Chapter 6 - The Beginning of Knowing
While he slept, the cool, thin water swirled around him, and Stewart dreamed. Dreams were new to him. They weren’t scary, like some unknown world suddenly dropped on him from the sky. And they weren’t terrorizing like the hunting rock, or suspicious like the shadow. They were new…and old…at the same time.
In his dreams he swam in his pond and caught his meals and thought about what was beyond the green algae ceiling of his home. In his dreams he remembered things. Like small hands and big eyes and a gentle touch. He remembered clear, hard walls and tiny rocks and the smallest pond anyone could ever have to sit in. And he remembered shouting, being lifted very high in the air, and the fear of falling. He remembered the small hands reaching towards him. He remembered wanting them to take him down from the high place and put him back by his tiny pond beside the clear, hard walls. And he remembered sunshine and warm green algae and deep water filled with all sorts of places to hide. No shouting, no high places, and…no more small, warm hands and big eyes. He didn’t feel good about the last memory. Something about it was sad.
Stewart opened his eyes and looked at the surface of the pond. It glowed a faint light green. The sun was up, but not very high so the pond was still cool from the night. He crept to the edge of his shelf and looked down into the beyond. Not much moved in the darkness. The water swirled in slow circles around him as it made its way to the hunting rock. He looked up and then side to side before he pushed himself from the shelf and into the center of the pond. He was still the biggest swimming thing in it, now that the carp was dead.
He swam slowly, all his legs pressed against his sides and the base of his tail. The water slid past him as his whole body undulated from side to side, his long tail propelling him forward. When he saw something edible he swam faster, cornered it, and then ate it. But there were less and less things to catch. Even though it didn’t move, the hunting rock was better at catching its prey than he was. After all this time Stewart was sure the nasty rock took up the whole bottom of the pond.
Throughout the early morning he swam in lazy circles and thought. He did this every time the cool, thin water bathed him. It was in the swimming that he came to realize that he knew. And it was in the knowing that he was beginning to appreciate the cool, thin water. So it was this morning as well. He swam and he thought. As he circled the pond he stopped off on the few ledges and shelves that lined the pond, resting and investigating them. He rarely found anything new. But sometimes something would be different. Sometimes something from above would fall in. Other times a new plant would have started to grow. And still other times the shelf or ledge would have changed. The rock that made the walls of the pond was not very strong, though it was very flat. If the hunting rock sucked the water down too hard, or if the shadow hit the pond walls with its nasty stick, then the shelves and ledges often became different.
Stewart glided onto a shelf and settled himself. It was big and flat and broad. Nothing grew on it and nothing hid there because nothing grew there. It was a good place for resting and watching other things swim past, so he rested and he watched and he thought. And while he thought he realized that he knew something. He knew one of the voices from the day before. The smaller, higher voice. This bothered him and he lashed his tail. The voice had been angry and afraid. He had heard it before. It had been scared and angry then, as well. Remembering made him anxious and he lashed his tail again. Remembering made him fearful so he paced on the shelf. A dull, muted snap sounded behind him and he could feel the rock he stood on tilt and fall away. The old fear of falling from a high place flooded back so strong and sharp that he darted through the water like a fish to his sleeping shelf. He remembered small hands reaching and big eyes wide and watching. He knew. He knew. Those hands and those eyes had been taken somewhere.
He backed himself into the tightest part of his shelf and wedged himself into the smallest space he could find. His heart beat hard in his chest and this scared him even more than the knowing. Where had the hands and eyes gone? Why had they been yelling so scared outside of his pond?
Stewart pressed himself flat against the shelf and tried to become the rock he lay on. Suddenly his home was not safe and he didn’t know why. Suddenly he felt grief and fear and confusion all at once and he had no idea what they were. He closed his eyes and tried to think of other things, any things, things that were not himself.
Below his shelf, in the deepest part of the pond, the shale ledge that had cracked and fallen from beneath him settled against the outflow grate. The draw of water through the out flow pipe slowed. The system drew harder on the rock to no avail. Inside the Wurton Biologic Research Facilities building a message was generated and sent to a dozen email accounts regarding water pressure, time elapsed, estimated damage within an estimated time frame. No one noticed the email. They noticed the irritating alarm that beeped in the main control room 12 hours later. It was another 30 minutes before anyone actually responded.
~ Peace and knowing
Saturday, December 26, 2009
Chapter 5 of Joshua and Stewart's journey having begun on 11-24-09
Chapter 5 - Hidden
The darkness didn’t really bother him. At home darkness often meant security. No one could find him in the dark. If they couldn’t find him then they couldn’t mess with him. If they couldn’t mess with him then he could relax. And he did. The tight space beneath the counter, beside the file cabinet was just right for hiding. Joshua knew hiding places. No one would believe he could fit in here. He was good at fitting into tight places and disappearing. He disappeared a lot.
It wasn’t the dark that made him uncomfortable. It was the cold. At first the tight little space had felt warm, like the air outside. But the metal side of the file cabinet and the concrete wall he was squeezed between were cold and they pulled his body heat into themselves and gave nothing back. Goose bumps scattered over the skin of his arms and his legs. Shorts and a t-shirt had been fine outside in the summer sun. In here it was dry and air conditioned. He started to shiver.
He wasn’t sure he liked air conditioning. They didn’t have any at home. To keep cool his mother had bought a big fan shaped like a box and set it in front of the sliding glass doors to the balcony of their apartment. He loved to sit in front of it. The breeze it made was cool enough to feel better, but not too cool to make him shiver. He wanted to sleep on the floor in front of the fan, but instead of saying yes, his mother had chosen to scare him with horror stories of fans that fell on little children and pulled them into the plastic screen when their hair got caught in the fan blades. Her stories hadn’t scared him. His hair was too short to get caught and he knew it. But clothes could get caught in the blades. She had shown him that. It took him several long minuets to get the tattered t-shirt out of the fan blades. It was hard to pull the material out when the plastic grate was tight against your body. He never got close to the fan after that.
In the distance he heard a door shut followed by the clicking of the woman’s shoes. The lights in the hallway came on as she walked around the corner. She came to a stop in front of the room he was hiding in and stood there. Then she took two steps and the room lights came on, too. He watched as her shoes turned to go, turned back, and then turned and left, clicking their way further down the hall. Another door closed somewhere further along. When it grew quiet Joshua peeked out and looked around.
The room was mostly white and grey. There were four counters with stools tucked under them. There was stuff up on the counters, but he had no idea what the stuff was. There were cabinets by the room door and a big white thing on the wall. Someone had written a bunch of scribbles all over it. Next to it, hanging off the seat of another stool, was a white shirt. If he was quick and quiet, he could grab it and get back to his hiding place before anyone would know. The shirt would be warm. It would keep the cold air off his arms. If he tucked his legs up tight it might cover them, too. He squeezed out of the space and crawled as quickly as he could to the stool, snatched the shirt off the seat, and scrambled back as fast as he could go.
In the cramped hiding space he struggled to pull the shirt around his shoulders. He could hear the woman coming back, the door had opened and smacked the wall somewhere down the hall and her shoes were clicking towards his room again. He grabbed his ankle and pulled his left leg in as hard as he could. One of the shirt sleeves fell off his lap and into the lit space beyond his hiding place. She would see it if she looked. He reached out and jerked it, pulling it into his lap and holding his breath. Her shoes stopped in the doorway. They took a few steps into the room, stood quietly for a moment and then turned and left. Joshua held his breath, wanting the lights in the room to go out. Wanting the lights in the hall way to turn off. Wanting the darkness that would keep him safely hidden. A moment later the room went dark, and then the hall.
Joshua took a tentative breath. Nothing happened. He shivered a little less under the shirt in his tight little space and after ten minutes of silence and darkness he fell asleep.
~ Peace and security
The darkness didn’t really bother him. At home darkness often meant security. No one could find him in the dark. If they couldn’t find him then they couldn’t mess with him. If they couldn’t mess with him then he could relax. And he did. The tight space beneath the counter, beside the file cabinet was just right for hiding. Joshua knew hiding places. No one would believe he could fit in here. He was good at fitting into tight places and disappearing. He disappeared a lot.
