I just love everything there is about my delightful little neighborhood…but I think the guy next door is a Nazi war criminal. The evidence, which I’m sure you’ll find convincing, is as follows.
1) Resilient European Tendencies: This man and his wife have a way of sitting about and enjoying the day which I find particularly alarming. There’s something about their overly worn lawn furniture, wine grape trellis and meticulously ironed clothing that just doesn’t seem to lend itself to normal suburban living. They smile to much, and I think I remember her arm resting on his while they spoke. Believe me, I’ll be looking into these things.
2) Longevity: These people seem very old and yet remarkably healthy, and not in that patriotic old-people-propped-up-on-pharmaceuticals sort of way either. People with clear consciences enjoy their elderly years, but so do those without a conscience. And part of the reason there’s so many strudel shops in French Guyana is that this same agedness preys on our capacity to seek, and therefore grant, redemption through personal enlightenment. Which in turn, of course, provides the perfect camouflage for a sick death camp butcher.
3) Mailbox Lettering: There are far to many Cs, Js and double vowels in their name that send normal tongues somersaulting during pleasantries. Now if the newly immigrated simply want to save a few Rubles or Kopeks or whatever at Home Depot by purchasing decal lettering from the bargain bin that’s one thing, but all these consonants are bound to remind a civilized person of that funny a/u/e sound Europeans make when they’re mispronouncing Treblinka or Birkeneau.
Anyway, I’m not saying we should string these two up or anything, but if I see any lederhosen on the clothes line I’m rushin’ the place with granddaddy’s Confederate sword, that’s all.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Omaha
Several blocks away in a shuttered cape there lives a nice plump and friendly cat who enjoys sitting on his street corner. As neighbors stroll, which some do while others hurry off to barter crescent wrench sets containing missing 10mm counterparts for moth eaten Indian Motorcycle sew-on patches, the cat watches on. Slower travelers are approached for a pet, and many who notice the lovely feline’s coat and kind demeanor decide that he would make a fine companion. Removing his collar they take him back to their dwellings, whatever that may mean. When struck by the notion the cat returns home unfazed, and no party shows any wear and tear from the process but the tattered Missing Cat signs which are repeatedly hung. When I pass the corner with that missing cat I note his absence sometimes with the same sort of attention I might pay to pinto beans on sale two for a dollar. Stroking his fur right where he belongs I still think of him as missing.
_______________________________________________
In the fashion of traditional Southern cities this one also was designed to have alleys running between the lots with houses that sail neatly pointed through manicured lawns. These back avenues offer a secondary view of the workings which power the neighborhood. There, a crying child may be explained the next morning by a new white sofa with a large chocolate milk stain on it left out for trash. Beer bottles whisper tales of unseen homeless and local teenagers, trash that mingles in a temporarily ominous way. Kitchen smells and Tungsten shadows sneak over the sandworn brick in early evening as bougainvillea toss their violet capes like matadors braving garage doors.
Diagonally against the sky a rare temperate oak stands with sturdy arm quietly braced against muted watermark pastels. And from that gesticulation comes swooping death between in-law apartments to tiny peeping birds bent toward seed and insect beside a gurgling fountain.
I arrive home from work to find my neighbor shouting into his cell phone and wonder if someone somewhere is listening to his counterpart on her patio replete with hawk and tiger cat and bougainvillea conquistadors.
_______________________________________________
In the fashion of traditional Southern cities this one also was designed to have alleys running between the lots with houses that sail neatly pointed through manicured lawns. These back avenues offer a secondary view of the workings which power the neighborhood. There, a crying child may be explained the next morning by a new white sofa with a large chocolate milk stain on it left out for trash. Beer bottles whisper tales of unseen homeless and local teenagers, trash that mingles in a temporarily ominous way. Kitchen smells and Tungsten shadows sneak over the sandworn brick in early evening as bougainvillea toss their violet capes like matadors braving garage doors.
Diagonally against the sky a rare temperate oak stands with sturdy arm quietly braced against muted watermark pastels. And from that gesticulation comes swooping death between in-law apartments to tiny peeping birds bent toward seed and insect beside a gurgling fountain.
I arrive home from work to find my neighbor shouting into his cell phone and wonder if someone somewhere is listening to his counterpart on her patio replete with hawk and tiger cat and bougainvillea conquistadors.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
DeLonghi
After the nose picking there would always be a wordlessness, just as she had once seen my confidence round the corner in an argument.
With those faults we were pleased to lie in bed late into the night whispering and peering out the wintry headboard window sipping our sleeping hours away.
In Florida you miss the cold as it rattles around lead painted window frames to kiss a backside edge of glass with fog. And the way your girl’s feet come to you in sleep for warmth.
With those faults we were pleased to lie in bed late into the night whispering and peering out the wintry headboard window sipping our sleeping hours away.
In Florida you miss the cold as it rattles around lead painted window frames to kiss a backside edge of glass with fog. And the way your girl’s feet come to you in sleep for warmth.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Root, Structure and Truncated Meaning
I live in a small community in the South once fabled as a cherished and tucked away retirement and holiday Valhalla. Long ago in the days taken from Nabokov Chevrolet cross country family vacations, sleepy homes and motels nestled in the balm and bougainvillea along cobbled streets and avenues numbered for the ease of tourists and newcomers. As the heat of the days bleached bricks, though, they cracked to recover less and less frequently by repair, and the prevalence of greed and banality which crept through sidewalks elsewhere overcame like Kudzu the easy ways of this town.
There are porches dotted about on which seersucker suit coats hung in pre air-conditioned breezes with sounds of groaning wicker rocking chairs and clinking mint juleps caught in their folds. Remnants of that, and that thinking, can be found; in the furniture and golf clubs one comes across at tag sales, or unexpectedly Sunday shuttered storefronts. And today, astoundingly, a gym of adolescent boxers barked at by aging men in Wal-Mart sweats as I froze half seated on my bicycle to peek through an emergency door.
