw and pink in the middle. His mother knew only one setting on the stove or oven, and this was HIGH, five hundred degrees or more, and everything seemed to emerge burned in appearance, but uncooked within. He had tried to think of some analogy to their life with this culinary constant, but could not. “Would you like one piece or two, Hon?” she continued, dropping a double-slice on the plate in front of him.
Is the future rushing towards me, or I toward it?
I push the gear lever up into third and as I let the clutch pedal slap back up, I stab at the accelerator with my other foot. The car obeys, squats down, and I am pushed back into my seat.
I sight down between the front fenders of the Porsche, which stick out and forward like horns from a steer, I draw a bead down between them at the yellow dotted line and watch the car eat them all up. I look up slightly at the quickly-approaching corner and remind myself to shift down in time before I firmly steer the car to the left and then back to the right, the ass of the thing sliding in a comforting and controlled manner, I look back up between the protruding fenders and am reminded
of A Time long ago when we used to have horses, I remember riding a horse and when it would run I would hunker down and sight the trail between her ears, and this is the same thing now. How long ago was that? Thirty years? How could that time go by so fast? The next thirty will go by even faster and it frightens me. If I even have thirty years left. One of us will not, one of the three of us has to go young, or relatively young. These are the odds. One in three? If there were any fairness in the world, it would be me to go early, to make that sacrifice so the other two can stay with their children and homes. I think this, and I realize as I type it that there is little in the way of fairness in the world, so I will probably outlive you all. But what if I do not?
This is something else I have considered quite often in the last few years, what if I were to go soon? Crushed, diseased, accidented, tired? I could easily fumble about here in the cold with my machines and scribblings right up to the very end, every day thinking that in a month or two everything will be different somehow, and waiting and scraping by and months become years and nothing is different except your children are older and so I know I must be as well. I Think about the times I actually took a deep breath and did something about it, those two times, two?
Three? Two? I had garage sales and finished what I absolutely had to, and tried to pay off the other obligations I may have had, and I sold everything and fit what was left into the one car I kept and I drove away and started new, and it WAS good. Great. Maybe the best times in my adult life. I can do that again. I can still hike and walk and sleep outside or sleep in my car, and if I write while I do it all and think of stories, it would all be worth it still. I know what does NOT make me happy, and this is looming obligation and debt and big bills to pay every month and being cold and wet.
If I were to just tell certain people: "Sorry. I am sorry. I can not do it. Life must go on." and gave their things back to them? They would maybe be angry for a short time, they have been now probably for a long time, what else is new, what else is different? I give those things back, I sell the rest, this is Spiritual Bankruptcy, I keep what fits in my car, or a truck, and I head out finally, finally finally finally on the adventure I have been craving for the last ten years. I can make money anytime I want in a matter of days. I just need to RESIST buying broken cars, getting paid for work before it is done, or living for some tomorrow I have constructed in my mind and instead live in the right now that makes that tomorrow possible.
In short, I sell everything, finish what I can or must, or what is LIFE THREATENING, give the rest back, save as much money as possible as quickly as possible, and then go out and do what will make me happy, what will actually make those few people close to me happy, do something that they can admire, do something extraordinary and positive and have happy reports to send home. Warm. Tan. As unburdened as I can ever be. It would all start right now, right this very instant, I would go out there and pick up tools and parts and get busy.
And you know what? I will.
I can still do it, and it will not matter that I have to do it alone. I am used to it, and am strong enough, and I am the one that makes it happen. Those who had a seat saved for them will find out that they do not any longer, and those who were afraid or confused would not have been able to dabble in this type of affair anyway. Their chit is lifted and placed in a different column. It is just as easy as lifting the needle on a record player and placing it in a different place. Something new is experienced, but it is still in the same format.
I sight down between the front fenders of the Porsche, which stick out and forward like horns from a steer, I draw a bead down between them at the yellow dotted line and watch the car eat them all up. I look up slightly at the quickly-approaching corner and remind myself to shift down in time before I firmly steer the car to the left and then back to the right, the ass of the thing sliding in a comforting and controlled manner, I look back up between the protruding fenders and am reminded
of A Time long ago when we used to have horses, I remember riding a horse and when it would run I would hunker down and sight the trail between her ears, and this is the same thing now. How long ago was that? Thirty years? How could that time go by so fast? The next thirty will go by even faster and it frightens me. If I even have thirty years left. One of us will not, one of the three of us has to go young, or relatively young. These are the odds. One in three? If there were any fairness in the world, it would be me to go early, to make that sacrifice so the other two can stay with their children and homes. I think this, and I realize as I type it that there is little in the way of fairness in the world, so I will probably outlive you all. But what if I do not?
This is something else I have considered quite often in the last few years, what if I were to go soon? Crushed, diseased, accidented, tired? I could easily fumble about here in the cold with my machines and scribblings right up to the very end, every day thinking that in a month or two everything will be different somehow, and waiting and scraping by and months become years and nothing is different except your children are older and so I know I must be as well. I Think about the times I actually took a deep breath and did something about it, those two times, two?
Three? Two? I had garage sales and finished what I absolutely had to, and tried to pay off the other obligations I may have had, and I sold everything and fit what was left into the one car I kept and I drove away and started new, and it WAS good. Great. Maybe the best times in my adult life. I can do that again. I can still hike and walk and sleep outside or sleep in my car, and if I write while I do it all and think of stories, it would all be worth it still. I know what does NOT make me happy, and this is looming obligation and debt and big bills to pay every month and being cold and wet.
If I were to just tell certain people: "Sorry. I am sorry. I can not do it. Life must go on." and gave their things back to them? They would maybe be angry for a short time, they have been now probably for a long time, what else is new, what else is different? I give those things back, I sell the rest, this is Spiritual Bankruptcy, I keep what fits in my car, or a truck, and I head out finally, finally finally finally on the adventure I have been craving for the last ten years. I can make money anytime I want in a matter of days. I just need to RESIST buying broken cars, getting paid for work before it is done, or living for some tomorrow I have constructed in my mind and instead live in the right now that makes that tomorrow possible.
In short, I sell everything, finish what I can or must, or what is LIFE THREATENING, give the rest back, save as much money as possible as quickly as possible, and then go out and do what will make me happy, what will actually make those few people close to me happy, do something that they can admire, do something extraordinary and positive and have happy reports to send home. Warm. Tan. As unburdened as I can ever be. It would all start right now, right this very instant, I would go out there and pick up tools and parts and get busy.
And you know what? I will.
I can still do it, and it will not matter that I have to do it alone. I am used to it, and am strong enough, and I am the one that makes it happen. Those who had a seat saved for them will find out that they do not any longer, and those who were afraid or confused would not have been able to dabble in this type of affair anyway. Their chit is lifted and placed in a different column. It is just as easy as lifting the needle on a record player and placing it in a different place. Something new is experienced, but it is still in the same format.