It wasn’t the dark that made him uncomfortable. It was the cold. At first the tight little space had felt warm, like the air outside. But the metal side of the file cabinet and the concrete wall he was squeezed between were cold and they pulled his body heat into themselves and gave nothing back. Goose bumps scattered over the skin of his arms and his legs. Shorts and a t-shirt had been fine outside in the summer sun. In here it was dry and air conditioned. He started to shiver.
He wasn’t sure he liked air conditioning. They didn’t have any at home. To keep cool his mother had bought a big fan shaped like a box and set it in front of the sliding glass doors to the balcony of their apartment. He loved to sit in front of it. The breeze it made was cool enough to feel better, but not too cool to make him shiver. He wanted to sleep on the floor in front of the fan, but instead of saying yes, his mother had chosen to scare him with horror stories of fans that fell on little children and pulled them into the plastic screen when their hair got caught in the fan blades. Her stories hadn’t scared him. His hair was too short to get caught and he knew it. But clothes could get caught in the blades. She had shown him that. It took him several long minuets to get the tattered t-shirt out of the fan blades. It was hard to pull the material out when the plastic grate was tight against your body. He never got close to the fan after that.
In the distance he heard a door shut followed by the clicking of the woman’s shoes. The lights in the hallway came on as she walked around the corner. She came to a stop in front of the room he was hiding in and stood there. Then she took two steps and the room lights came on, too. He watched as her shoes turned to go, turned back, and then turned and left, clicking their way further down the hall. Another door closed somewhere further along. When it grew quiet Joshua peeked out and looked around.
The room was mostly white and grey. There were four counters with stools tucked under them. There was stuff up on the counters, but he had no idea what the stuff was. There were cabinets by the room door and a big white thing on the wall. Someone had written a bunch of scribbles all over it. Next to it, hanging off the seat of another stool, was a white shirt. If he was quick and quiet, he could grab it and get back to his hiding place before anyone would know. The shirt would be warm. It would keep the cold air off his arms. If he tucked his legs up tight it might cover them, too. He squeezed out of the space and crawled as quickly as he could to the stool, snatched the shirt off the seat, and scrambled back as fast as he could go.
In the cramped hiding space he struggled to pull the shirt around his shoulders. He could hear the woman coming back, the door had opened and smacked the wall somewhere down the hall and her shoes were clicking towards his room again. He grabbed his ankle and pulled his left leg in as hard as he could. One of the shirt sleeves fell off his lap and into the lit space beyond his hiding place. She would see it if she looked. He reached out and jerked it, pulling it into his lap and holding his breath. Her shoes stopped in the doorway. They took a few steps into the room, stood quietly for a moment and then turned and left. Joshua held his breath, wanting the lights in the room to go out. Wanting the lights in the hall way to turn off. Wanting the darkness that would keep him safely hidden. A moment later the room went dark, and then the hall.
Joshua took a tentative breath. Nothing happened. He shivered a little less under the shirt in his tight little space and after ten minutes of silence and darkness he fell asleep.
~ Peace and security
Monday, December 21, 2009
Chapter 4 of the Joshua/Stewart tale from 11-24-09
Chapter 4 - Escape Inside
The skinny woman who had grabbed him first held her right hand in her left while she ran behind the man who carried him now. Joshua had tried to bite the man, too, but the man’s coat was too thick. He knew it pinched, though, because the man had growled at him to knock it off or he would throw him in the pond. And even though the woman glared at Joshua as she pulled the door shut behind them, she had snapped at the man and told him to watch his mouth.
Since biting and kicking and screaming hadn’t worked, Joshua tried a new plan. He hung as limply as he could in the man’s grasp. His older sister had told him about a game she had played at a sleepover called “Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board”. She said the stiffer a person was the easier it was to lift them off the ground, even using only fingertips. She said it had worked the opposite way when they tried “Heavy as an Elephant, Limp as a Noodle”. Joshua imagined himself heavy like an elephant and made himself loose like a piece of cooked spaghetti. It seemed to be working because now the man was growling about how hard he was to carry. Suddenly he was dropped on the cold floor of the narrow hallway.
“What are you doing?” the woman snapped at the man.
“He’s too hard to carry this way,” the man snarled back. “I need to get a better grip.”
That was all Joshua needed. He got to his feet and ran down the hall.
“Hey!”
“You idiot! You couldn’t have made it another twenty yards? He’s what? Four? Five? You’re an adult! How can you not hold on to him that much longer?”
“Shut up, Natalie! You should talk! You had him first! I shouldn’t have had to come out there!”
“HE BIT ME!”
Joshua could hear the smack of the man’s shoes against the floor and the high click of the woman’s in between their shouting as they ran after him. He passed two doors that were closed and then a third. The hall seemed to end in another hall, but it was dark and he wasn’t sure he could get there before they caught up to him.
“Mason! Open the door! The kid’s loose!” the man yelled.
Joshua swallowed and then sprinted for the end of the hallway. A door on his left began to open and he tried to dodge it. A second man appeared in his peripheral vision.
“Come here, you,” the second man snarled, his hand brushing Joshua’s skin, his fingers just missing catching Joshua by the arm.
Joshua jerked his arm in to his chest, lost his balance for just a moment, nearly fell and then righted himself and scurried around the corner. The new hallway lit up as the lights were triggered by his movement. There were more doors in this hall. This time most of them were open. He darted through the second doorway, triggered another set of lights, and found himself in a room filled with counters and high stools. He could hear the first man screaming in the other hall.
“Close the door! He’s getting away! I can’t get through unless you close the damn door!”
Joshua looked around the room and saw a tight, shadowy place in the far corner and scrambled on all fours toward it. He heard the door in the hall slam and running feet. Just as the man reached the room, Joshua pulled his legs in against his body and held his breath.
The man stopped in front of the doorway. Joshua could just see the tips of the man’s shoes from where he was hiding. The man was breathing hard. He coughed twice like he needed a drink. There was a quick click, click, click outside in the hall and Joshua saw the woman’s shoes join the man’s.
“Mason said to leave him alone,” the woman said quietly. “He said the sensors will keep track of him. And he can’t get out. He doesn’t have a pass card.”
“You know, this is Mason’s fault. If he would have walked the fence line like he was supposed to this wouldn’t have happened…”
“Rob,” the woman had dropped her voice so low that Joshua could barely hear her. “Sensors, remember? This isn’t private.”
“Yeah, alright. Let’s go.”
The shoes turned and went back the way they had come. A few moments later the room light went out, another minute passed and the hall light went out, and the room Joshua was hiding in became pitch black.
~ Peace and sanctuary
The skinny woman who had grabbed him first held her right hand in her left while she ran behind the man who carried him now. Joshua had tried to bite the man, too, but the man’s coat was too thick. He knew it pinched, though, because the man had growled at him to knock it off or he would throw him in the pond. And even though the woman glared at Joshua as she pulled the door shut behind them, she had snapped at the man and told him to watch his mouth.
Since biting and kicking and screaming hadn’t worked, Joshua tried a new plan. He hung as limply as he could in the man’s grasp. His older sister had told him about a game she had played at a sleepover called “Light as a Feather, Stiff as a Board”. She said the stiffer a person was the easier it was to lift them off the ground, even using only fingertips. She said it had worked the opposite way when they tried “Heavy as an Elephant, Limp as a Noodle”. Joshua imagined himself heavy like an elephant and made himself loose like a piece of cooked spaghetti. It seemed to be working because now the man was growling about how hard he was to carry. Suddenly he was dropped on the cold floor of the narrow hallway.
“What are you doing?” the woman snapped at the man.
“He’s too hard to carry this way,” the man snarled back. “I need to get a better grip.”
That was all Joshua needed. He got to his feet and ran down the hall.
“Hey!”
“You idiot! You couldn’t have made it another twenty yards? He’s what? Four? Five? You’re an adult! How can you not hold on to him that much longer?”
“Shut up, Natalie! You should talk! You had him first! I shouldn’t have had to come out there!”
“HE BIT ME!”
Joshua could hear the smack of the man’s shoes against the floor and the high click of the woman’s in between their shouting as they ran after him. He passed two doors that were closed and then a third. The hall seemed to end in another hall, but it was dark and he wasn’t sure he could get there before they caught up to him.
“Mason! Open the door! The kid’s loose!” the man yelled.
Joshua swallowed and then sprinted for the end of the hallway. A door on his left began to open and he tried to dodge it. A second man appeared in his peripheral vision.
“Come here, you,” the second man snarled, his hand brushing Joshua’s skin, his fingers just missing catching Joshua by the arm.