There are porches dotted about on which seersucker suit coats hung in pre air-conditioned breezes with sounds of groaning wicker rocking chairs and clinking mint juleps caught in their folds. Remnants of that, and that thinking, can be found; in the furniture and golf clubs one comes across at tag sales, or unexpectedly Sunday shuttered storefronts. And today, astoundingly, a gym of adolescent boxers barked at by aging men in Wal-Mart sweats as I froze half seated on my bicycle to peek through an emergency door.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
Title:
Just outside Georgetown Connecticut there is a small mill left over from the days of last century’s industrialization. There you will find a business owner who, noticing in the late fifties a trend towards large steel and glass corporate architecture, specialized in the small orders of plate glass those buildings would require, and that larger producers would be loath to supply. On most days, were you to drive down the slender cobblestone lane beside this factory, you might pass by and observe yourself doing so in a mirrored plate glass panel tilting against the building waiting to be shipped.
Post:
Even as they hung on my lips the words struck me like handfuls of pennies thrown against a mangled dimestore concertina’s bellows … “excuse me Sir, may I assume it’s my hat and newspaper you have about you”? But the yelling and screaming afterward seemed easier to assimilate as the face under my visor somehow held me accountable.
But I sat still.
Because in the end I was not leaving without my cap and paper.
Just outside Georgetown Connecticut there is a small mill left over from the days of last century’s industrialization. There you will find a business owner who, noticing in the late fifties a trend towards large steel and glass corporate architecture, specialized in the small orders of plate glass those buildings would require, and that larger producers would be loath to supply. On most days, were you to drive down the slender cobblestone lane beside this factory, you might pass by and observe yourself doing so in a mirrored plate glass panel tilting against the building waiting to be shipped.
Post:
Even as they hung on my lips the words struck me like handfuls of pennies thrown against a mangled dimestore concertina’s bellows … “excuse me Sir, may I assume it’s my hat and newspaper you have about you”? But the yelling and screaming afterward seemed easier to assimilate as the face under my visor somehow held me accountable.
But I sat still.
Because in the end I was not leaving without my cap and paper.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Only Buy Used Potato Peelers from Left Handed People
I just got my first email from a right wing nutbag celebrating the accomplishments of the bush administration. Of course she's someone who’s become quite well to do working for a contractor to the U.S. military so things are pretty rosy there. I, on the other hand, recently left a job where I was responsible for phoning the inhabitants of inner city Florida, the ranks of which are recruited for military service in the Middle East. This is what one guy who still had hands left to pick up the phone had to say:
I was a sniper over there. When people think of snipers they think of someone lying on a building top with a rifle. What they don’t realize is that you have to silently fight your way to that position. I just spent four years sneaking up on people and killing them with a knife while muffling their screams. Or getting ambushed by combatants trying to do the same to me. Do you have any idea what a scene it is when my kids jump in my bed to surprise me first thing Saturday morning? I’m not a human being anymore. My job is gone. I came home to a drug addicted wife and soon I’ll loose my kids to homelessness. Everyone I speak to from my service days is going through similar stuff. Why are you calling man, what are you selling?
I guess when you’re snuggled in expense-accounted digs snacking on freedom fries next to the fire you don’t have to worry about your wife hitting the pipe thousands of miles away or some guy who may be walking around the desert with the rusty blade that’s going to scrape against your vertebrae as it passes through your jugular and trachea. Healthcare isn’t an issue when you’ve got a cushy gig like that and you sure don’t have to worry about its obsolescence. All you have to do is make sure you don’t stop and ask the guy wheeling himself on the sidewalk why he’s rattling a can for your spare coins.
I was a sniper over there. When people think of snipers they think of someone lying on a building top with a rifle. What they don’t realize is that you have to silently fight your way to that position. I just spent four years sneaking up on people and killing them with a knife while muffling their screams. Or getting ambushed by combatants trying to do the same to me. Do you have any idea what a scene it is when my kids jump in my bed to surprise me first thing Saturday morning? I’m not a human being anymore. My job is gone. I came home to a drug addicted wife and soon I’ll loose my kids to homelessness. Everyone I speak to from my service days is going through similar stuff. Why are you calling man, what are you selling?
I guess when you’re snuggled in expense-accounted digs snacking on freedom fries next to the fire you don’t have to worry about your wife hitting the pipe thousands of miles away or some guy who may be walking around the desert with the rusty blade that’s going to scrape against your vertebrae as it passes through your jugular and trachea. Healthcare isn’t an issue when you’ve got a cushy gig like that and you sure don’t have to worry about its obsolescence. All you have to do is make sure you don’t stop and ask the guy wheeling himself on the sidewalk why he’s rattling a can for your spare coins.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Longevity
I used to think I had a drinking problem, but I’m starting to doubt that now. Don’t get me wrong: I was drunk a great deal of the time and consumed, daily, amounts of liquor that would send others to the hospital. I was unproductive, slovenly and hopelessly maladjusted. But still, I’m not sure I had a problem.
Now I work almost every day as hard as I can to accomplish as much as possible. I live a tidy life dedicated to improving my lot, attempt to be kind to others while managing my affairs in a responsible fashion. I maintain positive relationships, keep my eye peeled for opportunity and strive to display virtue to all around me. And for almost two years now this attitude has kept me in the exact same oppressive, grinding poverty experienced while drinking.
Two days ago I was faced with a decision: wether to risk seven dollars on an enterprise that could help me bring things around. Seven dollars. I weighed the decision very carefully and examined all it’s possibilities. I applied effort and enginuity into surveying its possibilities and decided to roll the dice. By that time though, hours later, the opportunity was gone.
If I were smart enough to drive a large National bank into failure I would have been compensated with hundreds of millions of times that seven dollars. If I were nakedly aggressive or unscrupulous I would have had thousands of times that seven dollars. Or if I poured myself into a meaningless, socially detrimental occupation I would have had a hundred thousand times that seven dollars. But I am just a worker so I don’t really even have the seven dollars.
When people offered their sympathy for the horrors I used to endure I would glibly reply that all was nothing six or seven martinis couldn’t fix, though sometimes now I think those words may have been profound. The martinis didn’t make anything better, but they made me feel better, and either way two years later I still don’t have the seven bucks to change.