Paradaigm shift
You see the chariot pulled by sharp-relieved black equine forms, two of them, their necks held high and arched, one half out of phase from the other so as one head is pushed forward the others' is pulling back, great hinged levers like machines of flesh instead of steel. They have descended from the horizon beyond described in parallax style and are nearing the end of their journey, but they shall never arrive there, they will be stuck here forever in mid-stride pulling their cart in which you have imagined yourself laid out in back, being taken someplace you have seen only in your sleep.
A faceless sun beats down from the sky, the rays of which fall straight and without mercy onto the scene below, the sun is round and suggests motion, although it is also fixed in position near the top of this world, and just below the lid which has been sealed and is no longer meant to be a doorway, the one person who passed through it it's only fare, and meant to carry no one else ever again, just like the horses and chariot painted on it's porcelain hip.
A faceless sun beats down from the sky, the rays of which fall straight and without mercy onto the scene below, the sun is round and suggests motion, although it is also fixed in position near the top of this world, and just below the lid which has been sealed and is no longer meant to be a doorway, the one person who passed through it it's only fare, and meant to carry no one else ever again, just like the horses and chariot painted on it's porcelain hip.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Scratching
I stood there, staring at the tiny pink piece of paper in my hand. I had to remember to breathe. I looked up at the computer screen again, and then back down at the piece of paper I held in between my thumb and forefinger, hanging limp and sad like a parking ticket, like a summons to court, but it was the opposite of those things, this was a GOOD THING apparently, this thing was telling me I had just won $11,000,000.
I checked one more time: 3, 11, 18, 22, 26, 47. Three. Eleven. Eighteen. Twenty-two. Twenty-six. Forty-seven. Fuck.
I looked over my shoulder both ways to make sure I was not being watched, even though I knew I was alone. I flattened the ticket out, trying to smooth the creases out of it, it had been folded up in my wallet for a few weeks now, and I tried to make it look as clean and new as possible. I found a Zip-Loc bag and sealed it up inside. I hid it under my pillow. I thought a moment and then I rose, put on my slippers and hid it under a cushion in the couch downstairs. I started to walk away and then turned around and retrieved the thing again, brought it back upstairs with me, I put it inside the middle of a car repair manual I had been studying, and then I slid this book under my bed.
I tried to sleep. I had to make it until the morning, I could not be robbed of my book, my ticket! I thought about what would change. I would have to tell her. What would I tell her? Would I want to share? Would I? Where was she NOW if I was supposed to be the Sharing Type? Where was she? Where? Was she here for me when I needed her, last month? What had she been doing? Did she tell me the truth? Ehn, Noe. I knew this could fix everything between us, money was the issue, this was a silver bullet, but I got tense. I tensed up. I had a problem about feeling like I was being used, I had imagined I had been used by women since I had been five years old in Kindergarten. I HAD been used. Those little tramps KNEW I would bring bubble gum in for them if they pretended like they liked me. How did they learn that? Who could be trusted?
My best friend forever, Jason, could be trusted, IRONICALLY, since he was the biggest liar I knew. Seriously. This guy lied about everything, to me , to his ex wife, to his boss, didn't matter. Wasn't mean though, just a knee-jerk reaction. A Natural Liar. It was sport to him, and I understood it. He could not lie his way into my money though, I knew that much, I would give him his fair share regardless of what he said to me. Not a penny more or less. I doubted he would care much about my money anyway, really, so long as he got a couple grand, enough to buy an old broken car, pay a few bills, buy a couple dozen cartons of smokes and a new electric smokeless cigarette with all the bells and whistles. Four grand. Seven, tops. I would give him half a million though, FUCK HIM. I may try to make him jump through a hoop or two however, I am a dick like that sometimes. He probably wouldn't do it though. He has a certain degree of pride. It is surprising when it surfaces.
I checked one more time: 3, 11, 18, 22, 26, 47. Three. Eleven. Eighteen. Twenty-two. Twenty-six. Forty-seven. Fuck.
I looked over my shoulder both ways to make sure I was not being watched, even though I knew I was alone. I flattened the ticket out, trying to smooth the creases out of it, it had been folded up in my wallet for a few weeks now, and I tried to make it look as clean and new as possible. I found a Zip-Loc bag and sealed it up inside. I hid it under my pillow. I thought a moment and then I rose, put on my slippers and hid it under a cushion in the couch downstairs. I started to walk away and then turned around and retrieved the thing again, brought it back upstairs with me, I put it inside the middle of a car repair manual I had been studying, and then I slid this book under my bed.
I tried to sleep. I had to make it until the morning, I could not be robbed of my book, my ticket! I thought about what would change. I would have to tell her. What would I tell her? Would I want to share? Would I? Where was she NOW if I was supposed to be the Sharing Type? Where was she? Where? Was she here for me when I needed her, last month? What had she been doing? Did she tell me the truth? Ehn, Noe. I knew this could fix everything between us, money was the issue, this was a silver bullet, but I got tense. I tensed up. I had a problem about feeling like I was being used, I had imagined I had been used by women since I had been five years old in Kindergarten. I HAD been used. Those little tramps KNEW I would bring bubble gum in for them if they pretended like they liked me. How did they learn that? Who could be trusted?
My best friend forever, Jason, could be trusted, IRONICALLY, since he was the biggest liar I knew. Seriously. This guy lied about everything, to me , to his ex wife, to his boss, didn't matter. Wasn't mean though, just a knee-jerk reaction. A Natural Liar. It was sport to him, and I understood it. He could not lie his way into my money though, I knew that much, I would give him his fair share regardless of what he said to me. Not a penny more or less. I doubted he would care much about my money anyway, really, so long as he got a couple grand, enough to buy an old broken car, pay a few bills, buy a couple dozen cartons of smokes and a new electric smokeless cigarette with all the bells and whistles. Four grand. Seven, tops. I would give him half a million though, FUCK HIM. I may try to make him jump through a hoop or two however, I am a dick like that sometimes. He probably wouldn't do it though. He has a certain degree of pride. It is surprising when it surfaces.
High Tide at Powell's
I don’t get out often. I’m always behind with work and stuff, and think that I’ll go out and do things ‘soon’, but I rarely do though. And so, it was a special occasion when she and I were clean and dressed nice, not in work clothes, and I was parking the car downtown amongst the trunks of the buildings, a lot of people still passing on the sidewalk even though it was dark and cold, after 8PM on a Thursday.
The car we were driving was not my car, it belonged to a customer, and I had just finished some major work on it and needed to take it out for a test spin, that was the occasion, or excuse for occasion, it was enough excuse for us though, and we took this opportunity to go to the big bookstore, to get out and browse, to go someplace together.
As is my custom, I got out first and quickly sauntered over to her door to let her out. I’m a gentleman like that, just ask anyone. My mother raised me right. My mother was big on Thoughtfulness. She was also big on Operant Conditioning, but that’s another story for another time. Point is, I hold doors open for people and make my bed every day.
