Sunday, October 30, 2011
Sunday, May 02, 2010
The Strongest Leaf (A Childrens Story)
Once Upon a time in the big forest there was a big old tree. In the height of summer the tree was the home to a whole host of big green maple leaves. During the hot summer days each leaf would bask in the sun and during the cool summer nights they would whisper to one another about the joys of the wind in the branches. One day in late August the leaves began to notice a change in their proud green hue.
“Why is my green coat changing to yellow?” the strongest leaf asked.
The wind blew through the branches and all the other leaves replied together, “It’s nearly fall, don’t you know? We’re all getting ready to fly.”
“Oh,” he replied, “but why can’t we stay right here together?”
The others laughed.
As the days of September went by he watched them turn bright red and soft brown. Then one by one, and sometimes in a rush before a big gust of cold wind, they let go of their branches. Instead of flying, each leaf merely fluttered down to the forest floor. Some rustled around for a few days, but soon they fell fast asleep.
The strongest leaf didn’t want to leave the forest branches. The thought of falling down into the dim forest floor frightened him. So as each gust of autumn wind blew he would cling to his branch all the tighter. With each day the wind grew colder and the number of his friends grew scarce. Soon his branch was bare and only a few leaves remained within shouting distance. Then even these lost their grip and with a sigh fluttered down into the wet shadows below.
One gray morning the cold drops of rain began to change. The strongest leaf watched in awe as the pattering of rain faded into the hollow sound of a million fluttering flakes of snow. He looked around to see if any other leaves were feeling the same wonder as him, but they were all gone. Every one had fallen like the gentle flakes that brushed by his tips. He was now all alone.
The days grew colder and the nights grew longer. All the strongest leaf could do was hold on to his branch through the long frozen winter. One night the snow turned wet again, but this time it stuck to everything it touched. It coated the forest in a thick layer of ice. The heavy ice was almost more than he could bear. His grip stretched to its limit as the groans and creaks of the trees turned into crashes as branches broke off and smashed down to the ground.
The strongest leaf cried out in pain, but he held on nonetheless. He was proud to have so far withstood the wind that twisted and tossed him, and the cold that froze and dried him. He knew that winter would not last forever and that soon the snow would melt and that the bitter cold would retreat, welcoming a new season of warmth and green. He was proud to have outlasted what had whisked all of the other leaves away.
Sure enough spring did come. The snow melted. The days grew warm. New buds began to appear on every branch all around him. The strongest leaf waited in eager expectation.
One warm spring day the buds finally burst into new tender green leaves. They opened their eyes and looked around in wonder. The strongest leaf said. “Hello friends. Welcome to the forest.” He smiled wide.
“Who are you?” They all asked together.
“I’m a maple leaf just like you.” He exclaimed.
“You're not like us,” they replied. “Look at how brown, dry, and ugly you are!”
The strongest leaf said, “That’s only because I’ve been holding on here all winter long.”
“You look gross!” they all said. “Your points are all shriveled, your skin is rotting and dry, and your stem is all splintered.” The little leaves laughed at him. “Why would you want to stick around so long like that?” They asked between snickers.
If he had any moisture left in him, the strongest leaf would have burst into tears. Instead he whispered, “I held on because I wanted to spend another summer up here with you.”
“That’s crazy!” They all yelled together. The laughter grew louder as word spread among the branches and trees that a year old leaf was still among them.
The strongest leaf heaved a heavy sigh. A fresh gust of wind caught him, but this time he didn’t resist. He let go. The wind’s clutching fingers carried him. His branch tumbled away. His tree tumbled away. The wind held his brittle folds lightly and lifted him up above the surrounding leaves. The curl of his tips and thin dry skin allowed him to be carried even higher. It was then he remembered the words of his old friends and he knew--all this time he had been getting ready to fly. He closed his eyes and let the wind carry him spinning into the spring sky.
“Why is my green coat changing to yellow?” the strongest leaf asked.
The wind blew through the branches and all the other leaves replied together, “It’s nearly fall, don’t you know? We’re all getting ready to fly.”
“Oh,” he replied, “but why can’t we stay right here together?”
The others laughed.
As the days of September went by he watched them turn bright red and soft brown. Then one by one, and sometimes in a rush before a big gust of cold wind, they let go of their branches. Instead of flying, each leaf merely fluttered down to the forest floor. Some rustled around for a few days, but soon they fell fast asleep.