Now I work almost every day as hard as I can to accomplish as much as possible. I live a tidy life dedicated to improving my lot, attempt to be kind to others while managing my affairs in a responsible fashion. I maintain positive relationships, keep my eye peeled for opportunity and strive to display virtue to all around me. And for almost two years now this attitude has kept me in the exact same oppressive, grinding poverty experienced while drinking.
Two days ago I was faced with a decision: wether to risk seven dollars on an enterprise that could help me bring things around. Seven dollars. I weighed the decision very carefully and examined all it’s possibilities. I applied effort and enginuity into surveying its possibilities and decided to roll the dice. By that time though, hours later, the opportunity was gone.
If I were smart enough to drive a large National bank into failure I would have been compensated with hundreds of millions of times that seven dollars. If I were nakedly aggressive or unscrupulous I would have had thousands of times that seven dollars. Or if I poured myself into a meaningless, socially detrimental occupation I would have had a hundred thousand times that seven dollars. But I am just a worker so I don’t really even have the seven dollars.
When people offered their sympathy for the horrors I used to endure I would glibly reply that all was nothing six or seven martinis couldn’t fix, though sometimes now I think those words may have been profound. The martinis didn’t make anything better, but they made me feel better, and either way two years later I still don’t have the seven bucks to change.
Saturday, January 31, 2009
Cotton Candy/ Cobweb Mélange
Once, on the phone, a guy described it as an Elephant Burying Ground which of course could have been almost justly misinterpreted to mean a place where old people go to expire and have parasitic estate dealers rummage through their hoard. But being the kind that he was I understood it immediately as a creepy place that one mishaps upon through unruly circumstance only to discover ghastly mementos kept from our knowledge by beings with a sounder grasp of the general futility and suffering of it all.
Sometimes it seems like the only rule around here is unrelenting exception. You’ll be soothed upon spotting a well jacketed business man in a café only to reveal his coat pocket adorned with greasy screwdrivers and half smoked cigars. Or a sundressed blonde will smile down at you when asked driving directions to reveal nostrils bulging like a basket of avocados with antiquated mucous. It doesn’t end when you notice that the slender, lisping shopkeeper is sporting a seven pound bronze Skoal belt buckle: It doesn’t end when the one Mercedes in town turns out to have a rotting garbage smell to it when you walk by on a hot day: And it doesn’t end when you see the father who lives down the street riding his eight year old’s bicycle with a paper bagged pint in his hand. The guarded responses these people offer when greeted are not indifference, they’re suspicion coupled with a snap analysis of their own firearm’s load.
You can catch glimpses of how it all came to be, too. As you’re driving by sometimes there will be an empty lot or a field and you’ll realize what used to be here: nothing. Scrubland. Palm trees and the kind of hard grass that would saw off a toe through flip-flops. It’s all just backstage behind the tourist catalogue shoot where skill and effort is applied with cakes of makeup to dress up the fetid appendage oozing on the inner thigh of the country. And these are the people who sprung from it. Or worse, came to it. Like me.
Sometimes it seems like the only rule around here is unrelenting exception. You’ll be soothed upon spotting a well jacketed business man in a café only to reveal his coat pocket adorned with greasy screwdrivers and half smoked cigars. Or a sundressed blonde will smile down at you when asked driving directions to reveal nostrils bulging like a basket of avocados with antiquated mucous. It doesn’t end when you notice that the slender, lisping shopkeeper is sporting a seven pound bronze Skoal belt buckle: It doesn’t end when the one Mercedes in town turns out to have a rotting garbage smell to it when you walk by on a hot day: And it doesn’t end when you see the father who lives down the street riding his eight year old’s bicycle with a paper bagged pint in his hand. The guarded responses these people offer when greeted are not indifference, they’re suspicion coupled with a snap analysis of their own firearm’s load.
You can catch glimpses of how it all came to be, too. As you’re driving by sometimes there will be an empty lot or a field and you’ll realize what used to be here: nothing. Scrubland. Palm trees and the kind of hard grass that would saw off a toe through flip-flops. It’s all just backstage behind the tourist catalogue shoot where skill and effort is applied with cakes of makeup to dress up the fetid appendage oozing on the inner thigh of the country. And these are the people who sprung from it. Or worse, came to it. Like me.
Friday, January 23, 2009
I Was Thinking That Abandoning and Discovering Ideas May Just Be Shades of the Same Thing
I woke up at the same time this morning but this time it was a little earlier so I took a moment to listen. To the news and birds. And some music. It all kind of made me feel like I thought adults would feel when I was little.
I wonder if being French is the answer to being American.
Your love is a soap bubble in a twister and my arms are a meddlesome bumble bee in the cockpit of a helicopter hovering in its vortex.
People’s torsos and trunks weren’t lining up again today. This time some were also on backward and one woman in line at the grocery store had two. I wonder if it’s getting worse.
I wonder if being French is the answer to being American.
Your love is a soap bubble in a twister and my arms are a meddlesome bumble bee in the cockpit of a helicopter hovering in its vortex.
People’s torsos and trunks weren’t lining up again today. This time some were also on backward and one woman in line at the grocery store had two. I wonder if it’s getting worse.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Next Ham
The only reason I had the job was to see for myself how this store around the corner stayed in business. I couldn’t imagine how these people kept their doors open, unless they were a front for the mob or a cardboard set for a John Watters movie or something.
So of course all I discover is that not only are there idiots out there dim enough to speculate their dead grandfather’s hard earned money on a softball, Prozac-housewife idea like a spiral cut ham store, but also that the only thing the average American can turn his TV off long enough for is to drive around the corner and pick up a frickin’ spiral cut ham. Incredible.
Of course all the businesses ideas I came up with were good ones. That’s why they never succeeded. If I opened a store selling flannel and silk garden hose cozies I’d probably be writing this from a private 747.
So last night on the way home from getting smacked in the face by my ATM I noticed an office holding some sort of new years celebration, which sent me driving home to put on a nice shirt. Back at the door I turned to a guy who looked like he was about to ask me who I was and said I thought Caruthers was out here for some reason, give me a hand finding him, will ya’? And of course the guy turned and disappeared and I was in. People seemed to be mingling in a predictably awkward way, the 30 year old music was just enough to get the white guys doing their weird wiggle and the sheet cake and meatballs looked like they would be happy to start an argument in just about anybody’s lower GI tract without discriminating.