Joshua jerked his arm in to his chest, lost his balance for just a moment, nearly fell and then righted himself and scurried around the corner. The new hallway lit up as the lights were triggered by his movement. There were more doors in this hall. This time most of them were open. He darted through the second doorway, triggered another set of lights, and found himself in a room filled with counters and high stools. He could hear the first man screaming in the other hall.
“Close the door! He’s getting away! I can’t get through unless you close the damn door!”
Joshua looked around the room and saw a tight, shadowy place in the far corner and scrambled on all fours toward it. He heard the door in the hall slam and running feet. Just as the man reached the room, Joshua pulled his legs in against his body and held his breath.
The man stopped in front of the doorway. Joshua could just see the tips of the man’s shoes from where he was hiding. The man was breathing hard. He coughed twice like he needed a drink. There was a quick click, click, click outside in the hall and Joshua saw the woman’s shoes join the man’s.
“Mason said to leave him alone,” the woman said quietly. “He said the sensors will keep track of him. And he can’t get out. He doesn’t have a pass card.”
“You know, this is Mason’s fault. If he would have walked the fence line like he was supposed to this wouldn’t have happened…”
“Rob,” the woman had dropped her voice so low that Joshua could barely hear her. “Sensors, remember? This isn’t private.”
“Yeah, alright. Let’s go.”
The shoes turned and went back the way they had come. A few moments later the room light went out, another minute passed and the hall light went out, and the room Joshua was hiding in became pitch black.
~ Peace and sanctuary
Friday, December 11, 2009
Chapter 3 - the beginning of this strange little tale starts on 11-24-09 and is titled "What Joshua Doesn't Know Won't Hurt Him"
Here's the third installment of the Joshua/Stewart story. I am beginning to see where this might go, though only time and the writing of it will tell if my inkling is correct. Comments? Thoughts? Concerns? I promise not to send you to the hunting rock if you're brave enough to post. :)
Chapter 3 - Shadows and New Water
There was a loud echoing clang, deep and round. Stewart opened his eyes and looked at the edge of the shelf he was resting on. Another deep metallic clink rang out and then the familiar sound of water moving away. He looked towards the surface. The shadow was there. The one that helped the beyond rock hunt.
Stewart moved to the back wall and followed it to the surface. The water moved here, too, but he could easily out swim the current. Through the green ceiling of algae he watched the shadow shift. He could hear the muted growls it made, low and irritated. He allowed his eyes to slip past the surface’s edge, to break the connectedness of the green film and peer out from behind the hanging grass at the edge of the pond.
The shadow was orange. It had legs before and behind and a head with a strange single, giant eye. There was no tail. Something near it rattled off a series of insistent, infuriating clicks and snaps. They made Stewart’s head hurt with their constancy. The shadow turned and looked at him. He froze. Stopped breathing in the water. Didn’t move. Not a muscle.
The eye was filled with a face. There were two more eyes and a mouth. The inside eyes were not looking at him, though the giant eye seemed to see past the grass and right into him. Stewart wanted to sink back into the water, slide below the green layer and hide on his shelf. But he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t move.
The orange shadow moved along the far side of the pond dragging its behind legs, pulling a stick, long and mean, with it’s before legs, grasped in its claws. Then it growled. Against his best thinking Stewart lifted his head just a bit more above the surface and his ears popped as the water ran from them. The growl became clearer, meaner, sharper.
“John, clear the outflow pipe. The suction’s building, but we’re getting very little water.”
The shadow hit its shoulder.
“Copy. Give me a sec.”
It leaned on its before legs and crept close to the water’s edge. The giant eye peered into the green slime and then it pulled the long stick in front of itself. Stewart’s legs grew tense, the claws on all his feet dug into the wall and he made himself ready to bolt. The shadow pushed the stick into the water and stood up. Stewart ducked back into the pond and stared at the stick as the end of it disappeared into the darkness beyond. It was headed straight for the hunting rock.
The stick stopped descending and instead began to move from side to side, back and forth. Stewart could hear the distant slurp and suck of the rock and his skin twitched in remembrance. The water around him began to move faster and down. The stick began to rise and he stared at the great clump of things that had been held tight to the rock and been killed in the beyond. The wire was there, caught between dead leaves and twisted bodies.
He surfaced as the stick was pulled out. The shadow banged the mass against the ground; all the lost, dead things fell away. That was how it had happened with the carp. Too close to the rock, caught and unable to escape. Couldn’t even breathe well trapped that far down for so long. The shadow had come. Had growled and shoved its nasty long stick into the water and stabbed the old carp clean through. Stewart had seen it. He had felt the pain of the piercing.
When the stick rose that time the water had swirled towards the beyond so rapidly, so furiously, that Stewart was sure he would die in the jaws of the hunting rock. He had clung to the walls at the back of his shelf and hoped that it would stop. He had watched the surface of the pond creep towards him, his entire home being drawn into the mouth of the nasty rock below.
Before the surface had reached him, before it had left him helpless and obvious above the water and beneath the hanging grass, the water had stopped moving down. The shadow had roared and then the water had stilled. Stewart hadn’t understood anything that had happened. Moments later the water began to rise and he was surrounded by a cooler, thin, faster water. Water he hadn’t felt in a very long time. The next day he had felt more knowing than the day before. He had felt more aware. And he knew, somehow, it had been the new water that had done that.
Now he watched the shadow beat the dead things off the end of its stick and glance around itself. Stewart raised his ears out of the water again and he listened.
“Hey, Rob.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell Mason he’s got to do something about the damn fence. Kids been in here again.”
The shadow moved to the carp’s rotted body.
“How do you know?”
“There’s a dead fish. A big carp from a previous clean out…it’s been beat to hell.”
“How? The gate’s locked ain’t it?”
The shadow looked away and then back at the carp.
“Yeah, it’s locked. But you don’t need to use the gate if there’s a hole in the fence.”
“John! This is Mason. What hole?”
Stewart watched the shadow move off toward the woven wires that surrounded the pond. It leaned down and yanked on the wires.
“The one at the bottom of the west panel.”
“How big is it?”
“Kid sized.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. And there’s a boy playing in the park.”
“Shit.”
“John, it’s Rob. How many kids?”
“Just one.”
“Adults?”
“Ah, no. I don’t see any.”
“Okay. I’m sending Natalie out to get him. Stand by.”
“Copy.”
The shadow stayed still beside the woven wires. It clung to it with both before legs, sat on the haunches of its behind legs, facing away from the pond. It was very hard to see. Stewart raised himself up every so slightly and blinked once to clear his eyes. Somewhere beyond the woven wires there was a yell and another. The shadow stood up on its behind legs and gripped the wires.
“John, she got him?”
“Yeah. He’s fighting her though.”
“Damn it.”
“He’s bit her! Now he’s trying to run.”
There was another series of yells, the distant banging of metal on metal. Stewart’s heart began to beat faster though he didn’t know why.
“Mason?”
“Yeah!”
“Rob’s got the kid. He and Natalie are headed back inside.”
“Thank God. Finish your work and get the hell back in here, too.”
“Yeah, alright.”
The shadow turned and headed for the far side of the pond and the annoying clicking thing. It grabbed it up and headed towards a high white wall.
“John?”
“Yeah.”
“Lock the door. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Out.”
Stewart watched the shadow disappear inside the white wall through a sneaky hole that was hard to see. First it was not there, then it was there, then it was gone again. Only a subtle hint in the wall told you where it was hidden. He narrowed his eyes and shuddered. Around his lower legs he could feel the swirling cool water that always followed the shadow’s departure. In the morning he would understand more. He had come to accept that. In the morning the new water would gift him with more knowing. He sunk back into the pond and let the new water bathe him.
~ Peace and portents
Chapter 3 - Shadows and New Water
There was a loud echoing clang, deep and round. Stewart opened his eyes and looked at the edge of the shelf he was resting on. Another deep metallic clink rang out and then the familiar sound of water moving away. He looked towards the surface. The shadow was there. The one that helped the beyond rock hunt.
Stewart moved to the back wall and followed it to the surface. The water moved here, too, but he could easily out swim the current. Through the green ceiling of algae he watched the shadow shift. He could hear the muted growls it made, low and irritated. He allowed his eyes to slip past the surface’s edge, to break the connectedness of the green film and peer out from behind the hanging grass at the edge of the pond.