The strongest leaf didn’t want to leave the forest branches. The thought of falling down into the dim forest floor frightened him. So as each gust of autumn wind blew he would cling to his branch all the tighter. With each day the wind grew colder and the number of his friends grew scarce. Soon his branch was bare and only a few leaves remained within shouting distance. Then even these lost their grip and with a sigh fluttered down into the wet shadows below.
One gray morning the cold drops of rain began to change. The strongest leaf watched in awe as the pattering of rain faded into the hollow sound of a million fluttering flakes of snow. He looked around to see if any other leaves were feeling the same wonder as him, but they were all gone. Every one had fallen like the gentle flakes that brushed by his tips. He was now all alone.
The days grew colder and the nights grew longer. All the strongest leaf could do was hold on to his branch through the long frozen winter. One night the snow turned wet again, but this time it stuck to everything it touched. It coated the forest in a thick layer of ice. The heavy ice was almost more than he could bear. His grip stretched to its limit as the groans and creaks of the trees turned into crashes as branches broke off and smashed down to the ground.
The strongest leaf cried out in pain, but he held on nonetheless. He was proud to have so far withstood the wind that twisted and tossed him, and the cold that froze and dried him. He knew that winter would not last forever and that soon the snow would melt and that the bitter cold would retreat, welcoming a new season of warmth and green. He was proud to have outlasted what had whisked all of the other leaves away.
Sure enough spring did come. The snow melted. The days grew warm. New buds began to appear on every branch all around him. The strongest leaf waited in eager expectation.
One warm spring day the buds finally burst into new tender green leaves. They opened their eyes and looked around in wonder. The strongest leaf said. “Hello friends. Welcome to the forest.” He smiled wide.
“Who are you?” They all asked together.
“I’m a maple leaf just like you.” He exclaimed.
“You're not like us,” they replied. “Look at how brown, dry, and ugly you are!”
The strongest leaf said, “That’s only because I’ve been holding on here all winter long.”
“You look gross!” they all said. “Your points are all shriveled, your skin is rotting and dry, and your stem is all splintered.” The little leaves laughed at him. “Why would you want to stick around so long like that?” They asked between snickers.
If he had any moisture left in him, the strongest leaf would have burst into tears. Instead he whispered, “I held on because I wanted to spend another summer up here with you.”
“That’s crazy!” They all yelled together. The laughter grew louder as word spread among the branches and trees that a year old leaf was still among them.
The strongest leaf heaved a heavy sigh. A fresh gust of wind caught him, but this time he didn’t resist. He let go. The wind’s clutching fingers carried him. His branch tumbled away. His tree tumbled away. The wind held his brittle folds lightly and lifted him up above the surrounding leaves. The curl of his tips and thin dry skin allowed him to be carried even higher. It was then he remembered the words of his old friends and he knew--all this time he had been getting ready to fly. He closed his eyes and let the wind carry him spinning into the spring sky.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Cairo Cars
Smiley looked down. Cairo. Those beat up cars in the roundabout, swirling around in packs. The signs above: Coca Cola, Siemans, Vodafone, lit up the whole square with neon importance. They made him think of Tokyo, except for the brown drab buildings that held them aloft over their heads like lost suburban cheerleaders. He felt sorry for them—the cars that is—always going. He pulled on his cigarette. Every time he came out here they were driving, chasing their tales in circles. Did they ever go anywhere? It was hard to tell. He wondered about that. Wondered if one could break free somehow, arrive at Radio Shack or that new villa in Nasser City, or maybe the Nile. Cars were made to go. That’s why they had wheels, gas, and blaring horns. But someone forget to tell these ones that at some point it’s not the journey but the destination.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Summer at Dusk
It was the summer at Pearl’s ranch in the Oregon highlands—riding her bike under the blooming dogwood trees, parting mud-puddles like the red sea as dusk gathered in the background. It was Aunt Ginny’s home cooked dinners, her good natured scoldings each time she came in from the day covered in mud, hay, dust, and sometimes all combined. It was church clothes, garden rakes, the hardware store, and Uncle Tom’s truck. And it was the last time she remembered everything being alright. On that ranch, the worst that could happen was a skinned knee, the most unpleasant part was Uncle Tom’s knock on her door for pre-dawn chores. She didn’t know there were hurts you could get without breaking the skin. She didn’t know about the ones they gave you deep inside. The kind that a band-aid can never reach. The kind that just sit there and twist. She thought pills were for a headache, and didn’t know about therapists. Nobody told her life was a maze. A complicated prison. That summer, watching the neighbor boys bale hay on the upper pasture, she decided it was just like a fresh cut field. A thing she could run into with arms stretched wide open. And perched at it’s end, looking out the back window of Uncle Tom’s truck, Aunt Ginny waved from the porch, and she felt that if she merely lifted her hands, she would soar forward into the sky.