Fielding and sweeping up little pieces of conversation these people turned out to be regional transportation brokers for CSX; Large and stable enough. A few minutes later I turned to laugh at one of Cindy’s personnel department anecdotes and mentioned that a friend had just come on board and was asked for an ID when he came to say hello at my office. She was nice enough to mention that the attendant at the photo ID office was still in at this hour and if Tim was around he could just step in and take care of it. After my photo was taken the guard congratulated me and mentioned that he’d look forward to seeing me on Monday at 8;30 where he offered new hires a ten minute security briefing.
In 24 days I’ll have dental.
So of course all I discover is that not only are there idiots out there dim enough to speculate their dead grandfather’s hard earned money on a softball, Prozac-housewife idea like a spiral cut ham store, but also that the only thing the average American can turn his TV off long enough for is to drive around the corner and pick up a frickin’ spiral cut ham. Incredible.
Of course all the businesses ideas I came up with were good ones. That’s why they never succeeded. If I opened a store selling flannel and silk garden hose cozies I’d probably be writing this from a private 747.
So last night on the way home from getting smacked in the face by my ATM I noticed an office holding some sort of new years celebration, which sent me driving home to put on a nice shirt. Back at the door I turned to a guy who looked like he was about to ask me who I was and said I thought Caruthers was out here for some reason, give me a hand finding him, will ya’? And of course the guy turned and disappeared and I was in. People seemed to be mingling in a predictably awkward way, the 30 year old music was just enough to get the white guys doing their weird wiggle and the sheet cake and meatballs looked like they would be happy to start an argument in just about anybody’s lower GI tract without discriminating.
Fielding and sweeping up little pieces of conversation these people turned out to be regional transportation brokers for CSX; Large and stable enough. A few minutes later I turned to laugh at one of Cindy’s personnel department anecdotes and mentioned that a friend had just come on board and was asked for an ID when he came to say hello at my office. She was nice enough to mention that the attendant at the photo ID office was still in at this hour and if Tim was around he could just step in and take care of it. After my photo was taken the guard congratulated me and mentioned that he’d look forward to seeing me on Monday at 8;30 where he offered new hires a ten minute security briefing.
In 24 days I’ll have dental.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Mammals In Their Habitats
Today there was an accident on the long bridge I traverse home from work and I found all traffic stopped, so I pulled over on the embankment approaching it to wait for things to clear. As I sat on a Jersey barrier facing the bay, a pod of dolphins swam by me more than several times. I was able to lean over and see one, at times less than ten feet away. Once, he swam by very slowly on his side and we shared about ten seconds of eye contact, the exchange distinct enough for me to know that we were engaged in a clear but very subtle and intuitive gesture of non-hostility.
As the dolphins lollygagged about the surface I noticed that they all had deep crevices which ran along their bodies and gouged their fins. It made me sad to think that I was looking at animals which bore the scars of their proximity to humans. They were so intent on play that it was hard to imagine their finding time to forage and hunt. I didn’t think they should have to worry about anything else.
The dolphins went on to address more pressing matters and the traffic dispersed while I stepped back to my car. As drivers we filed past ambulances, fire trucks and a long, sleek white sheet pulled over a body.
Squinting into the sun I found myself wondering if that dolphin was empathizing.
As the dolphins lollygagged about the surface I noticed that they all had deep crevices which ran along their bodies and gouged their fins. It made me sad to think that I was looking at animals which bore the scars of their proximity to humans. They were so intent on play that it was hard to imagine their finding time to forage and hunt. I didn’t think they should have to worry about anything else.
The dolphins went on to address more pressing matters and the traffic dispersed while I stepped back to my car. As drivers we filed past ambulances, fire trucks and a long, sleek white sheet pulled over a body.
Squinting into the sun I found myself wondering if that dolphin was empathizing.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Street Sweeper
Most of the time I would have remembered, but somehow I found myself holed up in Richmond with the Hawaiian Schefelera and a pile of bologna wrappers. I think there was an after hours club somewhere, going out a bit before the clubs shut was ok and I could sleep through afternoon. The lesbian down the hall would knock on my door sometimes, and I think some of my early flip book drawings were passed under her door in jest.
Most days had me lonely lonely lonely. My face was plastered on me then. I think the flying gate was the only bike I had, before I put the old Super Record on it, I rode with some guys from UofR who were trying to start a velo team. They thought I was in much better shape than I was. The bike only got out one or two days a week anyway, so there was more time in the room.
My old friend Cindy wanted to know why the girl down the hall plead to come out with us, sounded incredulous when I told her, maybe excited. She winked towards my bed on the floor.
The brownstone was high-ceilinged and had nice breezes, passing out in the kitchen or den bothered no one. One couple downstairs was shooting and the lesbian told me she wanted to try. I asked her not to and she didn’t, came to listen to my radio one night.
I had a police scanner with two shortbands as well. There was an Israeli show at five in the morning, European House that we enjoyed. Not wanting the lesbian felt fine, she slept nicely in my arms: had been abused by her father and carried a gun in her purse for that.
The police were always at our door. That was still the South then, in the 70's, crew cutted good old boys not much for our sort of abandon, some things coming to us just a little to easy. They were waiting.
Once the door in the room opened to a patio but now it is gone. A summer day the lesbian and I pryed its painted jam and sat in our underwear legs dangling the alley. The sun was beating the needles down the hall into a plan.
The lesbian said no so I left for Israel myself. Cindy tried to take care of her but she finally stepped onto the lanai.
Most days had me lonely lonely lonely. My face was plastered on me then. I think the flying gate was the only bike I had, before I put the old Super Record on it, I rode with some guys from UofR who were trying to start a velo team. They thought I was in much better shape than I was. The bike only got out one or two days a week anyway, so there was more time in the room.