I helped her up out of the tiny red car and locked the door behind her. My heart sped up briefly when her arm touched mine as I looked both ways and then crossed the street. I always felt great going out with her. I felt taller and stronger than I usually would. Mutual eye contact would tickle my stomach and there was often a strong flirty energy around us that was rarely acknowledged. As we got to the other side of the street, I put my hand on her back as she stepped up onto the curb. These sorts of things had been occurring more often lately, and began to feel natural. I felt really good. She squealed.
“Look at THAT!” she shouted, pointing to a large flat object leaning against the side of a dark warehouse. “It’s HUUUGE!”
It sure was. It was a cardboard box, and it WAS huge. We had been looking for one like this for a few days now, we had some bench seats to box up and ship, and a box able to accommodate them had proven to be elusive. As fortune would have it, we found it Here and Now, together. I thought this was a good sign. I think she did too.
“I can’t fucking believe this.” I said. “Look at that fucker! How are we going to get it back to the shop?”
“Can’t we fold it up?”
“I don’t know. It’s pretty big. AND, it’s the good cardboard, not that soft yellow Chinese shit. It may not fold up easily. Car’s pretty small. It DOES have a hatchback though…” I was willing to try. It seemed to make her so happy, too. Jesus. A cardboard box.
We spent the next fifteen minutes in a sort of urban-outside game of twister there on the sidewalk in front of the Auto Body shop, one of us folding the thing over, the other stepping over their arms, pinning corners down with black leather boots while the other one of us took new purchase on the cardboard and tried to fold again. Some folds were so stubborn as to require the effort of us both leaning in unison, pulling along an edge while knees were bent against the large flat surface. It took a while. There were several humorous comments offered from passer-bys. It was not easy. But the truth is, we made that box fit in the back of that Porsche. We were happy.
As I locked the car again and we made our way across the street for the third time, we bumped into each other again and leaned against each other while walking. I could not have been happier.
We discussed the box some more, what great luck it had been to find it. What we could do with it, how much it may have cost at the box store, IF we could even find one that big, we laughed, we walked, we made it to the bookstore.
We entered on the lower level and made our way through the aisles, cooking, food, vegetables and then farming. We were going to go upstairs to the geography/travel section, we were going to buy a map, but she made a noise when she saw a book on display with a bright yellow baby chick on the cover. “Peeps!” she almost yelled.
We examined the book together and she asked me again if we could have chickens. She used that word – WE – and again my heart did something unusual, something exciting. Of course, I assured her. I would, too. I wanted nothing more than to make her happy. I wanted to be involved in the process of making her smile. If it meant building a chicken coop at the shop, or raising goats, FINE. I like animals too. I do, this was not a stretch for me. We kept looking at books in this section, it seemed to be catering to the Urban Farmer, books about flower beds and rooftop gardens, and somehow at the conclusion of the next half hour we were sitting on the floor together, and discussing the possibility of living together. We had sort of joked about it before, but now it sounded real, like something that was definitely going to happen, and soon. I was in a daze. WE sat on the floor beside each other and she leaned into me again as I flipped though pages in the book she picked out, we talked about which projects we could feasibly do, and in what order we would do them. We talked about the future, a future together, a future in which we lived together and maybe more. This was real, and it was happening. Eventually we got up and went upstairs to the map section. We did not just buy the one map we came for, I spent about $60 on four maps, all places we said we wanted to go together. This was the life I would have created for myself, and these were the very first actions pushing it along and into becoming.
I would walk away from her just to turn around and walk back towards her, in order to try to imagine I was seeing her for the first time again, and it was always the same; my stomach fluttered. I felt lucky and happy. She was indeed the most beautiful person – She was. I was happy. I stood near her again to test, and she leaned in. If I touched her she did not pull away. This was becoming.
We paid for our maps as well as a couple of books about raising chickens and building greenhouses and got out of the store, headed back to the car. I knew she was happy too because she suggested we go eat something, she was hungry. WE laughed about this and then discussed options, driving around with our cardboard box blocking out any possibility of seeing out the rear window. That was fine, I was really not paying attention behind me at this time anyway. WE decided on a place to go eat, a cozy place, a nice place, and we stayed there longer than we usually go places together, I know we looked good together, and I could see people admiring us from other tables in the room.
We were both excited about this looming future and our maps and our new box. We were going to get paid the next day for the repair job (which was successful, by the way) and things were looking better than they usually did, even. I did not want to go, but it was getting late, nearing midnight, and we had to work the next day.
I brought her back to her car and walked her to the door of it, held it open for her as she got in, gave her a hug, closed the door and she actually sat there in her seat and looked at me through the closed window for a few seconds before starting the engine. That was unusual. Her gaze does not often linger. She had not proven to be a sentimental person. Before she pulled away, she put her window down and said to me
“That was pretty great, finding that box like that. Don’t you think?” and before I could say anything she put it in gear and drove away, me standing there watching her red taillights disappear as she drove down the hill.
The car we were driving was not my car, it belonged to a customer, and I had just finished some major work on it and needed to take it out for a test spin, that was the occasion, or excuse for occasion, it was enough excuse for us though, and we took this opportunity to go to the big bookstore, to get out and browse, to go someplace together.
As is my custom, I got out first and quickly sauntered over to her door to let her out. I’m a gentleman like that, just ask anyone. My mother raised me right. My mother was big on Thoughtfulness. She was also big on Operant Conditioning, but that’s another story for another time. Point is, I hold doors open for people and make my bed every day.
I helped her up out of the tiny red car and locked the door behind her. My heart sped up briefly when her arm touched mine as I looked both ways and then crossed the street. I always felt great going out with her. I felt taller and stronger than I usually would. Mutual eye contact would tickle my stomach and there was often a strong flirty energy around us that was rarely acknowledged. As we got to the other side of the street, I put my hand on her back as she stepped up onto the curb. These sorts of things had been occurring more often lately, and began to feel natural. I felt really good. She squealed.
“Look at THAT!” she shouted, pointing to a large flat object leaning against the side of a dark warehouse. “It’s HUUUGE!”
It sure was. It was a cardboard box, and it WAS huge. We had been looking for one like this for a few days now, we had some bench seats to box up and ship, and a box able to accommodate them had proven to be elusive. As fortune would have it, we found it Here and Now, together. I thought this was a good sign. I think she did too.
“I can’t fucking believe this.” I said. “Look at that fucker! How are we going to get it back to the shop?”
“Can’t we fold it up?”
“I don’t know. It’s pretty big. AND, it’s the good cardboard, not that soft yellow Chinese shit. It may not fold up easily. Car’s pretty small. It DOES have a hatchback though…” I was willing to try. It seemed to make her so happy, too. Jesus. A cardboard box.