The shadow was orange. It had legs before and behind and a head with a strange single, giant eye. There was no tail. Something near it rattled off a series of insistent, infuriating clicks and snaps. They made Stewart’s head hurt with their constancy. The shadow turned and looked at him. He froze. Stopped breathing in the water. Didn’t move. Not a muscle.
The eye was filled with a face. There were two more eyes and a mouth. The inside eyes were not looking at him, though the giant eye seemed to see past the grass and right into him. Stewart wanted to sink back into the water, slide below the green layer and hide on his shelf. But he couldn’t. His body wouldn’t move.
The orange shadow moved along the far side of the pond dragging its behind legs, pulling a stick, long and mean, with it’s before legs, grasped in its claws. Then it growled. Against his best thinking Stewart lifted his head just a bit more above the surface and his ears popped as the water ran from them. The growl became clearer, meaner, sharper.
“John, clear the outflow pipe. The suction’s building, but we’re getting very little water.”
The shadow hit its shoulder.
“Copy. Give me a sec.”
It leaned on its before legs and crept close to the water’s edge. The giant eye peered into the green slime and then it pulled the long stick in front of itself. Stewart’s legs grew tense, the claws on all his feet dug into the wall and he made himself ready to bolt. The shadow pushed the stick into the water and stood up. Stewart ducked back into the pond and stared at the stick as the end of it disappeared into the darkness beyond. It was headed straight for the hunting rock.
The stick stopped descending and instead began to move from side to side, back and forth. Stewart could hear the distant slurp and suck of the rock and his skin twitched in remembrance. The water around him began to move faster and down. The stick began to rise and he stared at the great clump of things that had been held tight to the rock and been killed in the beyond. The wire was there, caught between dead leaves and twisted bodies.
He surfaced as the stick was pulled out. The shadow banged the mass against the ground; all the lost, dead things fell away. That was how it had happened with the carp. Too close to the rock, caught and unable to escape. Couldn’t even breathe well trapped that far down for so long. The shadow had come. Had growled and shoved its nasty long stick into the water and stabbed the old carp clean through. Stewart had seen it. He had felt the pain of the piercing.
When the stick rose that time the water had swirled towards the beyond so rapidly, so furiously, that Stewart was sure he would die in the jaws of the hunting rock. He had clung to the walls at the back of his shelf and hoped that it would stop. He had watched the surface of the pond creep towards him, his entire home being drawn into the mouth of the nasty rock below.
Before the surface had reached him, before it had left him helpless and obvious above the water and beneath the hanging grass, the water had stopped moving down. The shadow had roared and then the water had stilled. Stewart hadn’t understood anything that had happened. Moments later the water began to rise and he was surrounded by a cooler, thin, faster water. Water he hadn’t felt in a very long time. The next day he had felt more knowing than the day before. He had felt more aware. And he knew, somehow, it had been the new water that had done that.
Now he watched the shadow beat the dead things off the end of its stick and glance around itself. Stewart raised his ears out of the water again and he listened.
“Hey, Rob.”
“Yeah.”
“Tell Mason he’s got to do something about the damn fence. Kids been in here again.”
The shadow moved to the carp’s rotted body.
“How do you know?”
“There’s a dead fish. A big carp from a previous clean out…it’s been beat to hell.”
“How? The gate’s locked ain’t it?”
The shadow looked away and then back at the carp.
“Yeah, it’s locked. But you don’t need to use the gate if there’s a hole in the fence.”
“John! This is Mason. What hole?”
Stewart watched the shadow move off toward the woven wires that surrounded the pond. It leaned down and yanked on the wires.
“The one at the bottom of the west panel.”
“How big is it?”
“Kid sized.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. And there’s a boy playing in the park.”
“Shit.”
“John, it’s Rob. How many kids?”
“Just one.”
“Adults?”
“Ah, no. I don’t see any.”
“Okay. I’m sending Natalie out to get him. Stand by.”
“Copy.”
The shadow stayed still beside the woven wires. It clung to it with both before legs, sat on the haunches of its behind legs, facing away from the pond. It was very hard to see. Stewart raised himself up every so slightly and blinked once to clear his eyes. Somewhere beyond the woven wires there was a yell and another. The shadow stood up on its behind legs and gripped the wires.
“John, she got him?”
“Yeah. He’s fighting her though.”
“Damn it.”
“He’s bit her! Now he’s trying to run.”
There was another series of yells, the distant banging of metal on metal. Stewart’s heart began to beat faster though he didn’t know why.
“Mason?”
“Yeah!”
“Rob’s got the kid. He and Natalie are headed back inside.”
“Thank God. Finish your work and get the hell back in here, too.”
“Yeah, alright.”
The shadow turned and headed for the far side of the pond and the annoying clicking thing. It grabbed it up and headed towards a high white wall.
“John?”
“Yeah.”
“Lock the door. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it.”
“Out.”
Stewart watched the shadow disappear inside the white wall through a sneaky hole that was hard to see. First it was not there, then it was there, then it was gone again. Only a subtle hint in the wall told you where it was hidden. He narrowed his eyes and shuddered. Around his lower legs he could feel the swirling cool water that always followed the shadow’s departure. In the morning he would understand more. He had come to accept that. In the morning the new water would gift him with more knowing. He sunk back into the pond and let the new water bathe him.
~ Peace and portents
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Let's call it Chapter 2 for now
Since I have had some encouragement to see where this weird little tale is headed, I sat myself down at my computer and let my fingers fall on my key board where they may. I do not know why or who or what will happen, but am willing to take the ride if you are. So, without further ado...
Below - Chapter 2 of the "Joshua" post
Stewart watched as the twisted wire slowly sank beneath the green muck that was the pond’s surface. The ripples of its entrance created a brief sunlit window under the water. It made him blink. Light that intense rarely made it through. Things swam past him, fleeing the light and the wire’s decent. He grabbed for one of them and stuffed the wriggling thing in his mouth. You didn’t let a meal get away. You never knew how long you would have to wait for the next one.
The wire continued to fall. It was silent, like most inanimate things, and emotionless about its new location. For a moment it hovered even with Stewart’s eyes and he started to reach out and catch it. Then the moment passed and he watched it fall away into the deepening green black of the bottom of the pond. He didn’t trust things that fell in from above. There was pain and fear and agony whenever something broke the surface and invaded his world. More than that there was removal and permanence. He had seen what that had done to the carp that lay rotting beside the pond. Removal meant death. Death was permanent.
Slowly Stewart turned and swam for the shelf he used as a resting place. He settled himself and watched the green ceiling of the pond mend itself, shutting out the bright and painful light. He let bubbles slip out the corner of his mouth. It took them many seconds to rise to the surface and once there they lay caught against the slime, trapped and unable to release the carbon dioxide they contained into the air only millimeters away. Eventually the water would reclaim the gases. The swirling algae would grow a bit lusher where the bubbles had stopped.
At the surface the algae regained its uninterrupted mass; the only evidence that it had been disturbed was a strange swirled line where the wire had cut through, a darker green scar among the lighter green mat. Stewart looked down. The wire was no longer visible. Not because the light was so dim, Stewart didn’t really need much light to see his world, but because it had fallen beyond.
Once in a while he would swim down. Down where the light was less. Down where the water was heavier. Down where it was thicker and harder to breathe. He remembered the time he had swum so far down that he had found a strange rock filled with holes. It had been flat and smooth and tasted like the pipe near the surface where cool water sometimes seeped in. The rock had been very far down. The water had been heavy and thick and hard to swim in. He felt the holes in it more than he saw them. It was when he had his face, his cheek, resting against it that it had grabbed him.
A tremendous weight pressed him tightly against the rock, pulled the heavy water against his other side and past his face, further into the beyond. He struggled against it. Pushed with all his strength to get away. He could feel pieces of himself tearing away and slipping with the water through the retched holes.
He knew death. He had given it to many smaller creatures in the pond. He knew permanence. He knew both these things were hunting him now. And then, for no reason he could understand or decipher, he was allowed to escape. All the weight was removed and he swan hard for the green ceiling of his home. He had never been afraid of anything before. He had never worried about anything before. The pond had always been his. Now it belonged to something else. Now he worried.