My old friend Cindy wanted to know why the girl down the hall plead to come out with us, sounded incredulous when I told her, maybe excited. She winked towards my bed on the floor.
The brownstone was high-ceilinged and had nice breezes, passing out in the kitchen or den bothered no one. One couple downstairs was shooting and the lesbian told me she wanted to try. I asked her not to and she didn’t, came to listen to my radio one night.
I had a police scanner with two shortbands as well. There was an Israeli show at five in the morning, European House that we enjoyed. Not wanting the lesbian felt fine, she slept nicely in my arms: had been abused by her father and carried a gun in her purse for that.
The police were always at our door. That was still the South then, in the 70's, crew cutted good old boys not much for our sort of abandon, some things coming to us just a little to easy. They were waiting.
Once the door in the room opened to a patio but now it is gone. A summer day the lesbian and I pryed its painted jam and sat in our underwear legs dangling the alley. The sun was beating the needles down the hall into a plan.
The lesbian said no so I left for Israel myself. Cindy tried to take care of her but she finally stepped onto the lanai.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Necrophilia
The stewardess turned mid word and caught herself saying Sir, realized that I didn’t intend to appear belligerent, wouldn’t want to ask me to disembark for that. Smiling askew I fumbled my bags overhead reaching inside for the vile, elsewhere everyone settled in. The fitted polyester uniform swaying the isle, finally looking down to Her smile.
I felt her looking and didn’t want to. Three pills came from my pocket and a tiny bottle of bourbon. Then, as our plane taxied we came to rest at the runway with brakes locked and engines revving. “This is the best part”, her eyes held my flashing glee. Smiling in acceleration I opened the bottle to find her hand grasping mine, opening the palm. The plane tilted upwards as she nodded, indicating two pills be returned to the vile.
In the white silence of Pratt and Whitneys, succumbing to the give of flex and fold brushing whispers back into me. Then hours later, just another unexpected landing.
I felt her looking and didn’t want to. Three pills came from my pocket and a tiny bottle of bourbon. Then, as our plane taxied we came to rest at the runway with brakes locked and engines revving. “This is the best part”, her eyes held my flashing glee. Smiling in acceleration I opened the bottle to find her hand grasping mine, opening the palm. The plane tilted upwards as she nodded, indicating two pills be returned to the vile.
In the white silence of Pratt and Whitneys, succumbing to the give of flex and fold brushing whispers back into me. Then hours later, just another unexpected landing.
Friday, November 16, 2007
Past Light Cone
I had never spoken to Ray, the guy who sat behind me in Algebra, but I read about him in the newspaper. Apparently he had been hanging out with friends at one of their house’s when someone discovered what they thought to be an older brother’s cocaine stash. After inhaling the entire quantity between them they quickly succumbed to the affects of PCB and one by one fell into a deep comatose state. Just before collapse one of the girls had dialed 911 and Ray, hearing this, miracously climbed into the attic and hid there until paramedics found the open door to climb in and administer cardio pulmonary ressesutation. That, to me, represented a certain level of experience and dedication.
Our Algebra class took place after lunch and I frequently smelled booze on Ray. That, Ray’s reputation as an ass kicker and the fact that he was older and had an easy hundred pounds on me combined quite effectively to instill draw clenching fear every time I sat down. Still, I knew that if liquor was detected in our vicinity the blame would certainly fall on him since no one at the time suspected I was drinking my lunch. I would have let that happen too as I knew that the address given with the police report had listed Ray as living at some church, and I imagined a poor derelict orphan rattling around echoing halls badgered by clergymen to do homework. I didn’t care what happened to him.
In the silence of our first Algebra test a finger in my ribs pushed me to the side of my chair. I understood and let him copy my answers.
The school was undergoing a large renovation project then so afterwards I ducked into a construction zone for a smoke. When I was done Ray was just heading in, surprised to see someone like me there. As we stood for a moment he looked over and said “cool”. I knew he was talking about the exam.
*********************************
I was a loner yet also a bit of a loose cannon, and there happened to be a rather pleasurable circumstance with a nicely formed specimen which had gone awry. I didn’t blame her but apparently that generosity of spirit was not reciprocated. During an inopportune moment surrounded by many people she accused me in a loud tone of being gay, and I let loose. The verbal assault attracted a great deal of attention, including that of some athlete type senior year dork in the mood to play night in shining armor. Undeterred I went on as this guy came in for my neck, but just as he was about to land he was yanked from the ground. Ray. After the smoke cleared a gym coach came through the waning crowd and asked me if she called me a “fag”. I confirmed that and he smiled and said “well done. I didn’t see a thing”. Imagine, a coach and a 225 pound juvenile delinquent abandoning their differences to come to my side? The feeling of that sort of comradery during my time of duress has stuck with me to this day.
Last night I was hanging out with a bunch of guys down by the cay. We were all more than a bit schnockered and feeling pretty good. I didn’t know everyone but, you know, I knew someone that everyone knew. One of the guys I didn’t found it necessary to grab his guitar and smash it against a tree. I thought to myself What an impetuous fool, stay away from that one. And then I remembered Algebra, how I had been deceived by my early impressions, understood that all I knew about this guy was that he
harmed nothing but his own guitar.
It turns out that Ray truly was the orphan I imagined him to be, and to many people made the mistake I did in class. So now, even though I’ve forgotten most of the Algebra, I’m going to remember the sentiment and see if I can save the next guitar.
Our Algebra class took place after lunch and I frequently smelled booze on Ray. That, Ray’s reputation as an ass kicker and the fact that he was older and had an easy hundred pounds on me combined quite effectively to instill draw clenching fear every time I sat down. Still, I knew that if liquor was detected in our vicinity the blame would certainly fall on him since no one at the time suspected I was drinking my lunch. I would have let that happen too as I knew that the address given with the police report had listed Ray as living at some church, and I imagined a poor derelict orphan rattling around echoing halls badgered by clergymen to do homework. I didn’t care what happened to him.
In the silence of our first Algebra test a finger in my ribs pushed me to the side of my chair. I understood and let him copy my answers.