We spent the next fifteen minutes in a sort of urban-outside game of twister there on the sidewalk in front of the Auto Body shop, one of us folding the thing over, the other stepping over their arms, pinning corners down with black leather boots while the other one of us took new purchase on the cardboard and tried to fold again. Some folds were so stubborn as to require the effort of us both leaning in unison, pulling along an edge while knees were bent against the large flat surface. It took a while. There were several humorous comments offered from passer-bys. It was not easy. But the truth is, we made that box fit in the back of that Porsche. We were happy.
As I locked the car again and we made our way across the street for the third time, we bumped into each other again and leaned against each other while walking. I could not have been happier.
We discussed the box some more, what great luck it had been to find it. What we could do with it, how much it may have cost at the box store, IF we could even find one that big, we laughed, we walked, we made it to the bookstore.
We entered on the lower level and made our way through the aisles, cooking, food, vegetables and then farming. We were going to go upstairs to the geography/travel section, we were going to buy a map, but she made a noise when she saw a book on display with a bright yellow baby chick on the cover. “Peeps!” she almost yelled.
We examined the book together and she asked me again if we could have chickens. She used that word – WE – and again my heart did something unusual, something exciting. Of course, I assured her. I would, too. I wanted nothing more than to make her happy. I wanted to be involved in the process of making her smile. If it meant building a chicken coop at the shop, or raising goats, FINE. I like animals too. I do, this was not a stretch for me. We kept looking at books in this section, it seemed to be catering to the Urban Farmer, books about flower beds and rooftop gardens, and somehow at the conclusion of the next half hour we were sitting on the floor together, and discussing the possibility of living together. We had sort of joked about it before, but now it sounded real, like something that was definitely going to happen, and soon. I was in a daze. WE sat on the floor beside each other and she leaned into me again as I flipped though pages in the book she picked out, we talked about which projects we could feasibly do, and in what order we would do them. We talked about the future, a future together, a future in which we lived together and maybe more. This was real, and it was happening. Eventually we got up and went upstairs to the map section. We did not just buy the one map we came for, I spent about $60 on four maps, all places we said we wanted to go together. This was the life I would have created for myself, and these were the very first actions pushing it along and into becoming.
I would walk away from her just to turn around and walk back towards her, in order to try to imagine I was seeing her for the first time again, and it was always the same; my stomach fluttered. I felt lucky and happy. She was indeed the most beautiful person – She was. I was happy. I stood near her again to test, and she leaned in. If I touched her she did not pull away. This was becoming.
We paid for our maps as well as a couple of books about raising chickens and building greenhouses and got out of the store, headed back to the car. I knew she was happy too because she suggested we go eat something, she was hungry. WE laughed about this and then discussed options, driving around with our cardboard box blocking out any possibility of seeing out the rear window. That was fine, I was really not paying attention behind me at this time anyway. WE decided on a place to go eat, a cozy place, a nice place, and we stayed there longer than we usually go places together, I know we looked good together, and I could see people admiring us from other tables in the room.
We were both excited about this looming future and our maps and our new box. We were going to get paid the next day for the repair job (which was successful, by the way) and things were looking better than they usually did, even. I did not want to go, but it was getting late, nearing midnight, and we had to work the next day.
I brought her back to her car and walked her to the door of it, held it open for her as she got in, gave her a hug, closed the door and she actually sat there in her seat and looked at me through the closed window for a few seconds before starting the engine. That was unusual. Her gaze does not often linger. She had not proven to be a sentimental person. Before she pulled away, she put her window down and said to me
“That was pretty great, finding that box like that. Don’t you think?” and before I could say anything she put it in gear and drove away, me standing there watching her red taillights disappear as she drove down the hill.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
We All Feel The Same
The racists, the Jihadists, the Hipsters, your parents, your children, your brothers and sisters even though you may argue with them or disagree, we all feel like we are right, EVERYONE of us feel we are reasonable people. EVERYONE of us feel like we are right. Opposing, conflicting ideas? Borne from the same perspective, that they are righteous and reasonable. You do. I do. I think we would argue though, put in a space for even a short time, being ourselves, the abortionists, the antis, Republicans and Democrats, Jews and Arabs - They all feel right. DO YOU HEAR ME AT ALL?? There is no 'Right'. Not even within perspective, not even when adjusted for environment, all there is is Powers That Be and Law and Popular Opinion, and Popular Opinion is no real barometer, think NAZIs, or they were right, they are still, who are you to say they are not? Your mind and beliefs grew out of your own certain circumstances, and you can not blame anyone else for developing within different ones.
This is important. You should be paying attention.
This is important. You should be paying attention.
Love the Way You Lie (1:52 AM)
iReturn. iAmBack.
I pull in and shut the engine off. The stereo still plays and I let the song finish before turning the key all the way to the left, killing all circuits. I sit there for a minute and listen to the tick-tick-ticking of the exhaust cooling off. I brace myself. I pull the door release, open the door, and pull myself up and out.
I stand upright beside the car and stretch out as tall as I can be and make my back pop. I look around inside here, I consider myself lucky for the fiftieth time in the last year and the first time in the last five months. I have to remember, I am in control of all of this, and despite whatever elements are missing in my life, there are quite a few that I would want, quite a few that are unique and desirable, and they are not here by accident, I made them happen, I made them real. There are things you do not know about now, or never knew about, or never had the time to know about. Do you even know which 'you' You are? Do you know, does the Real You know? Is there a connection through all of this? There is. Whether or not You believe it or ever recognized it. There is something, until one of us is gone.
I see you for the first time again: It was me who walked in and not you. You slid over to my side of the table early on. You touched my arm often, and it felt right, I mean, it felt RIGHT for the last time that I can remember, I often try to make these things feel right even when they do not, I want it so badly, I need an audience like She said I do, I want a close captive audience, I want to feel important and needed and I felt like we belonged together, and I was not nervous to tell you so, and I believed you when you told me the same. You were beautiful and I loved to stare in your eyes even if it was just an act for you, and we left and sat out in my car and made out for a few hours before heading to your house to make out more until the sun came up and I had to drive home, I had to open up and work having slept not the night before, and I was SO EXCITED! I think that was the last time, I think you were the last one. I also think with the expiration of this particular fantasy died my ability to believe any of it was possible anymore, now I do not trust myself or anyone else enough, I have become stale and stuck and broken.
But I have other virtues! I do! I have become softer, and I do not just mean I got fat. I am easier, I am capable of not arguing, I just get too comfortable and think I am being funny.
I am tired now, it is like those other times I type when I should not.
Her: Not even important. I was confused. You did not figure into those days. A Blip, a sneeze, a tiny flying insect. With the wave of a hand the past swallows her whole. Like pushing a button. FF, RW ? I want to push REC. I'll say it to you again; I want to push REC. I would push many buttons to make the present crystallize as it has been visioned. I would shout out get ready! I would say to you say cheese, I would say to you here we go! There are tools, and they are real. The door squeezes shut in the jamb, but there is still enough room left, there has to be, there is no other option.