The places on his side where the grate had allowed the outflow to pull his flesh from his body tingled with the memory. He shuddered in the security of his cove and peered into the darkness of down. The wire was probably resting beside the weird rock that waited for its meals. It would stay there a very long time. He wasn’t going to get it.
~ Peace and continuations
Below - Chapter 2 of the "Joshua" post
Stewart watched as the twisted wire slowly sank beneath the green muck that was the pond’s surface. The ripples of its entrance created a brief sunlit window under the water. It made him blink. Light that intense rarely made it through. Things swam past him, fleeing the light and the wire’s decent. He grabbed for one of them and stuffed the wriggling thing in his mouth. You didn’t let a meal get away. You never knew how long you would have to wait for the next one.
The wire continued to fall. It was silent, like most inanimate things, and emotionless about its new location. For a moment it hovered even with Stewart’s eyes and he started to reach out and catch it. Then the moment passed and he watched it fall away into the deepening green black of the bottom of the pond. He didn’t trust things that fell in from above. There was pain and fear and agony whenever something broke the surface and invaded his world. More than that there was removal and permanence. He had seen what that had done to the carp that lay rotting beside the pond. Removal meant death. Death was permanent.
Slowly Stewart turned and swam for the shelf he used as a resting place. He settled himself and watched the green ceiling of the pond mend itself, shutting out the bright and painful light. He let bubbles slip out the corner of his mouth. It took them many seconds to rise to the surface and once there they lay caught against the slime, trapped and unable to release the carbon dioxide they contained into the air only millimeters away. Eventually the water would reclaim the gases. The swirling algae would grow a bit lusher where the bubbles had stopped.
At the surface the algae regained its uninterrupted mass; the only evidence that it had been disturbed was a strange swirled line where the wire had cut through, a darker green scar among the lighter green mat. Stewart looked down. The wire was no longer visible. Not because the light was so dim, Stewart didn’t really need much light to see his world, but because it had fallen beyond.
Once in a while he would swim down. Down where the light was less. Down where the water was heavier. Down where it was thicker and harder to breathe. He remembered the time he had swum so far down that he had found a strange rock filled with holes. It had been flat and smooth and tasted like the pipe near the surface where cool water sometimes seeped in. The rock had been very far down. The water had been heavy and thick and hard to swim in. He felt the holes in it more than he saw them. It was when he had his face, his cheek, resting against it that it had grabbed him.
A tremendous weight pressed him tightly against the rock, pulled the heavy water against his other side and past his face, further into the beyond. He struggled against it. Pushed with all his strength to get away. He could feel pieces of himself tearing away and slipping with the water through the retched holes.
He knew death. He had given it to many smaller creatures in the pond. He knew permanence. He knew both these things were hunting him now. And then, for no reason he could understand or decipher, he was allowed to escape. All the weight was removed and he swan hard for the green ceiling of his home. He had never been afraid of anything before. He had never worried about anything before. The pond had always been his. Now it belonged to something else. Now he worried.
The places on his side where the grate had allowed the outflow to pull his flesh from his body tingled with the memory. He shuddered in the security of his cove and peered into the darkness of down. The wire was probably resting beside the weird rock that waited for its meals. It would stay there a very long time. He wasn’t going to get it.
~ Peace and continuations
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Into each life a little darkness creeps...
The dreary days are getting to me. What better way then to write to scatter the darkness from my thinking. Will this chase you away or will you stop in again and see what I've come up with?
What Joshua Doesn't Know Won't Hurt Him
Joshua poked the eye of the dead carp with the twisted wire he had found. He was near the edge of the pond, resting on his haunches, his five year old knees tight against his chest, one arm wrapped around them for support while the other worked to remove the milky, sightless eye. The fish stank. And it was huge. Joshua had never seen such a big fish in all his life.
Considering how rotted it was he was having quite a bit of trouble getting the eye out. He knew crows liked the eyes. This eye had been against the ground before he had flipped the fish over. The other side of the carp was mostly bones and scales. There had been maggots crawling around inside and flies buzzing and hovering just above the decayed flesh. But this eye was in good shape. He was sure that was because of the flat stone the carp had been lying on.
He watched as a fly landed on a small wet spot on the grey stone, walked the centimeter length of the patch and then walked onto a dry place. It walked in a weird little circle and then its legs gave. In less than five seconds it went from alive and searching to dead and shriveled. A hornet swooped down, landed on the fly and then picked it up and carried it away.
Joshua didn’t like the stone. He was sure it had something to do with how the fish had died. He watched another insect, a sow bug this time, wander across a dry patch of stone and then stop cold, curl in on itself and die. He flicked the little bug off the stone and then gently waved the wire in the air to keep the other flies from landing there accidentally. Eventually he started picking at the eye again.
It was like the eye was tied into the fish’s skull with a string. He’d just about get it out and then it would slip back into place. He nearly reached out with his other hand to hold the fish still while he tried again, but he thought better of it. Too close to the stone. Too close. He raised the wire in the air and held it there for a second. With force he brought it down on the rock with a sharp crack.
The bugs scattered. They had tolerated his presence before; his slow, methodical poking hadn’t disrupted their own marauding so they had stayed. But this unexpected movement, the violence of it, the sudden wind his swing had created, sent them flying.
He hit the stone again. Crack! Then, why he didn’t know, he hit the fish. Once, twice, three times he hit it in rapid succession. Scales and rotted skin and muscle flew off. The sound of the impact was dull and wet and not nearly as satisfying as he expected. He hit it one last time across the head and the skull gave. The eye exploded and the carp’s cheek split from chin to eye socket. Maggots spilled out and writhed on the ground. Those that touched the stone died. The ones that fell on the grass simply wriggled further into the darkness at the roots.
The strings that held the eye in place, the nerves and tendons, hung out of the socket like tiny hands reaching for a lost toy. The eye was gone. Frustrated and losing interest, Joshua shoved the dead carp with the end of the twisted wire until it no longer lay on the grey stone but in the grass beyond it. There were words carved in the rock, but Joshua couldn’t read them so the warning went unnoticed.
“Caution: Radioactive containment pond. Absolutely no swimming. Absolutely no fishing.”
Joshua stood up and threw the twisted wire into the still water. It floated on top for several moments before slowly sinking through the green ooze that covered the pond’s surface. Without a second glance he climbed back through the hole in the chain link fencing that surrounded the pond and ran off to the only open swing in the playground.
~ Peace and knowledge
What Joshua Doesn't Know Won't Hurt Him
Joshua poked the eye of the dead carp with the twisted wire he had found. He was near the edge of the pond, resting on his haunches, his five year old knees tight against his chest, one arm wrapped around them for support while the other worked to remove the milky, sightless eye. The fish stank. And it was huge. Joshua had never seen such a big fish in all his life.
Considering how rotted it was he was having quite a bit of trouble getting the eye out. He knew crows liked the eyes. This eye had been against the ground before he had flipped the fish over. The other side of the carp was mostly bones and scales. There had been maggots crawling around inside and flies buzzing and hovering just above the decayed flesh. But this eye was in good shape. He was sure that was because of the flat stone the carp had been lying on.
He watched as a fly landed on a small wet spot on the grey stone, walked the centimeter length of the patch and then walked onto a dry place. It walked in a weird little circle and then its legs gave. In less than five seconds it went from alive and searching to dead and shriveled. A hornet swooped down, landed on the fly and then picked it up and carried it away.
Joshua didn’t like the stone. He was sure it had something to do with how the fish had died. He watched another insect, a sow bug this time, wander across a dry patch of stone and then stop cold, curl in on itself and die. He flicked the little bug off the stone and then gently waved the wire in the air to keep the other flies from landing there accidentally. Eventually he started picking at the eye again.
It was like the eye was tied into the fish’s skull with a string. He’d just about get it out and then it would slip back into place. He nearly reached out with his other hand to hold the fish still while he tried again, but he thought better of it. Too close to the stone. Too close. He raised the wire in the air and held it there for a second. With force he brought it down on the rock with a sharp crack.
The bugs scattered. They had tolerated his presence before; his slow, methodical poking hadn’t disrupted their own marauding so they had stayed. But this unexpected movement, the violence of it, the sudden wind his swing had created, sent them flying.
He hit the stone again. Crack! Then, why he didn’t know, he hit the fish. Once, twice, three times he hit it in rapid succession. Scales and rotted skin and muscle flew off. The sound of the impact was dull and wet and not nearly as satisfying as he expected. He hit it one last time across the head and the skull gave. The eye exploded and the carp’s cheek split from chin to eye socket. Maggots spilled out and writhed on the ground. Those that touched the stone died. The ones that fell on the grass simply wriggled further into the darkness at the roots.