The school was undergoing a large renovation project then so afterwards I ducked into a construction zone for a smoke. When I was done Ray was just heading in, surprised to see someone like me there. As we stood for a moment he looked over and said “cool”. I knew he was talking about the exam.
*********************************
I was a loner yet also a bit of a loose cannon, and there happened to be a rather pleasurable circumstance with a nicely formed specimen which had gone awry. I didn’t blame her but apparently that generosity of spirit was not reciprocated. During an inopportune moment surrounded by many people she accused me in a loud tone of being gay, and I let loose. The verbal assault attracted a great deal of attention, including that of some athlete type senior year dork in the mood to play night in shining armor. Undeterred I went on as this guy came in for my neck, but just as he was about to land he was yanked from the ground. Ray. After the smoke cleared a gym coach came through the waning crowd and asked me if she called me a “fag”. I confirmed that and he smiled and said “well done. I didn’t see a thing”. Imagine, a coach and a 225 pound juvenile delinquent abandoning their differences to come to my side? The feeling of that sort of comradery during my time of duress has stuck with me to this day.
Last night I was hanging out with a bunch of guys down by the cay. We were all more than a bit schnockered and feeling pretty good. I didn’t know everyone but, you know, I knew someone that everyone knew. One of the guys I didn’t found it necessary to grab his guitar and smash it against a tree. I thought to myself What an impetuous fool, stay away from that one. And then I remembered Algebra, how I had been deceived by my early impressions, understood that all I knew about this guy was that he
harmed nothing but his own guitar.
It turns out that Ray truly was the orphan I imagined him to be, and to many people made the mistake I did in class. So now, even though I’ve forgotten most of the Algebra, I’m going to remember the sentiment and see if I can save the next guitar.
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Constitution
For the past four weeks I’ve been aboard the unregistered Pacific Seacraft Dana marked Collette off the coast of Eastern Central America. The waters have been, for the most part, calm and delightful. As I’ve tacked easily across the Gulf schools of fishes have been traveling afoot as I’ve teased them with my fly rod, using circle hooks to ensure that most could be safely released. Because the owner has installed a propane refrigerator I have had reliable food storage so I take about one fish every other day. On the first day I have sashimi then throughout the second and sometimes the third I have yaki sakana and ceviche. Other than that I read, listen to shortwave radio and scan the horizon, always beset with guilt for not doing so for fear of missing a distressed vessel or crewman.
Though I have experienced remarkable sites during this delivery I have not enjoyed the sensation of sharing them. I have painstakingly corroded two circuits on my radio to provide an explanation should the Coast Guard board Collette. I do not watch TV or movies. The lapping of wave on hull is small comfort to my ears.
Very Large Crude Carriers known as Panamax or VLCCs frequent these waters, and sometimes when I go to sleep I wonder if I will succumb to their inertia and mass, woken only to drown among sunken fiberglass splinters. I’m sure I would not be the first and only wonder how many Chinese junks Collette would join in heaven.
Unforeseen factors aside I will birth in Miami in three days. Before then I will adjust the aspiration on the spotless Volvo diesel and test, analyze and monitor the entire electrical system. I will polish teak with lamp oil and eat from cans to maintain a spotless deck. Within one day’s sail I will no longer allow weary birds to rest aboard ship as they will be well within land’s and other’s reach.
On the morning of the last day I will also uncleat collette’s halyard and lower the jib, spray it with fresh water, allow it to luff dry, then stow it below. Within an hour of port I will do the same with her mainsail. Both will be inspected carefully beforehand.
Shortly before port I will shower and don a ridiculously pretentious nautical cap, blazer and slacks. I will wave only to sailors, then motor in awkwardly so that my skills appear to match my outfit, cleat up and come ashore. I will hand the keys to Collette’s cabin and electrical system to a man who has been hired specifically for the occasion to relive the harbor master, strip off my cap and glasses in a rented car and disappear into traffic.
Twelve hours later a flight, a bus ride and a cab will bring me to the cottage. I will double check my pockets and backpack for any paper, put my marlinspike in a drawer and step on the scale in my bathroom. As the mechanical dial spins I will take a deep breath, hear my weight finally register and come back into being to prepare for my bed. In Vermont. Impossibly inland from VLCCs.
Though I have experienced remarkable sites during this delivery I have not enjoyed the sensation of sharing them. I have painstakingly corroded two circuits on my radio to provide an explanation should the Coast Guard board Collette. I do not watch TV or movies. The lapping of wave on hull is small comfort to my ears.
Very Large Crude Carriers known as Panamax or VLCCs frequent these waters, and sometimes when I go to sleep I wonder if I will succumb to their inertia and mass, woken only to drown among sunken fiberglass splinters. I’m sure I would not be the first and only wonder how many Chinese junks Collette would join in heaven.
Unforeseen factors aside I will birth in Miami in three days. Before then I will adjust the aspiration on the spotless Volvo diesel and test, analyze and monitor the entire electrical system. I will polish teak with lamp oil and eat from cans to maintain a spotless deck. Within one day’s sail I will no longer allow weary birds to rest aboard ship as they will be well within land’s and other’s reach.
On the morning of the last day I will also uncleat collette’s halyard and lower the jib, spray it with fresh water, allow it to luff dry, then stow it below. Within an hour of port I will do the same with her mainsail. Both will be inspected carefully beforehand.
Shortly before port I will shower and don a ridiculously pretentious nautical cap, blazer and slacks. I will wave only to sailors, then motor in awkwardly so that my skills appear to match my outfit, cleat up and come ashore. I will hand the keys to Collette’s cabin and electrical system to a man who has been hired specifically for the occasion to relive the harbor master, strip off my cap and glasses in a rented car and disappear into traffic.
Twelve hours later a flight, a bus ride and a cab will bring me to the cottage. I will double check my pockets and backpack for any paper, put my marlinspike in a drawer and step on the scale in my bathroom. As the mechanical dial spins I will take a deep breath, hear my weight finally register and come back into being to prepare for my bed. In Vermont. Impossibly inland from VLCCs.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Theft
If you’ve never heard Foghat’s “Smoke on the Water” you’re probably an Amish farmer reading a computer screen for the first time or one of those Japanese soldiers they found on Iwojima ignorant of the outcome of WWII, so none of this is going to make any sense to you.