Monday, March 06, 2006
Distraction
Somebody told him the city was in flames. Matthew’s stark shadow stained the sidewalk behind him. The giant robots hurried by in ranks. They looked like walking orange towers, a parade of destruction winding from street to street. He stood at the mouth of an alley and gawked upward at each passing bulk. With monstrous steps each machine strained forward casting about a look of purpose he had only seen on television. Just then he broke away from the scene. He had to. Things needed to get done. He couldn’t just sit around all day and watch these monsters take the city apart. It was already 11:30 and he’d only had his coffee and paper. The laundry would have to go down to Wash Land. His bike tire needed that patch. Then he’d visit Kellso’s Roastary to pick out some beans--maybe a new grinder. He pushed nine on the lift, sighed, and let the doors close around him. The robots waited.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
The Lost and Finding
To him, Jesus Christ was a booted foot disappearing through a street-side door. Each time, he would abandon his bike, dash after it, and stand there pushing the button for someone to buzz him up, and each time to no answer. Since that is how Jesus would have it, he did his best to peddle past that street from then on. The other couriers hung at the coffee shop two blocks away. Their cheap bikes corralled outside the place where the bitter coffee and baristas made them pucker.
“Why don’t you write Him a letter? Get an appointment,” his friend asked.
“We’re frickin couriers. I’m not sending anything post in this town.”
“What about the man who says Hallelujah?”
“What about him?”
“Well, he probably knows Him. Maybe he can get you in.”
He remembered when he first heard the man in the black glasses speak the word. It was in front of the hot chocolate machine in the echoing lobby of One Financial Plaza. “Hallelujah,” he said, and shilled in three quarters for a cup. Another time, he uttered it on the elevator between the 55th and 54th floors of the Bancorp building. He appeared in as many places throughout town as they did. He seemed just as intimate with the towers as they were, and for this they gave him respect—even though his aims remained a mystery.
“Yeah. He can probably hook me up, if I can track him down.”
“But I don’t get why you gotta see Jesus so bad.”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“So?”
“So, I’m not too clear on why right now.”
They drank their coffee.
“You know that mural on Washington?” he asked.
“Which one? Sheera Warrior Princess, on Comic World? Or the Love Power wall looking over the freeway? Paint peeled Christ, standing, arms outstretched.”
“To all us sinners,” he said, gazing out the window at his old bike, chained with the others to the same guardrail. “I think that’s why I need to find Him.”
They drank their coffee.
“Yeah. I get you man,” his friend said.
“Why don’t you write Him a letter? Get an appointment,” his friend asked.
“We’re frickin couriers. I’m not sending anything post in this town.”
“What about the man who says Hallelujah?”
“What about him?”
“Well, he probably knows Him. Maybe he can get you in.”
He remembered when he first heard the man in the black glasses speak the word. It was in front of the hot chocolate machine in the echoing lobby of One Financial Plaza. “Hallelujah,” he said, and shilled in three quarters for a cup. Another time, he uttered it on the elevator between the 55th and 54th floors of the Bancorp building. He appeared in as many places throughout town as they did. He seemed just as intimate with the towers as they were, and for this they gave him respect—even though his aims remained a mystery.
“Yeah. He can probably hook me up, if I can track him down.”
“But I don’t get why you gotta see Jesus so bad.”
“It’s hard to explain.”
“So?”
“So, I’m not too clear on why right now.”
They drank their coffee.
“You know that mural on Washington?” he asked.
“Which one? Sheera Warrior Princess, on Comic World? Or the Love Power wall looking over the freeway? Paint peeled Christ, standing, arms outstretched.”
“To all us sinners,” he said, gazing out the window at his old bike, chained with the others to the same guardrail. “I think that’s why I need to find Him.”
They drank their coffee.
“Yeah. I get you man,” his friend said.