The strings that held the eye in place, the nerves and tendons, hung out of the socket like tiny hands reaching for a lost toy. The eye was gone. Frustrated and losing interest, Joshua shoved the dead carp with the end of the twisted wire until it no longer lay on the grey stone but in the grass beyond it. There were words carved in the rock, but Joshua couldn’t read them so the warning went unnoticed.
“Caution: Radioactive containment pond. Absolutely no swimming. Absolutely no fishing.”
Joshua stood up and threw the twisted wire into the still water. It floated on top for several moments before slowly sinking through the green ooze that covered the pond’s surface. Without a second glance he climbed back through the hole in the chain link fencing that surrounded the pond and ran off to the only open swing in the playground.
~ Peace and knowledge
Stagnant
It amazes me how tied I feel to the sun. We have had a dreary October and my production as a writer diminished dramatically. When the sun reappeared I thought I was saved, but that was an illusion. My ability to move forward and create lies within me. The sun helps, but the drive comes from inside. A poem surfaced as I tired to see my way forward. Here it is. Take it as you will. Move forward as you can and so will I.
Movement~ Peace and movement
The blades of the turbine spin.
The air
moves them.
Or
do they move
the air?
How fast
does the wind slide
along their length?
I cannot feel it.
Yet I know
it must be blowing.
The grass bends beside me;
branches sway.
But I
am still.
My hair
lies
motionless
on my shoulders.
The turbine blades swing high overhead.
They move in the world.
Why can’t I?
Monday, November 23, 2009
Miriam's Choice
There is a split second where we decide to, or not to. It exists in everything we say, everything we do, every moment we move through the world. Miriam, in that split second, decided to. After she would wonder if she had decided rightly. Once her task was completed she might curse her situation, blame circumstance, rail against the unfairness of this cruel and punitive world. Later she would brood over what might have happened had she decided not to. But that is another story.
It really wasn’t a hard choice to make, at least it hadn’t seemed that way. It had been easy like the flip of a coin, a whim, a careless nod, a shake of the head. She couldn’t really remember how she had made the choice. One second she had been traveling down one path in time, the next, a different one. She wondered if she would have known the difference if she had chosen not to instead.
After torturing herself about the what ifs, the if onlys, and the but I’s, Miriam stopped worrying about the decision and simply got down to the to of it. Really, that was all that she could do. She had started, so there was no turning back, no changing course, no starting over. Now it must be done. Now she must show her resolve and commit to the task at hand. The clock was ticking and, as we all know, time waits for no one.
And so, with shaking hand and quavering breath she did.
“C5,” Miriam said.
“Miss. G3,” Joseph replied.
“Hit.” She sighed heavily. “You sank my battle ship.”
“Yes! That’s two games out of three! You do the dishes for an extra week. HA!” Her thirteen year old brother jumped up from the table and did his version of a Battle Ship touchdown dance in the middle of the dining room.
Miriam turned Joseph’s half of the game to her and stared at the game board. It was clear that had she chosen C7 she would have won. His smallest ship lay hidden on the C6 and C7 positions and she had chosen wrong. Dishes for an extra week.
“Hey, Mira. Want to play for taking out the garbage?”
There is a split second where we decide to or not to. This time Miriam decided not and did not waste time worrying that it might be the wrong choice.
~ Peace and decisiveness
It really wasn’t a hard choice to make, at least it hadn’t seemed that way. It had been easy like the flip of a coin, a whim, a careless nod, a shake of the head. She couldn’t really remember how she had made the choice. One second she had been traveling down one path in time, the next, a different one. She wondered if she would have known the difference if she had chosen not to instead.
After torturing herself about the what ifs, the if onlys, and the but I’s, Miriam stopped worrying about the decision and simply got down to the to of it. Really, that was all that she could do. She had started, so there was no turning back, no changing course, no starting over. Now it must be done. Now she must show her resolve and commit to the task at hand. The clock was ticking and, as we all know, time waits for no one.
And so, with shaking hand and quavering breath she did.
“C5,” Miriam said.
“Miss. G3,” Joseph replied.
“Hit.” She sighed heavily. “You sank my battle ship.”
“Yes! That’s two games out of three! You do the dishes for an extra week. HA!” Her thirteen year old brother jumped up from the table and did his version of a Battle Ship touchdown dance in the middle of the dining room.
Miriam turned Joseph’s half of the game to her and stared at the game board. It was clear that had she chosen C7 she would have won. His smallest ship lay hidden on the C6 and C7 positions and she had chosen wrong. Dishes for an extra week.
“Hey, Mira. Want to play for taking out the garbage?”
There is a split second where we decide to or not to. This time Miriam decided not and did not waste time worrying that it might be the wrong choice.
~ Peace and decisiveness
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Abecedarian Poetry
An abecedarian poem is one in which the first word of each line/stanza begins with the first letter of the alphabet and follows the correct order of the alphabet until the last letter is reached. A writing colleague of mine posted one today and I was intrigued and inspired. I fiddled around with the style and came up with two poems. They are modifications of the style - I followed my colleague's lead and opted to use a letter for every word instead of the start of every line/stanza. Hope you enjoy them and thank you, Mr. Fishman, for the inspiration.
Musical Juxtaposition
Allegro
brazenly cascades
Dancing elliptic forces
gyrate happily inside
Jumbled, karaoked, lip-synced
media noise
oscillates
quavers
resonates
slides through
Unstoppable vicissitudinous
Wanting Xanadus
yearning
zealous
Brilliant Child
A brilliant child
drawing endless faces -
grinning, happy, illustrious.
Kids laughing,
music,
nature,
orchestrating quintessential resolve
solidarity throughout
unwavering
verily withstanding xenophobia
yielding zest.
~ Peace and poetry
Musical Juxtaposition
Allegro
brazenly cascades
Dancing elliptic forces
gyrate happily inside
Jumbled, karaoked, lip-synced
media noise
oscillates
quavers
resonates
slides through
Unstoppable vicissitudinous
Wanting Xanadus
yearning
zealous
Brilliant Child
A brilliant child
drawing endless faces -
grinning, happy, illustrious.
Kids laughing,
music,
nature,
orchestrating quintessential resolve
solidarity throughout
unwavering
verily withstanding xenophobia
yielding zest.
~ Peace and poetry
Monday, November 2, 2009
NaNoWriMo
National Novel Writing Month - better known as NaNoWriMo - started Sunday, November 1. The general idea behind it is to encourage writers to write - with abandon, sans criticism - for an entire month with the goal being a 50,000 word novel. This is both a thrilling and frightening task. To actually write that much in 30 days sound impossible, yet if you calculate it out it comes to about 7 double-spaced pages everyday - or roughly 210 pages by 11:59pm, Monday, November 30th.
To participate in NaNoWriMo you must be starting a novel from scratch or from a preexisting idea. You should not have written anything about this novel before November 1st. That, unfortunately disallows me from the "competition" since I am uneasy stepping away from my novel so completely for such an extended period of time. I use NaNoWriMo, instead, as a motivator for serious focus on my novel - write everyday, as much as I can, and by the end of November I should be significantly further along. That’s the plan anyway.
So today - Monday, November 2nd, I am committing to that goal - to write everyday, as much as I can, in order to make forward progress on my novel so that I might complete this 1st draft before the end of the year.
What will you do this month? Keep me in your thoughts and I will keep you in mine.
~ Peace and forward momentum
To participate in NaNoWriMo you must be starting a novel from scratch or from a preexisting idea. You should not have written anything about this novel before November 1st. That, unfortunately disallows me from the "competition" since I am uneasy stepping away from my novel so completely for such an extended period of time. I use NaNoWriMo, instead, as a motivator for serious focus on my novel - write everyday, as much as I can, and by the end of November I should be significantly further along. That’s the plan anyway.
So today - Monday, November 2nd, I am committing to that goal - to write everyday, as much as I can, in order to make forward progress on my novel so that I might complete this 1st draft before the end of the year.
What will you do this month? Keep me in your thoughts and I will keep you in mine.