I pull in and shut the engine off. The stereo still plays and I let the song finish before turning the key all the way to the left, killing all circuits. I sit there for a minute and listen to the tick-tick-ticking of the exhaust cooling off. I brace myself. I pull the door release, open the door, and pull myself up and out.
I stand upright beside the car and stretch out as tall as I can be and make my back pop. I look around inside here, I consider myself lucky for the fiftieth time in the last year and the first time in the last five months. I have to remember, I am in control of all of this, and despite whatever elements are missing in my life, there are quite a few that I would want, quite a few that are unique and desirable, and they are not here by accident, I made them happen, I made them real. There are things you do not know about now, or never knew about, or never had the time to know about. Do you even know which 'you' You are? Do you know, does the Real You know? Is there a connection through all of this? There is. Whether or not You believe it or ever recognized it. There is something, until one of us is gone.
I see you for the first time again: It was me who walked in and not you. You slid over to my side of the table early on. You touched my arm often, and it felt right, I mean, it felt RIGHT for the last time that I can remember, I often try to make these things feel right even when they do not, I want it so badly, I need an audience like She said I do, I want a close captive audience, I want to feel important and needed and I felt like we belonged together, and I was not nervous to tell you so, and I believed you when you told me the same. You were beautiful and I loved to stare in your eyes even if it was just an act for you, and we left and sat out in my car and made out for a few hours before heading to your house to make out more until the sun came up and I had to drive home, I had to open up and work having slept not the night before, and I was SO EXCITED! I think that was the last time, I think you were the last one. I also think with the expiration of this particular fantasy died my ability to believe any of it was possible anymore, now I do not trust myself or anyone else enough, I have become stale and stuck and broken.
But I have other virtues! I do! I have become softer, and I do not just mean I got fat. I am easier, I am capable of not arguing, I just get too comfortable and think I am being funny.
I am tired now, it is like those other times I type when I should not.
Her: Not even important. I was confused. You did not figure into those days. A Blip, a sneeze, a tiny flying insect. With the wave of a hand the past swallows her whole. Like pushing a button. FF, RW ? I want to push REC. I'll say it to you again; I want to push REC. I would push many buttons to make the present crystallize as it has been visioned. I would shout out get ready! I would say to you say cheese, I would say to you here we go! There are tools, and they are real. The door squeezes shut in the jamb, but there is still enough room left, there has to be, there is no other option.
Friday, April 8, 2011
Everybody leaves something in the cup
Come on in! I say. I say, Come on in! Go on over there by the heater if'n ye will, that's why it's on. That's why I have to pay the power company their blood money every month. Go ahead, no, don't worry, go on over there and rub your hands together in front of it. That's why it's there! I got these mittens here, and I am not the one to worry about, it is my duty to see to it you are seen to, you know? Get yerself on over there now! Git!
So, now that you're here, I may as well tell you: You're on a fool's errand. Ye are! Don't git up, it's not like that, and I won't let ye leave anyway, not yet nohow, you need to hear this, it's for yer own good. I'm yer brother fer Chrissakes! I DO know! Don't git up, I'll make ye git back down in that chair, and ye know I will. There. Git warm, go ahead, rub them hands together up there. Right there, yes. Ye don't have to say nothin. Just listen. Ye listenin? GOOD.
So, you know what they're like, right? I don't wanna tell mama. You know this things ain't right. Right? It ain't even my fault, I am just tryin to tell ye the facts as they stand today: It ain't right.
I told you NOT TO SAY NOTHIN'! Set back down! Git yer hands warm! .. Jest do it. I hadda work real hard to get you where you is now, so you owe me this much. Mama don't know, NO, you can thank the Sweet Lord for that much. She don't know YET, but she will. I can make sure she will. Right. Well, THAT'S why yer here ain't it? I know it is. You don't stop by here if you don't hafta'. You got your reasons, just like I got mine. Just set. Money ain't free. You got some more listenin' to do. You haint even started to listen like you got to yet. You got a lot more to do. A lot more.
You were stubborn when you were young, too. I suppose it ain't a surprise you stubborn now. Difference is, you didn't have things to pay for like you do now, or if you did you didn't know about them. Mama ain't gonna write no more checks for you the way it is, and you knows it. So you gotta sit down and listen, or do a good job of pretending to. You best do it. I could just drop the whole thing, you know. You say that, but you don't want me to, really. You'd be left high and dry, Boy. Dangling out there in the breeze. Thirsty, I don't even know how much. Don't care, neither, you got some esplainin to do. Apologizin. Don't say that, just tell her what she wants to hear, and don't say that other stuff no more. I don' wanna hear it, and I can't think of anyone else that would care to either. It's all a bunch of nonsense, worthless to the ears, junk. Keep it in your mouth, in your head. Save it for later. A nickel ain't even worth five cents no more, Boy. You can git on up when you're told to. Wha? Yeh, I can do that. I got bologna.
So, now that you're here, I may as well tell you: You're on a fool's errand. Ye are! Don't git up, it's not like that, and I won't let ye leave anyway, not yet nohow, you need to hear this, it's for yer own good. I'm yer brother fer Chrissakes! I DO know! Don't git up, I'll make ye git back down in that chair, and ye know I will. There. Git warm, go ahead, rub them hands together up there. Right there, yes. Ye don't have to say nothin. Just listen. Ye listenin? GOOD.
So, you know what they're like, right? I don't wanna tell mama. You know this things ain't right. Right? It ain't even my fault, I am just tryin to tell ye the facts as they stand today: It ain't right.
I told you NOT TO SAY NOTHIN'! Set back down! Git yer hands warm! .. Jest do it. I hadda work real hard to get you where you is now, so you owe me this much. Mama don't know, NO, you can thank the Sweet Lord for that much. She don't know YET, but she will. I can make sure she will. Right. Well, THAT'S why yer here ain't it? I know it is. You don't stop by here if you don't hafta'. You got your reasons, just like I got mine. Just set. Money ain't free. You got some more listenin' to do. You haint even started to listen like you got to yet. You got a lot more to do. A lot more.
You were stubborn when you were young, too. I suppose it ain't a surprise you stubborn now. Difference is, you didn't have things to pay for like you do now, or if you did you didn't know about them. Mama ain't gonna write no more checks for you the way it is, and you knows it. So you gotta sit down and listen, or do a good job of pretending to. You best do it. I could just drop the whole thing, you know. You say that, but you don't want me to, really. You'd be left high and dry, Boy. Dangling out there in the breeze. Thirsty, I don't even know how much. Don't care, neither, you got some esplainin to do. Apologizin. Don't say that, just tell her what she wants to hear, and don't say that other stuff no more. I don' wanna hear it, and I can't think of anyone else that would care to either. It's all a bunch of nonsense, worthless to the ears, junk. Keep it in your mouth, in your head. Save it for later. A nickel ain't even worth five cents no more, Boy. You can git on up when you're told to. Wha? Yeh, I can do that. I got bologna.