Monday, August 01, 2005
The Dark Surf
Something desperate made Jared do a desperate thing. It made him slip off the beach into the maze of churning breakers hunched in the mad black ocean. One moment he was perched quietly watching those people get drunk on his parent’s beer in the peripheral glow of the fire, and the next he was running along the beach, and the next he was up to his hips in piercing cold water, and going deeper—the warmth of fire and the party left behind for the embrace of the vast pacific. Now, after a long battle amid the sharp rock, and clapping surf that left him bloody and shivering uncontrollably, he clung to the flat head of a protruding rock and looked out across the expanse of dark water. Over his shoulder, the only thing he could pick out was the blinking speck of the bonfire. That’s when he realized what the desperate thing was. It was The Valley of the Shadow of Death. That was it. Geology class was such a crock. He knew Kelly’s invitation was meant to evaporate: a flippant throwback to the kid with the city of Portland tied around his ankle. But it wasn’t about them. On this rock, she along with the others were only soft winks in the orange fire. This was more profound.
He never thought of The Valley as a hot place, not like a fire or hell. For him it was always cold. Cold like television and pro sports, like suburban sprawl and the American way. Cold like school, like all those code words polite people used to stay polite. Societies are put together to obscure The Valley and he saw now that he had been trudging between it’s margins for years. And now there it was writhing in front of him. Finely unmasked. They stared into the fire and sang and talked, but he gawked at what stood behind them. It was the chance to trade all that in: climb into the gaping maw of leviathan. Because there is only one thing to do with The Valley of the Shadow of Death—get to the bottom of it. Scramble, claw, crawl. Find the final slough of despond, take your last living breath, dive in, and swim down into it’s muddy depths grasping for that one pearl handle, that opens into the piercing light of pure life.
And now here he was. This far out. The whole ocean set against him. His hands and feet dripped blood. But he knew there was a long way to go. Many dark hours lay ahead, because he could sense the bottom still further out. He recited the rest of the verse against the thundering breakers, and jumped into the rising tide.
He never thought of The Valley as a hot place, not like a fire or hell. For him it was always cold. Cold like television and pro sports, like suburban sprawl and the American way. Cold like school, like all those code words polite people used to stay polite. Societies are put together to obscure The Valley and he saw now that he had been trudging between it’s margins for years. And now there it was writhing in front of him. Finely unmasked. They stared into the fire and sang and talked, but he gawked at what stood behind them. It was the chance to trade all that in: climb into the gaping maw of leviathan. Because there is only one thing to do with The Valley of the Shadow of Death—get to the bottom of it. Scramble, claw, crawl. Find the final slough of despond, take your last living breath, dive in, and swim down into it’s muddy depths grasping for that one pearl handle, that opens into the piercing light of pure life.
And now here he was. This far out. The whole ocean set against him. His hands and feet dripped blood. But he knew there was a long way to go. Many dark hours lay ahead, because he could sense the bottom still further out. He recited the rest of the verse against the thundering breakers, and jumped into the rising tide.
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Chaos Theory
DJ Scribble crashed his speeding moped into a heap of empty beer cases between two dumpsters, emerging after a brief pause to ensure the bike was completely hidden by cardboard. He let the blasting earphones slide down his neck to expose his ears to the first throbbing beats faintly echoing from storm drains below his feet. The DJ Chaos door pass was slipped under his door just hours ago, and ever since then, he patted his back pocket every few minutes to ensure it was still there. All the entries back here were dark, but only one came with a big black, leather vested man hedged by a garden of cigarette butts around his feet. DJ Scribble produced the little red card and held it in plain sight for the big man to see.
“Show’s closed, kid,” the big man said. “It’s full up.”
“Skoop boop be woop!” DJ Scribble shouted. “Ka goop bleh bleh shoo.” He flapped his arms in odd shapes.
“Ok?” the big man asked.
“This is the truth, brotha. Klam floo hoohaw!” His contortions now involved swift leg jerks. “This is what the world actually consists of—shaw dida coom few!”
He stopped the gyrations, but the big man didn’t stop crossing his arms. The wildly erratic beats of the show continued below. The man obviously hadn’t heard of entropy before. He obviously didn’t know what was going on downstairs, what was eventually going to happen up here—to him. To his club. His city. The universe. He savored the big man’s naiveté. “Just work here, huh? Don’t know, right? Second law of thermodynamics?” He pointed over the big man’s shoulder. “They do. That’s why I came, brotha. It’s my church down there. Last year, my place of conversion. Just let me in, man. They’d have me with em, if they knew I’zere.”