The rest of you recognize this Rock anthem from Beavis and Butthead, every stoner movie made, or heard it blasting from that primered El Camino the weird guy who hangs out downtown drives.
My brother and I witnessed the introduction of this beacon of pop ignorance around the time we were in junior high and of course recognized it for the genius that it was.
Our father, having studied bassoon throughout his youth and early adulthood was unaware of “Smoke on the Water”, or pretty much anything that came along after the Gutenberg press.
We used to get to tag along with him when he performed at The New York City Ballet, which of course meant a chance at a brief interlude with a Balanchine-sexy ballerina. There was other cool stuff about that too, like seeing Lincoln Center from the pit and watching Dad warm up for the show. One by one musicians would wander in to tune, toot or pluck their instruments into shape while the audience awaited the conductor.
You know where this is going, right?
The house is packed and silent: Dad is the first musician in the pit; he assembles his bassoon, arranges the evening’s sheet music and plays the first five or six bars of “Smoke”. People said they could hear the audience roar all the way from the fountain.
Everyone knew who put my Dad up to this and Roderick and I were pelted with admiration like rose petals on matadors in the musician’s lounge that night.
.
The rest of you recognize this Rock anthem from Beavis and Butthead, every stoner movie made, or heard it blasting from that primered El Camino the weird guy who hangs out downtown drives.
My brother and I witnessed the introduction of this beacon of pop ignorance around the time we were in junior high and of course recognized it for the genius that it was.
Our father, having studied bassoon throughout his youth and early adulthood was unaware of “Smoke on the Water”, or pretty much anything that came along after the Gutenberg press.
We used to get to tag along with him when he performed at The New York City Ballet, which of course meant a chance at a brief interlude with a Balanchine-sexy ballerina. There was other cool stuff about that too, like seeing Lincoln Center from the pit and watching Dad warm up for the show. One by one musicians would wander in to tune, toot or pluck their instruments into shape while the audience awaited the conductor.
You know where this is going, right?
The house is packed and silent: Dad is the first musician in the pit; he assembles his bassoon, arranges the evening’s sheet music and plays the first five or six bars of “Smoke”. People said they could hear the audience roar all the way from the fountain.
Everyone knew who put my Dad up to this and Roderick and I were pelted with admiration like rose petals on matadors in the musician’s lounge that night.
.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Quill
Occasionally, if you’re unfortunate enough to live through a couple of lifetimes of the usual pitfalls, you’ll come across a decent soul who sees whatever the hell it was in you that you never saw yourself. I’ve been around without the chemicals long enough to realize the guilt of having two of those: It’s heartwarming and it sucks, that’s all.
One has found me opportunity and the other is attempting to find me work. As a writer. People think of me as a writer. I can’t reconcile my humility when I hear them say so, but to me it is a glamour that no Hollywood Star will ever know upon red carpet or otherwise.
The embrace of all this kneads in me like flower and yeast, rising.
One has found me opportunity and the other is attempting to find me work. As a writer. People think of me as a writer. I can’t reconcile my humility when I hear them say so, but to me it is a glamour that no Hollywood Star will ever know upon red carpet or otherwise.
The embrace of all this kneads in me like flower and yeast, rising.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Ecological responsibility, Red Goshawks and the 19 plastic box cutters that conquered the most powerful army ever to exist
I’m one of those environmentally conscious people who bicycles instead of driving, separates all his recyclables, boycotts products made by large corporations known to commit atrocities against mother earth and eats as low on the food chain as possible in order to conserve this small blue planet we live upon. I was a member of the international retired Olympic relay swim team that swam the Mac G3 hard drive under the US coast guard’s radar and into Cuba from Mexico in order to revise the sugar refinement technology of that socialist country.
But you know what…I’m not doing any of that crap anymore. What is the sense in it all? Mere perpetuation of the planet, the people who will continue to mess it up and the other detritus that was here before us? I simply can’t see the value in that. Am I to leave my ’67 Ford F10 in the garage just so some smiling infant can grow up to guzzle the petroleum I’ve conserved for her? Or maybe I should forego using antibiotics when I’ve some disease just so that particular strain won’t become more virulent and compromise the teeny bit of life remaining in some octogenarian who pillaged the women of the French countryside during WWI. It’s all idiotic.
And don’t think you’re some particular breed of intellect because you’ve read that idiot Sartre and you think I’m just regurgitating his drunken blather. Because you and I both know that if he was around today he’d be writing editorials for Harpers, spending $37 for a loaf of whole wheat stone pulped peasant bread from Dean and Deluca’s and mail ordering 12 year old boys from Laos .
But you know what? All kidding aside, starting this very minute I’m living it up. I’ve got the frikin’ truck idling in the driveway right now just so the AC will be nice and chilly when I step into it. I made out holiday cards bestowing lavish donations to the NRA in the name of all my friends. I’m going into town tonight to buy 15 bags of heroin and a rig, and I’m going to teach myself how to use it without any assistance. I’m itchin to make an omelet out of a California Condor egg. And if I live long enough I’m going to vote for that Mitt guy.
So cheers to all the amputated limbs we’ll be leaving behind in Iraq and then Iran, how’do’you’do to the Andean herders who’ve shed their skins under the ozone hole and pleased to meet you to the silos of multi-headed nuclear and nerve gas infused missiles of Omaha and Nebraska.
If anyone needs me I’ll be out in my ’47 Hataras harpooning bottlenose dolphins with incendiary harpoon tips.
But you know what…I’m not doing any of that crap anymore. What is the sense in it all? Mere perpetuation of the planet, the people who will continue to mess it up and the other detritus that was here before us? I simply can’t see the value in that. Am I to leave my ’67 Ford F10 in the garage just so some smiling infant can grow up to guzzle the petroleum I’ve conserved for her? Or maybe I should forego using antibiotics when I’ve some disease just so that particular strain won’t become more virulent and compromise the teeny bit of life remaining in some octogenarian who pillaged the women of the French countryside during WWI. It’s all idiotic.