You may find yourself here
The shadows were shrinking, getting shorter beside the path they were walking as the sun rose higher in the sky. It was early Summer, but you could already tell it was going to be a hot day. They walked in silence, stepping over and on the railroad ties, being careful not to step in between them into a gap and trip or stumble. The sound of the birds singing was loud and happy and without pause, in great contrast to the sound of the crunching of their shoes on the gravel track bed.
They were making steady progress down a long straight away, over a mile away they could see the buildings shimmying in tiny wavy relief, the heat rising up from the ground screwing with the air, the wavelengths of light becoming uncertain before striking their retinas. After some time, two crooked forms could be recognized walking out of that liquid horizon and towards them.
'Remember,' said the man to the woman walking in front of him. She said nothing and stepped over the rail onto the left side of the tracks while the man continued walking on the right side. Ten feet apart from each other they kept walking at the same pace, each mind wishing it was someplace else. 'we're going to be okay. This is the puzzle you have been given to solve. I have mine too. It is not going to be difficult, it just IS. Remember.' He did not look up to see if she heard him or acknowledged these words. He was watching his feet strike the rocks, the railroad ties, the rocks again. The tarry smell of creosote was all around them, and after he spoke the birds seemed even louder than before.
After a few minutes the people coming closer to them began to get larger and come into focus, to become firmly stitched into the background, they too were a man and a woman, and running around their feet and legs was a dog as well, black and busy sniffing the ground darting left, right, ahead, dropping back to wait for the people, hinged black legs swinging quickly like two pairs of scissors beneath it, cutting tiny pieces out of the air, somehow keeping it's body afloat and off of the earth itself.
As the new pair of people came closer and details could be detected about their appearance, the man reminded this woman again 'We probably look the same to them as they do to us.'
This much younger woman now spoke for the first time in an hour, 'But we don't have a dog.'
'Fair enough. Just try to remember that this puzzle will be more easily solved for you the less factors are included. You do not want this to become their puzzle as well, but it can easily be, and I will not feel any different one way or another. This is Your Way.'
They could now hear voices coming from the approaching pair, who were running in athletic clothes, yelling at the dog who was now sprinting ahead of them, headed for the walking pair.
'Miles, NO!' Shouted the jogging woman. 'NO, Miles!' Shouted the paired man in running shoes.
Miles ran straight ahead as before, unfazed, claws kicking dust up into the air as he bore down into new lives. As Miles got close he slowed down a bit and could not decide which person to approach first. His people were still yelling at him, but far away still. 'SORRY! MILES! NO!' The joggers yelled.
It is said that animals have fine senses of intuition, of right and wrong, and if that is true then Miles indeed fit that description for he bore to his right and pushed his moist nose into the hands and crotch of the walking woman, then walked beside her for a moment before approaching the man, stopping short, and returning to her. By this time Mile's people were close enough to speak, to apologize, to call Miles back to them. Their jogging slowed, their faces trying to examine those of the walking people who would only look at the ground in front of them, not make eye contact, the walking man saying 'No problem here. Have a good day,' without looking up. They walked ahead as before, in sync left and right without pausing, silent again and without looking behind them.
'Asshole dog haters' said the Jogger-Man silently to their retreating backs, and Miles stood still and ears alert watched them go, sensing something was not entirely right there. 'Miles!' called the man again, as he began to run once more 'Let's GO!' And clapping his hands together he summoned the dog into action again, like the bells on a slot machine precluding a flood of coins. Miles ran on ahead of the Joggers again, the other strange people already forgotten.
They were making steady progress down a long straight away, over a mile away they could see the buildings shimmying in tiny wavy relief, the heat rising up from the ground screwing with the air, the wavelengths of light becoming uncertain before striking their retinas. After some time, two crooked forms could be recognized walking out of that liquid horizon and towards them.
'Remember,' said the man to the woman walking in front of him. She said nothing and stepped over the rail onto the left side of the tracks while the man continued walking on the right side. Ten feet apart from each other they kept walking at the same pace, each mind wishing it was someplace else. 'we're going to be okay. This is the puzzle you have been given to solve. I have mine too. It is not going to be difficult, it just IS. Remember.' He did not look up to see if she heard him or acknowledged these words. He was watching his feet strike the rocks, the railroad ties, the rocks again. The tarry smell of creosote was all around them, and after he spoke the birds seemed even louder than before.
After a few minutes the people coming closer to them began to get larger and come into focus, to become firmly stitched into the background, they too were a man and a woman, and running around their feet and legs was a dog as well, black and busy sniffing the ground darting left, right, ahead, dropping back to wait for the people, hinged black legs swinging quickly like two pairs of scissors beneath it, cutting tiny pieces out of the air, somehow keeping it's body afloat and off of the earth itself.
As the new pair of people came closer and details could be detected about their appearance, the man reminded this woman again 'We probably look the same to them as they do to us.'
This much younger woman now spoke for the first time in an hour, 'But we don't have a dog.'
'Fair enough. Just try to remember that this puzzle will be more easily solved for you the less factors are included. You do not want this to become their puzzle as well, but it can easily be, and I will not feel any different one way or another. This is Your Way.'
They could now hear voices coming from the approaching pair, who were running in athletic clothes, yelling at the dog who was now sprinting ahead of them, headed for the walking pair.
'Miles, NO!' Shouted the jogging woman. 'NO, Miles!' Shouted the paired man in running shoes.
Miles ran straight ahead as before, unfazed, claws kicking dust up into the air as he bore down into new lives. As Miles got close he slowed down a bit and could not decide which person to approach first. His people were still yelling at him, but far away still. 'SORRY! MILES! NO!' The joggers yelled.
It is said that animals have fine senses of intuition, of right and wrong, and if that is true then Miles indeed fit that description for he bore to his right and pushed his moist nose into the hands and crotch of the walking woman, then walked beside her for a moment before approaching the man, stopping short, and returning to her. By this time Mile's people were close enough to speak, to apologize, to call Miles back to them. Their jogging slowed, their faces trying to examine those of the walking people who would only look at the ground in front of them, not make eye contact, the walking man saying 'No problem here. Have a good day,' without looking up. They walked ahead as before, in sync left and right without pausing, silent again and without looking behind them.
'Asshole dog haters' said the Jogger-Man silently to their retreating backs, and Miles stood still and ears alert watched them go, sensing something was not entirely right there. 'Miles!' called the man again, as he began to run once more 'Let's GO!' And clapping his hands together he summoned the dog into action again, like the bells on a slot machine precluding a flood of coins. Miles ran on ahead of the Joggers again, the other strange people already forgotten.