“Does that thing have FM?” the big man asked softly.
DJ Scribble looked down at his beat up tape deck. “Yeah.”
“Let me see it.” He nodded his head towards the door. “Cause brother. They’re all faken it down there. Not your crowd. Here’s the tunes for true believers—like you.”
DJ Scribble unclipped the tape deck from his belt. The man leaned over and grazed both dials with his finger and watched the thin kid move the speakers over his ears.
“It’s just static.” DJ Scribble hollered.
“Yup.”
“Show’s closed, kid,” the big man said. “It’s full up.”
“Skoop boop be woop!” DJ Scribble shouted. “Ka goop bleh bleh shoo.” He flapped his arms in odd shapes.
“Ok?” the big man asked.
“This is the truth, brotha. Klam floo hoohaw!” His contortions now involved swift leg jerks. “This is what the world actually consists of—shaw dida coom few!”
He stopped the gyrations, but the big man didn’t stop crossing his arms. The wildly erratic beats of the show continued below. The man obviously hadn’t heard of entropy before. He obviously didn’t know what was going on downstairs, what was eventually going to happen up here—to him. To his club. His city. The universe. He savored the big man’s naiveté. “Just work here, huh? Don’t know, right? Second law of thermodynamics?” He pointed over the big man’s shoulder. “They do. That’s why I came, brotha. It’s my church down there. Last year, my place of conversion. Just let me in, man. They’d have me with em, if they knew I’zere.”
“Does that thing have FM?” the big man asked softly.
DJ Scribble looked down at his beat up tape deck. “Yeah.”
“Let me see it.” He nodded his head towards the door. “Cause brother. They’re all faken it down there. Not your crowd. Here’s the tunes for true believers—like you.”
DJ Scribble unclipped the tape deck from his belt. The man leaned over and grazed both dials with his finger and watched the thin kid move the speakers over his ears.
“It’s just static.” DJ Scribble hollered.
“Yup.”
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Café Life
Even though Charis didn’t own a television, she still saw her share of shows. ‘Saw’ is the operative word because the TV set in question glowed silently in the store window across the street from the café. Her father always said TV rotted your brains, but she felt immune to its detrimental effects as long as it was punctuated by the bustling street life of Grand Avenue. She could watch as long as real life played between them: other people driving by, smoking cigarettes, walking their animals, getting in cars, holding hands. Sometimes she imagined the characters in the shows were the ones milling around under its blue-grey light, like they were queued up for their turn on the screen. But she knew they were just ordinary people. Livin life. Being alive. This was Tuesday, and good old Eduardo—the only man she trusted to make her coffee right, set cup and saucer on the edge of the table and smiled down at her. She broke her gaze to let out a sheepish thanks, but he already knew, and went back to the countertops. That night the café was the last to close. Eduardo had the chairs up, and Charis gathered her things. The street had long since emptied, but as she walked home, the television still played on behind her. She would sleep well, she thought.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
True Faith
‘And what can I do for you sir?’ Kim peeked out at the pony-tailed man over the tall reception desk.
‘I came down here to be evangelized,’ he said, shilling over an old pamphlet. ‘Someone put this in my pocket while I was passed out at ozzfest last year. I got your address here on the back.’
‘Oh,’ Kim said, and pushed some buttons hurriedly. She muffled something into the end of a phone and looked over at the man repeatedly as she listened, nodding her head. ‘Did you see the sinner’s prayer printed on the back?’ She asked.
Stu flipped the tract over. ‘Oh yeah,’ he tapped the bottom with his finger, ‘but I thought it might not be real unless I confessed to someone or something.’
She turned away. ‘He saw the prayer’ she said to the floor. More silence, more nods. She turned back and smiled. 'What's your name, sir?'
'Stu Jenkensen.'
‘I have good news Mr. Jenkensen. If you read the prayer you are actually already… Evangelized.’
‘Oh,’ he said.
‘I understand how that can come as a surprise to you.’ She hung up the phone. ‘But let’s not make your trip down here for nothing.’ Kim disappeared behind the desk and re-emerged with an armload of materials. ‘Mr. Jenkensen, do you like sports? Because first of all we have a brand new sports Bible filled with many inspiring sports stories. And here is the church directory, a guide to the rapture, and you also get to share your faith with this self adhesive bumper sticker.’