And don’t think you’re some particular breed of intellect because you’ve read that idiot Sartre and you think I’m just regurgitating his drunken blather. Because you and I both know that if he was around today he’d be writing editorials for Harpers, spending $37 for a loaf of whole wheat stone pulped peasant bread from Dean and Deluca’s and mail ordering 12 year old boys from Laos .
But you know what? All kidding aside, starting this very minute I’m living it up. I’ve got the frikin’ truck idling in the driveway right now just so the AC will be nice and chilly when I step into it. I made out holiday cards bestowing lavish donations to the NRA in the name of all my friends. I’m going into town tonight to buy 15 bags of heroin and a rig, and I’m going to teach myself how to use it without any assistance. I’m itchin to make an omelet out of a California Condor egg. And if I live long enough I’m going to vote for that Mitt guy.
So cheers to all the amputated limbs we’ll be leaving behind in Iraq and then Iran, how’do’you’do to the Andean herders who’ve shed their skins under the ozone hole and pleased to meet you to the silos of multi-headed nuclear and nerve gas infused missiles of Omaha and Nebraska.
If anyone needs me I’ll be out in my ’47 Hataras harpooning bottlenose dolphins with incendiary harpoon tips.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Global Warming Melted the Snowcaps so Now We Can See the Mountaintops More Clearly
Many years ago a boy grew up among a dusty Pueblo in New Mexico crooked between a gas station, a small market and a five-and-dime. The boy had sun kissed cheeks and felt nothing between his heels and the earth his family worked and lived upon. Together on Sundays they walked eight miles to church, holding hands, breathing the day and feeling their Sabbath clothing. The boy walking next to his father, the man’s passion for faith flowing down through his hand and into his son’s. As the boy knew crops rose to the sun, that night came after day he also knew he would become a preacher.
Far from the Pueblo his cracked and dated valise held all but his faith. He felt the big city, overlooked vice and embraced the people and their ways. He preached in a small storefront, was offered morning hours on a local radio station. Soon, all the other girls and boys who felt the earth of their Pueblos while growing up listened to the boy and remembered their churches and helped fill the city with kindnesses.
In much the same way a small Belgian farmer’s son worked and learned alongside his father. Their family tilled the land, and the father had a small tractor repair behind the house were he offered honest maintenance to the machines of the community. That boy knew also, as a stone falls to earth or an object in motion will come to rest, that he would grow to be an engineer.
As both boys grew the world became smaller and the possibilities of all we could accomplish as one emerged. And through this truer spirit of freedom, ingenuity and thought the boy from the Pueblo preached to his fellows. He taught and listened, and understood that he had been granted by them their leadership. But others to far away who never felt the earth and only knew cold cities became afraid.
Our Belgian mechanist embraced his fathers tenacity and craft, and was renowned for solving difficult technical problems. His disciplined mind addressed only it’s task, as was the way of a good scientist. Three of these tasks, however, led to the design of firearms. And these were drawn and produced to operate with the reliability and precision of a tractor repaired in a farmhouse shed by a man who knew that a family’s well-being relied on its operation.
In Los Angeles the boy held forth hope and led the children of Pueblos to embrace, forgive and accomplish all that God had put in their hearts. He asked them to glimpse a far-off vision of where their faith and patience and labor could take them. A thirst grew for this simple, natural spirit and the boy would travel about to quench it and lead the hands of people to that of God’s.
One other boy grew up. He had lived with many families. He spoke of no father. He gave no thought to his future which one day led him to the back seat of a Plymouth, across from a small, seedy hotel, with a Belgian rifle designed by John Browning in his lap.
The hopes of the Pueblos and the purity of a father's son spilled that day on the hotel’s cement balcony, dried, and disappeared from the earth. Today small boys in Pueblos wear Chinese shoes and watch television. Belgian fields are tilled, plowed, sown and reaped by maintenance free machines manned by computers. And father’s hands hold bars now, not children.
Every year that April fourth passes silently we fail all three.
Far from the Pueblo his cracked and dated valise held all but his faith. He felt the big city, overlooked vice and embraced the people and their ways. He preached in a small storefront, was offered morning hours on a local radio station. Soon, all the other girls and boys who felt the earth of their Pueblos while growing up listened to the boy and remembered their churches and helped fill the city with kindnesses.
In much the same way a small Belgian farmer’s son worked and learned alongside his father. Their family tilled the land, and the father had a small tractor repair behind the house were he offered honest maintenance to the machines of the community. That boy knew also, as a stone falls to earth or an object in motion will come to rest, that he would grow to be an engineer.
As both boys grew the world became smaller and the possibilities of all we could accomplish as one emerged. And through this truer spirit of freedom, ingenuity and thought the boy from the Pueblo preached to his fellows. He taught and listened, and understood that he had been granted by them their leadership. But others to far away who never felt the earth and only knew cold cities became afraid.
Our Belgian mechanist embraced his fathers tenacity and craft, and was renowned for solving difficult technical problems. His disciplined mind addressed only it’s task, as was the way of a good scientist. Three of these tasks, however, led to the design of firearms. And these were drawn and produced to operate with the reliability and precision of a tractor repaired in a farmhouse shed by a man who knew that a family’s well-being relied on its operation.
In Los Angeles the boy held forth hope and led the children of Pueblos to embrace, forgive and accomplish all that God had put in their hearts. He asked them to glimpse a far-off vision of where their faith and patience and labor could take them. A thirst grew for this simple, natural spirit and the boy would travel about to quench it and lead the hands of people to that of God’s.
One other boy grew up. He had lived with many families. He spoke of no father. He gave no thought to his future which one day led him to the back seat of a Plymouth, across from a small, seedy hotel, with a Belgian rifle designed by John Browning in his lap.
The hopes of the Pueblos and the purity of a father's son spilled that day on the hotel’s cement balcony, dried, and disappeared from the earth. Today small boys in Pueblos wear Chinese shoes and watch television. Belgian fields are tilled, plowed, sown and reaped by maintenance free machines manned by computers. And father’s hands hold bars now, not children.
Every year that April fourth passes silently we fail all three.
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