Monday, April 4, 2011
Tribute to Bill :
The big green bridge lifts itself out of the mist and rises skywards by post and cable, tall and solid, a thing removed of emotion or argument, it stands there day after day and cares not about you or anyone else.
I see the faces of the people who cross this bridge every day, I can see their expressions through the glass, I can see their fates pass by like scrub brush beside the road, their stories already told and sorry, damp and tired. We are all heading for the same pit in reality, a real pit of horror, a sticky and sickening place where we all lose our everythings. Carbon and Oxygen, we all fall down.
I stood up and walked forward knees straining against gravity's seduction, my eyes sore and weary from examining all that the day had to offer thus far, lives flush and flushed out, I barely touch any of them but they are mine all the same, I go to lengths to see them through and I hate them all for it in the end.
I am tired now, I do not want to dally here but I can not deny the magnetism of the water as seen from above, from this point from which I survey it all, black and flowing like ink, snakelike and sorrowless, as it has always been before structures such as this were erected over it's spine like vain commitments to progress's curricula vitae, pages in a book but spread lengthwise and cold and green as are stones in the earth, as are the arguments of bitter lovers.
I stare down into this inky forever, I am too far away to recognize my own reflection therein. I imagine the numberless arms of the waters pulling me in, pulling me down, arms I would never trust if given the opportunity or question to do so, arms long and bent at awkward angles, unnatural expressions of want. I do not trust what I see, and I do not go there, with effort I pull my eyes ahead and return to my home. I travel the river wide, I step carefully but quickly, I do not allow my gaze to linger at any place other than my feet, or where they will step next.
I see the faces of the people who cross this bridge every day, I can see their expressions through the glass, I can see their fates pass by like scrub brush beside the road, their stories already told and sorry, damp and tired. We are all heading for the same pit in reality, a real pit of horror, a sticky and sickening place where we all lose our everythings. Carbon and Oxygen, we all fall down.
I stood up and walked forward knees straining against gravity's seduction, my eyes sore and weary from examining all that the day had to offer thus far, lives flush and flushed out, I barely touch any of them but they are mine all the same, I go to lengths to see them through and I hate them all for it in the end.
I am tired now, I do not want to dally here but I can not deny the magnetism of the water as seen from above, from this point from which I survey it all, black and flowing like ink, snakelike and sorrowless, as it has always been before structures such as this were erected over it's spine like vain commitments to progress's curricula vitae, pages in a book but spread lengthwise and cold and green as are stones in the earth, as are the arguments of bitter lovers.
I stare down into this inky forever, I am too far away to recognize my own reflection therein. I imagine the numberless arms of the waters pulling me in, pulling me down, arms I would never trust if given the opportunity or question to do so, arms long and bent at awkward angles, unnatural expressions of want. I do not trust what I see, and I do not go there, with effort I pull my eyes ahead and return to my home. I travel the river wide, I step carefully but quickly, I do not allow my gaze to linger at any place other than my feet, or where they will step next.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Not Ready to Go
As I wake up and get out of my bed, my feet my ankles, my knees all pop. It does not hurt, and as long as I can remember they have always done this. I walk downstairs, pop pop pop and then it stops.
I look at myself reflected back at me in the bathroom mirror. I look exactly the same as I did yesterday, the day before, the year before. In fact, I can not tell any difference at all in my appearance in the last 20 or so years. My hair gets long, I cut it off. Sometimes my face gets puffy and then I lose weight again. There is gray hair now, and more hair where I don't want it and less where I do, but it all seems very subtle to me and the face I see looking at me still looks young, and I mean 20-something-young. I am 40 though. I'm 40. Is my skin starting to sag on my chin? I don't look wrinkly. I don't think I do, anyway. I look away and then look back, trying to pretend I am a stranger looking at myself for the first time. I still don't look old. I don't look like a 40 year old. I do not feel like one. I need to do something with my hair though, it is getting long again, getting puffy. I consider a mohawk. It seems like the natural thing for me to do, what I usually do, a normal step in the life cycle of my hair. Now I have to ask myself though : Am I TRYING to act young? Appear young? I am 40. A mohawk? Really? When did this become pathetic? Where have I been all this time?
I get dressed, I go for a run. I run more than I ever have in my whole life, doesn't that count for something? Am I in shape at all? I could stand to lose another 10 pounds or so, but when I was 25, I needed to lose 60 or 70 pounds. Aren't I BETTER than I was? Am I?
I get back from my run and sit at my desk. I look at my hands. They look young. They have a lot of scars on them, but my fingers look puffy and pink, the fingers of a child. I concentrate on my hands. I make fists, first with my left hand and then my right one. I clench hard, my wrists are sore, I do not know why. My hands feel tight, sore. Is this arthritis settling in? Is it? Sudden-like? What should I do?
What should I do? Am I supposed to give in? Do I start buying my clothes off a rack at Target, sensible clothes, cheap clothes? Should I just let my hair grow out, should I stop caring? This is my big question : Should I stop caring? Should I give in? This is what I have thought for the longest time: People do not actually grow old, but they give up one day and THEN they grow old. If you hang on, are aware of your style, of music, stay fit and healthy, you will never grow old or appear old to anyone over the age of fifteen. You must work at it, and you can not give up! BUT, I begin to get tired, and am starting to feel downtrodden. It is getting to be WORK, and I do not know what the payoff is anymore. I am always alone anyway. What is the sound of a tree falling in the forest if nobody is there to hear it? How does it go? Do I just give up? Is that the sensible thing, is that the dignified choice? Do I care about dignity, have I ever? The fact that I consider the words 'with dignity' - does that mean I am getting old? I turn back in on myself. I look out through my eyes.
Grow Up And Act Your Age. Is 40 the new 30? Does this mean anything here in Portland? I am behind the curve. I have become Damaged Goods. I am covered in scars, and not just the ones I gave myself on purpose. I can run still, but for how much longer? Is 40 Over? It used to be, I thought 40 was old not too long ago. People start to turn now, I want to turn and run. I do not know where I would go though. I have no place to hide. I could hide down inside you if you were here, but you are not, and so I have to look at myself instead. I should burn all my clothes. I consider doing this.
I get my clippers out and shave my head. I pour myself a drink. I sit down and write. I imagine my audience. Who would it be now? Who wants to read about me? What do I have to offer? What interest could I possibly tantalize? Bullshit. It is all bullshit and crap. I throw my notebooks in the trash.
A vehicle has been parked just outside, waiting for me for a long time now. I hear it's slow sure idle, and I know I have to get in it soon. It is waiting for me, and it will wait for me forever, I can not hide from it. It is big, and it is black, make no mistake about THAT. I do not want to get in, I know the doors will lock and I will be taken someplace I do not want to go. I try to ignore the sounds and the signs, I have done this for a long time now, but it is getting clearer every day: I have to go for a ride soon. I will put it off for as long as I can, but I am losing steam here. I don't have many good reasons left not to get in. Everyone does it eventually. Who will be waiting for me to get back?