Stu flipped the sticker over. ‘Are you Saved?’ it said in bold red letters.‘Thanks, but don’t I need to believe or something?’ He asked.
Kim smiled the exact same smile, ‘You wouldn’t be down here without faith, Stu.’ She placed the tattered tract on top of the others and handed them tenderly into his outstretched hands. ‘The best thing you can do now is call one of those numbers and get your walk started.’
Stu could tell the conversation was over. ‘Oh, ok.’ He turned around, arms full, to the double glass doors.
The stuff got thrown in the trunk, but the sticker stared back at him from inside. ‘Are You Saved?’ It asked. Even though he knew he didn’t believe, he peeled the sticker, put it on his car, got in, and drove away.
‘I came down here to be evangelized,’ he said, shilling over an old pamphlet. ‘Someone put this in my pocket while I was passed out at ozzfest last year. I got your address here on the back.’
‘Oh,’ Kim said, and pushed some buttons hurriedly. She muffled something into the end of a phone and looked over at the man repeatedly as she listened, nodding her head. ‘Did you see the sinner’s prayer printed on the back?’ She asked.
Stu flipped the tract over. ‘Oh yeah,’ he tapped the bottom with his finger, ‘but I thought it might not be real unless I confessed to someone or something.’
She turned away. ‘He saw the prayer’ she said to the floor. More silence, more nods. She turned back and smiled. 'What's your name, sir?'
'Stu Jenkensen.'
‘I have good news Mr. Jenkensen. If you read the prayer you are actually already… Evangelized.’
‘Oh,’ he said.
‘I understand how that can come as a surprise to you.’ She hung up the phone. ‘But let’s not make your trip down here for nothing.’ Kim disappeared behind the desk and re-emerged with an armload of materials. ‘Mr. Jenkensen, do you like sports? Because first of all we have a brand new sports Bible filled with many inspiring sports stories. And here is the church directory, a guide to the rapture, and you also get to share your faith with this self adhesive bumper sticker.’
Stu flipped the sticker over. ‘Are you Saved?’ it said in bold red letters.‘Thanks, but don’t I need to believe or something?’ He asked.
Kim smiled the exact same smile, ‘You wouldn’t be down here without faith, Stu.’ She placed the tattered tract on top of the others and handed them tenderly into his outstretched hands. ‘The best thing you can do now is call one of those numbers and get your walk started.’
Stu could tell the conversation was over. ‘Oh, ok.’ He turned around, arms full, to the double glass doors.
The stuff got thrown in the trunk, but the sticker stared back at him from inside. ‘Are You Saved?’ It asked. Even though he knew he didn’t believe, he peeled the sticker, put it on his car, got in, and drove away.
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Broken Elevator
Grady wondered if he could just stay right where he was: live the remainder of his life splayed out halfway down the last flight of stairs, clutching his seat cushion in one hand, with his chair toppled at the bottom, and his things strewn between them. At first he wanted to get away. Go somewhere. Slide back down these steps, snoop around until he found someplace easy, then push his way in and settle down. People did it all the time, they started over, they moved on, they got born again. But, as his mind visualized his escapes, he realized that he could never imagine a place without him in it, where those two little legs, that ever felt like strangers, weren’t dangling from him. So he laid there. The fluorescent lights buzzed and flickered. Two flights down, the door yawned and closed with a thump. He knew it was Laura by her footsteps, the same ones that always walked by his door to the flat at the end of the hall. There was no time to hide, and he knew he couldn’t pretend to be ok. She came around the corner, surprised then concerned. Her handbag slid smoothly off her shoulder. 'Are you ok?' She asked.
'The elevator was broken,' he managed to say.
'The elevator was broken,' he managed to say.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Suburban Decay
The president of the League Against Suburbs convened the meeting. What do you have for us? Trevor asked the slouched initiate sitting in the plastic chair beside the coffee table. I have these, he said, offering his hand which opened to reveal five or six small bolts and screws. The members nodded approvingly. Where did you do this? Trevor asked. Applebees. I took apart the toilet paper dispenser in the men’s bathroom and got one of the hinges off the dumpster out back. But I forgot that at home. The members nodded approvingly.