~ Peace and forward momentum
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Resistance
I am a delinquent. I admit it. I should be writing in my novel, and instead I am drafting a new post for this blog. This isn't getting me any closer to finishing. It certainly isn't bringing me closer to a book deal, yet here I sit, writing something else.
I’ve been avoiding my novel for weeks. I visit it reluctantly. I stay a brief time and then I leave via a back door, looking cautiously up and down the street, pulling my hood down so my face can’t be seen. What am I ashamed of? Why can’t I sit comfortably at the keyboard and play in the world I’ve created without feeling uneasy and irritated? Why am I avoiding the characters that I love and know so well? What the hell happened? Am I blocked? Have I written myself into a corner? Am I bored? Is the story lame? Will anyone else enjoy it? Have I wasted my time?
As it stands, my novel fills 1 and ¾ of two 5 inch three-ring binders. I have lost track of how many pages that works out to be, and not every page I’ve written has been printed. It's safe to say that I have played a role in the death of at least one tree during my lifetime as a writer; one entire branch was devoted to printing my novel. Am I proud of this? I’m not sure.
Even this post is hard to write. I type and then I stop, sit leaning on the arm of my desk chair and twist my lower lip. The words are not coming easy, the fear or shame or denial or apathy or inertia, whatever it is that is gnawing at me, is fighting hard against the movement of my fingers across the keys, the flashes of creative electricity along neurons, the snap of an idea across the synapse.
This feels like war. Like I’m the general staring at a battlefield map and pondering troop movements, calculating casualties, anticipating counter attacks, attempting to orchestrate a reversal of fortune. I’m not pleased with the current outlook. At the moment it feels like there will be more troops lost, more energy wasted, less gained for the effort. I feel like I’m dug in at the base of the hill and the enemy is situated behind strong fortifications at the top, with a clear field of view and a mile of barbed wire between “them” and me; whoever “they” are.
Lives are going to be lost. In this war that translates to pages, scenes, narrative, and characters. I’m not feeling very good about being the general and choosing the battalion that will lead the charge up the hill and pay the price for the capture of a strategic target. I don’t want to be the one to choose who might perish and who might survive. What if I choose wrong? What if I make a colossal mistake and we all die? It would be so much better if someone else made the choice. If nothing else, I wouldn’t bear the responsibility if it all goes to hell. But can I accept another person’s decision, another person’s belief or idea about what stays and what goes? No. At the core of it all I know I have to do this - me and me alone.
Sacrifices must be made. Pages must be cut. And I must do it.
~ Peace, perseverance, and resilience
I’ve been avoiding my novel for weeks. I visit it reluctantly. I stay a brief time and then I leave via a back door, looking cautiously up and down the street, pulling my hood down so my face can’t be seen. What am I ashamed of? Why can’t I sit comfortably at the keyboard and play in the world I’ve created without feeling uneasy and irritated? Why am I avoiding the characters that I love and know so well? What the hell happened? Am I blocked? Have I written myself into a corner? Am I bored? Is the story lame? Will anyone else enjoy it? Have I wasted my time?
As it stands, my novel fills 1 and ¾ of two 5 inch three-ring binders. I have lost track of how many pages that works out to be, and not every page I’ve written has been printed. It's safe to say that I have played a role in the death of at least one tree during my lifetime as a writer; one entire branch was devoted to printing my novel. Am I proud of this? I’m not sure.
Even this post is hard to write. I type and then I stop, sit leaning on the arm of my desk chair and twist my lower lip. The words are not coming easy, the fear or shame or denial or apathy or inertia, whatever it is that is gnawing at me, is fighting hard against the movement of my fingers across the keys, the flashes of creative electricity along neurons, the snap of an idea across the synapse.
This feels like war. Like I’m the general staring at a battlefield map and pondering troop movements, calculating casualties, anticipating counter attacks, attempting to orchestrate a reversal of fortune. I’m not pleased with the current outlook. At the moment it feels like there will be more troops lost, more energy wasted, less gained for the effort. I feel like I’m dug in at the base of the hill and the enemy is situated behind strong fortifications at the top, with a clear field of view and a mile of barbed wire between “them” and me; whoever “they” are.
Lives are going to be lost. In this war that translates to pages, scenes, narrative, and characters. I’m not feeling very good about being the general and choosing the battalion that will lead the charge up the hill and pay the price for the capture of a strategic target. I don’t want to be the one to choose who might perish and who might survive. What if I choose wrong? What if I make a colossal mistake and we all die? It would be so much better if someone else made the choice. If nothing else, I wouldn’t bear the responsibility if it all goes to hell. But can I accept another person’s decision, another person’s belief or idea about what stays and what goes? No. At the core of it all I know I have to do this - me and me alone.
Sacrifices must be made. Pages must be cut. And I must do it.
~ Peace, perseverance, and resilience
Friday, October 23, 2009
Ah, My Beloved...
To say that I like anime is a bit like saying I like chocolate – it is a wicked understatement. While I am not completely obsessed with it, I do have a slowly, selectively growing collection of DVDs of the series and movies that I have become strongly attached to over time, as well as a few novelty items that I treasure.
I blame this little need of mine on my grandmother. While in her care as a three and four year old child I would watch two hours of cartoons each day. She would sit with me and watch Casper the Friendly Ghost in the afternoon. In the mornings I would sit at the foot of her bed, right on the very edge of the corner, as close as I could get to the T.V. that sat on her dresser, and fill up on Aqua Boy, Speed Racer, and Kimba the White Lion (known more formally as Jungle Emperor). It was during those wonderful, imaginative hours that I became a devoted student of animation.
I have always enjoyed animation and have nurtured my little addiction through constant care and feeding over the years. A steady diet of the standard American fare – Hanna-Barbera, Disney, Looney Tunes, Popeye, Marvel and DC Comics – served as a reasonable substitute for the real thing – Japanese Anime.
Kimba and Speed Racer were only the beginning of my love of Japanese Anime. To me, being limited to only those two was akin to giving a child a taste of coffee and then refusing the request for an actual cupful until s/he is an adult. I filled up on Speed Racer and Kimba whenever I could, investing myself thoroughly in the storylines and the characters. I wanted Speed Racer’s Mach 5 racecar so badly that it hurt to watch the show. When a die-cast car that looked like the Mach 5 hit toy stores in the late 70s, I did everything I could to get it. And I still have it, secreted away where my son can’t find it. After watching Kimba, I would prowl around the house on all fours saving all the jungle animals from hunters and terrible dangers. I was wise, fearless, and loyal. To this day I have a thing for a hero or heroine with long, white hair.
When these two shows suddenly ended I starved. It was years until Voltron: Defender of the Universe emerged from across the sea to satisfy my anime sweet tooth once again. Just as before I could be found waiting for the show to start, sitting cross-legged and entirely too close to the T.V. each afternoon. I longed to operate one of those amazing robotic lions. I wanted Keith, Commander of the Voltron Force, to care about me and not Princess Allura. I could not stand the fact that she would wear a pink uniform while piloting the blue lion. It was a travesty.
And then came Robotech and I was lost. After vicariously following Rick Hunter into the cockpit of a Veritech Fighter, and getting caught in the hyperspace jump of the SDF-1 Battle Fortress in an effort to escape the Zentraedi forces, I knew I needed my own Veritech Fighter. And I have one – in a box of priceless trinkets and treasures – safe from the hands of my children. The Robotech series ran for 85 glorious episodes and it became clear during the first year it ran that I was hooked on anime. I haven’t looked back since.
The following storyline came to me as the original Fullmetal Alchemist series that I had been watching came to an end. I feel a tremendous letdown upon the completion of an anime series that I have become fully invested in. This response - of which I have suffered countless times over the years - along with my limited knowledge of anime fandom and all of its nuances, got me thinking. How deeply engrained in a fan’s life does anime become? How much devotion is too much devotion? Where does reality end and the anime begin in the mind of the serious fan? When does the line between the two cease to exist? My imagination started to spin…
Paradigm Shift
"You’re crazy,” Melanie said as she twirled the wooden coffee stirrer in her fingers.
“I’m what?”
“I said, you’re crazy.”
Jess looked at her friend and drew her brows together in irritation. “I’m crazy. Why am I crazy?”
“Kane.” Melanie took a sip of her latte and glanced at Jess over the rim of the paper cup.
“Kane.”
“Mmmhmm.”
Jess cocked her head and sat open-mouthed for a moment. “How, exactly, does Kane make me crazy?”