I look at myself reflected back at me in the bathroom mirror. I look exactly the same as I did yesterday, the day before, the year before. In fact, I can not tell any difference at all in my appearance in the last 20 or so years. My hair gets long, I cut it off. Sometimes my face gets puffy and then I lose weight again. There is gray hair now, and more hair where I don't want it and less where I do, but it all seems very subtle to me and the face I see looking at me still looks young, and I mean 20-something-young. I am 40 though. I'm 40. Is my skin starting to sag on my chin? I don't look wrinkly. I don't think I do, anyway. I look away and then look back, trying to pretend I am a stranger looking at myself for the first time. I still don't look old. I don't look like a 40 year old. I do not feel like one. I need to do something with my hair though, it is getting long again, getting puffy. I consider a mohawk. It seems like the natural thing for me to do, what I usually do, a normal step in the life cycle of my hair. Now I have to ask myself though : Am I TRYING to act young? Appear young? I am 40. A mohawk? Really? When did this become pathetic? Where have I been all this time?
I get dressed, I go for a run. I run more than I ever have in my whole life, doesn't that count for something? Am I in shape at all? I could stand to lose another 10 pounds or so, but when I was 25, I needed to lose 60 or 70 pounds. Aren't I BETTER than I was? Am I?
I get back from my run and sit at my desk. I look at my hands. They look young. They have a lot of scars on them, but my fingers look puffy and pink, the fingers of a child. I concentrate on my hands. I make fists, first with my left hand and then my right one. I clench hard, my wrists are sore, I do not know why. My hands feel tight, sore. Is this arthritis settling in? Is it? Sudden-like? What should I do?
What should I do? Am I supposed to give in? Do I start buying my clothes off a rack at Target, sensible clothes, cheap clothes? Should I just let my hair grow out, should I stop caring? This is my big question : Should I stop caring? Should I give in? This is what I have thought for the longest time: People do not actually grow old, but they give up one day and THEN they grow old. If you hang on, are aware of your style, of music, stay fit and healthy, you will never grow old or appear old to anyone over the age of fifteen. You must work at it, and you can not give up! BUT, I begin to get tired, and am starting to feel downtrodden. It is getting to be WORK, and I do not know what the payoff is anymore. I am always alone anyway. What is the sound of a tree falling in the forest if nobody is there to hear it? How does it go? Do I just give up? Is that the sensible thing, is that the dignified choice? Do I care about dignity, have I ever? The fact that I consider the words 'with dignity' - does that mean I am getting old? I turn back in on myself. I look out through my eyes.
Grow Up And Act Your Age. Is 40 the new 30? Does this mean anything here in Portland? I am behind the curve. I have become Damaged Goods. I am covered in scars, and not just the ones I gave myself on purpose. I can run still, but for how much longer? Is 40 Over? It used to be, I thought 40 was old not too long ago. People start to turn now, I want to turn and run. I do not know where I would go though. I have no place to hide. I could hide down inside you if you were here, but you are not, and so I have to look at myself instead. I should burn all my clothes. I consider doing this.
I get my clippers out and shave my head. I pour myself a drink. I sit down and write. I imagine my audience. Who would it be now? Who wants to read about me? What do I have to offer? What interest could I possibly tantalize? Bullshit. It is all bullshit and crap. I throw my notebooks in the trash.
A vehicle has been parked just outside, waiting for me for a long time now. I hear it's slow sure idle, and I know I have to get in it soon. It is waiting for me, and it will wait for me forever, I can not hide from it. It is big, and it is black, make no mistake about THAT. I do not want to get in, I know the doors will lock and I will be taken someplace I do not want to go. I try to ignore the sounds and the signs, I have done this for a long time now, but it is getting clearer every day: I have to go for a ride soon. I will put it off for as long as I can, but I am losing steam here. I don't have many good reasons left not to get in. Everyone does it eventually. Who will be waiting for me to get back?
Saturday, April 2, 2011
Some Folks Got the Shine to 'em...
Some people are stars, and others are planets or moons. One is not better than another, they are just different.
For some people, their light and energy, motivations, creativity, comes from within themselves. These people can go anywhere and maintain their sense of self.
Other people may not generate any light on their own, but move in orbits close to others that do, like satellite moons. These people may have a light, but it is not their own, they reflect and are therefore dependent on another.
There are also people planets as well, orbiting, but not generating any real heat or light. These are the life-givers. The audience, the reason for the others to want to glow. Maybe.
Do you know what category you belong to? Do you, really?
For some people, their light and energy, motivations, creativity, comes from within themselves. These people can go anywhere and maintain their sense of self.
Other people may not generate any light on their own, but move in orbits close to others that do, like satellite moons. These people may have a light, but it is not their own, they reflect and are therefore dependent on another.
There are also people planets as well, orbiting, but not generating any real heat or light. These are the life-givers. The audience, the reason for the others to want to glow. Maybe.
Do you know what category you belong to? Do you, really?
Letting Go.
He wanted that piano real bad. It took him over two years to find just the right one, and then finnagle the financing so it wouldn't put him in the poorhouse, but he worked extra hard for a couple of months and paid for the fucking thing and had it delivered on a Saturday.
After the delivery guys dropped it off, set it up and left him with a voucher for a discounted tuning he sat in front of the gigantic thing, it's keys exposed like teeth, and began to poke about cautiously, not expecting the instrument to sound as nice as it did. After a few minutes, he was comfortable and hammering hard on the keys, making a lot of noise in the big room.
He loved it, that piano. One of his favorite possessions, EVER. He especially enjoyed rubbing the wood with lemon scented furniture polish and paying attention to each key, hinge, nook and cranny. It would take him an entire afternoon to clean the piano. He felt he knew it well.
So, it was with some sorrow he decided to sell it along with everything else and set himself free, and push off and out once again. Once his mind was made up, it actually became easy to let it all go. He had garage sales, he donated things to the local charities, he left boxes and bags of books and clothes anonymously in parking lots, on porches, in yards.
After the delivery guys dropped it off, set it up and left him with a voucher for a discounted tuning he sat in front of the gigantic thing, it's keys exposed like teeth, and began to poke about cautiously, not expecting the instrument to sound as nice as it did. After a few minutes, he was comfortable and hammering hard on the keys, making a lot of noise in the big room.
He loved it, that piano. One of his favorite possessions, EVER. He especially enjoyed rubbing the wood with lemon scented furniture polish and paying attention to each key, hinge, nook and cranny. It would take him an entire afternoon to clean the piano. He felt he knew it well.
So, it was with some sorrow he decided to sell it along with everything else and set himself free, and push off and out once again. Once his mind was made up, it actually became easy to let it all go. He had garage sales, he donated things to the local charities, he left boxes and bags of books and clothes anonymously in parking lots, on porches, in yards.
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