Monday, May 09, 2005
Father
Jenny always called things stupid. Early on, her friends knew about those stupid meat-head showoffs in gym class, and her mom heard how Sara Weiland was so stupid when she stole her boyfriend at summer camp. Later, the internet was stupid. Nutra-sweet gives you cancer, and was stupid. Long distance was stupid. The book report she spent the whole weekend on turned out to be stupid. And last week, her straight thin hair was stupid and such a pain. After a while, people that knew her got used to it. She wasn’t impressive enough for the habit to wear off on anybody. It just sort of faded from an irritation to something that didn’t exactly register—lumped together with the Jenny people knew. The only person or thing that never earned the pronouncement of stupid, was her dad. The mystery surrounding him withheld her judgment. Also, there hung this certain trepidation at the thought of lumping him in with the rest of the world. But that one morning walking over to his house, watching him read his retarded paper: he glanced up and completely missed the mess of a little girl standing in front of him. An eternity passed. Then he just looked back down at the story about the beet farms closing up in Moorhead. I hate you, she squeaked, and walked straight for the bathroom.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
The Urban Poor
Those marginalized people are so calculating. You wouldn’t think to use the word ‘sophisticated’ on them, but it fits their ways. To them, everyone’s a vending machine. They put money in and push just the right button. Vavoom, they get what they want. I always flash the “sold out” light when they’re standing in my glow. Coke first, nope, then Sprite. Sorry no service. Then the strong sellers try diet, and still I’m all: ‘Look chum. You best move on to that one down the corner, before I call the cops.’ Mention cops and they move along, cause urban poor folks know the two rules of perpetual poverty: Don’t get evicted. And don’t get yourself arrested. Once either of those happens, you’re instantly shoved down to the second basement. Seven eleven won’t employ you, and you can kiss section eight goodbye. Life gets hard when your soche tells that story. You have your rights, yes, you've sown them all over town. And I’ve got mine right here, on Broadway and Lake—public property, watching you tumble with the guy with the hundred dollar bill hanging out of his pocket. Yeah I’ll call the cops. Yeah I’ve got money that you’ll win. But you won’t get away. All at once you’ve got your sway on, wiping your mouth, saying he spit in your face when you asked him for some change, but they’ll shrug that off. His clothes smell sweeter than yours, and what are you doing asking for change? They put you in the backseat: a shifting mass of calculations. I get back in my career path. I was only down here for the cheap Camels.
Wednesday, April 27, 2005
Unwanted Self
Rifle knew about the other man in his bed. That was the problem. Earlier that day, while eating cake in the break room, he wondered who he would find when he stumbled into his dark room late that night. He wondered while Nancy stood in front of him, bellowing garbage—all he could think of was getting into bed and finding his sheets already warm. So now, in the almost dark, he rolled over, shifted his legs to the far edge of the bed, and let the clock wash his face in a thick red. The minutes slowly added up. He needed to get help—he came to that conclusion five days ago. The only question now was where to go for it. This is complicated, he thought.
Vo-Tech School
You are all on your way to a satisfying career. That is how they opened the gate, those specialists up front. Not that it was bait, or merely a lie. It’s not like they lied. He WAS on his way to a satisfying career. And stretched out before him lay a herd of round hay bales grazing on the perfect green hills under an azure sky. He played on those hay bales before adolescence. Their largeness loomed—before the war. Before all that shit. And now he was on his way back, sitting at a desk in some fluorescent room that bled technology with the smallest prick. All around swirled little pieces of the stuff that would bring him there. A child’s smile creased his lips.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Open Mindedness.
So I opened my mind. I left the small town of my youth—the lock jawed high school, the church kids flirting with their hands in their pockets. I cut the webs, and flew away to the metropolis—the offspring of human and machine, my new abode. It was scary like the dark, when I first sunk my old canoes, stroked some new ideas and people I had met. At first, I wedged my way into closed spaces where they told me stories in hushed tones. Freedom, to be, to let each moment swell to such intensity of existence, unencumbered by everything except desire. They let me feed. And then I saw it just walking down the street, this gospel, scrawled across brick, tenderly wrapping each post. My gospel. The unity of it all, I thought, staring at it in bathroom stalls. I tried to pierce its truth in three messy words. It was times like those, getting off the pee splashed toilet, wandering back to my flat, that I thought back to the old years: drew extra conclusions from the stark comparisons. Laid my new family on top of my old. And judged. The water was running in my kitchen sink, but I didn’t turn on the lights. I slumped there in the linoleum. Each moment exploded, and I just sat there with my mind open. Tears littered each cheek.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
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