Melanie set the cup down and leaned forward. “You like him.”
A blush inched its way over Jess’ cheeks. “Yeah, so?”
“A lot.”
“So?”
“So,” Melanie continued, “you’re acting like a school girl.”
Jess leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I am not acting like a school girl.”
Melanie snorted. “Yes, you are.”
“I am not,” Jess said again and looked out the front window of the coffee shop. A young mother walked by pushing a stroller down the strip mall’s sidewalk.
“You are,” Melanie replied and held up her hand as Jess prepared to argue with her again. “Listen. Whose image is on the desktop of your computer?”
Jess refused to answer and simply stared at Melanie.
“When you logon to any site that has them, who’s your avatar?”
Jess drew her brows closer together until they seemed to form one continuous, undulating line of irritation on her forehead.
“How many different pictures of him are there in you’re My Pics folder?" Melanie pressed her. "How many times a day do you look at them?”
“What, exactly, are you trying to say?”
“I'm saying that I think you’re a little fixated.”
“Yeah, well he makes me happy. Tell me how that’s bad.”
“He’s not real, Jess. That’s how it’s bad.”
Jess tightened her grip on her arms, her finger tips pressing hard into her biceps. “Listen,” she snapped, “not all of us are blessed with your life. Not all of us can walk into a room and feel at home with whoever happens to be there. Some of us…”
“Are scared of real people,” Melanie said quietly. The frown on Jess’ face deepened.
“I’m not scared," she snapped. "It’s just that most people I meet lead boring, mundane lives and couldn’t care less what happens around them. They don’t do anything to make things better.”
“But Kane makes things better? He’s a cartoon, Jess. An anime hottie. He’s two dimensional in the truest sense of the word. He does the things the writers create for him to do and looks the way the animators draw him to look. He’s not real. He’s not flesh and blood.”
Jess blinked back the tears that were starting to fill her eyes. She reached down and picked her purse up off the floor and shoved her chair back. “Well I’m flesh and blood and my feelings are real. I’ve had enough of this conversation.”
“Jess, please wait…” Melanie reached out to grab her friend’s arm, but Jess avoided her.
“Leave me alone,” Jess snapped and pushed the chair hard against the table. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I know that it scares me for you.”
“Well don’t let it," Jess barked. "I’m fine. Just leave me alone.” She turned and headed for the door, shoved her way between two people coming in and stepped out into the chill fall air. Down the block she could hear the approaching rumble of a MetroBus and she glanced over her shoulder. It was the Westside 210. That would get her home. She picked up her pace and reached the bus stop just as the last waiting passenger stepped on board. The red laser of the card reader ticked off the fare from her rider card and she moved down the aisle. The third seat behind the driver was empty and she slid in and stared out the window at the traffic passing by. She blinked several times and sniffed, then settled in for the fifteen minute ride to her apartment complex.
When she reached her apartment Jess slid the key into the lock and turned it until she felt the tumblers shift and the bolt give to the pressure. The knob twisted easily beneath her hand and she felt a certain amount of relief as she stepped over the threshold.
Melanie hadn’t been entirely wrong. The apartment was covered in “Dragon Sorcerer” paraphernalia. Figurines of all the characters lined the mantle over the fireplace, Kane’s figurine in the center. Posters of different scenes from the series hung on the walls, nearly everyone featuring a heroic, sensual Kane as the main focus. He watched her from all sides of her home with chestnut brown eyes, his long brown hair caught back in a braid, dragon sorcerer tattoo on his right forearm. DVDs of the movie and every volume of the series were scattered on the floor, the jackets covered with scenes from the show.
Jess tossed her purse on the couch and kicked her shoes off. She casually ran her hands over the blanket that lay draped across the back of a chair as she walked into the kitchen, her fingers following the curve of Kane’s face where he stared up from the soft nap. In the kitchen she opened a cupboard and took out a glass, a scene from the movie stenciled around its circumference. She filled the glass with cold water from the fridge and then carried it into her bedroom.
The largest poster hung there, beside her bed. Beneath it was a small bedside table with a drawer. There were manga stacked on top and on the floor all around the bottom of it, all of them “Dragon Sorcerer” volumes.
She sat down cross-legged on the floor and looked up at the poster. The series’ characters, Benish, Johnto, Whistia, Flaegen, Merrin, Beck, and Kane, all stared back at her, their eyes filled with warmth and hope. Her own eyes filled with tears once more and she let them fall, didn’t even bother to blink as they rose and slid from her lower lashes and fell onto the backs of her hands.
Melanie doesn’t understand, she thought to herself. She doesn’t know what it’s like. She belongs here. I don’t. I never did. I want to go home.
The poster blurred in her vision, the lines of the drawings becoming disjointed, the colors shifting and twisting around one another. After a minute she felt ill with vertigo and started to close her eyes to rid herself of the feeling. In the instant before her lids sealed out the spinning image she saw it, a dragon symbol beside each character, in the spaces between one character and another, all the same. She held her breath, kept her eyes locked in position, willed them to retain the odd focus that allowed her to finally see what had been missing all along. When she felt confident that she knew it, could recreate it, she blinked and looked at the poster straight on. The repeating dragon symbol was gone. She scrambled to her feet and rushed to the poster. With frantic hands she marked each place where the symbol had been, the tip of the pen she had grabbed off the side table shaking as she drew.
Eight points stood out on the poster when she stepped back and looked it over. Seven characters from the series with a symbol between each one, except where two symbols sat beside one another. The pattern was incomplete. A soft cry rose in her throat and she stepped back. The glass of water she had left on the floor tipped over as her foot brushed against it, the glass breaking as it hit the wooden floorboards. She let the cry escape her lips and reached down to pick up the pieces.
I’m so stupid, she thought as she gathered the shards into her hands. Nothing will change this. This is forever. She looked down at the broken pieces of glass and closed her hands around them. I can’t do this forever. The fine edges sliced into her skin. I can’t. Blood rose from the wounds, pooled in her palms, dripped onto the floor at her feet. She shuddered at the pain, closed her eyes and imagined all of it gone, all of it dark and silent and still.
She looked one last time at the poster and could not stop the wail that poured out of her throat. She let the shards fall to the floor and covered her face with her bloody hands, sobbed uncontrollably until the room began to spin again. She reached out on instinct to steady herself, stumbled and fell against the side table, checked her forward momentum as she caught herself against the wall, the bloodied palm of her right hand flat against the surface of the poster on top of the two dragon symbols drawn side by side.
There was a flash of light, a moment of firm resistance, and then a slow yielding beneath her hand.
Jeshria?
Her head snapped up.
Jeshria!
She saw her fingers lost somewhere inside the poster and jerked her hand violently back. Something brushed her fingertips before they came free of the paper.
JESHRIA!
A man’s hand shot out from the paper where her hand had been, directly between the two symbols. It was grasping, searching, the fingers spread wide and shaking with effort, a dragon symbol tattooed on its forearm.
Take my hand, Jesh! Please!
Without thinking she reached out, put her hand in the other. Blood from her palm spilled onto his.
Jesh! His hand tightened. For the love of all that’s holy, she’s bleeding! Help me! Jesh! Hold on! I’ve got you!
There was solidity in his touch, and warmth and life and familiarity. "Kane," she whispered. She plunged her left hand through the poster and felt a second hand grasp it. More hands gripped hers, then there was a brief resistance and pressure.
The corners of the "Dragon Sorcerer" poster curled inward, broke the tape’s adhesion to the wall, and floated free. It landed on the floor beside the shards of broken glass and slowly soaked up the water and blood pooled on the wooden floorboards.
~ Peace and possibility
I blame this little need of mine on my grandmother. While in her care as a three and four year old child I would watch two hours of cartoons each day. She would sit with me and watch Casper the Friendly Ghost in the afternoon. In the mornings I would sit at the foot of her bed, right on the very edge of the corner, as close as I could get to the T.V. that sat on her dresser, and fill up on Aqua Boy, Speed Racer, and Kimba the White Lion (known more formally as Jungle Emperor). It was during those wonderful, imaginative hours that I became a devoted student of animation.
I have always enjoyed animation and have nurtured my little addiction through constant care and feeding over the years. A steady diet of the standard American fare – Hanna-Barbera, Disney, Looney Tunes, Popeye, Marvel and DC Comics – served as a reasonable substitute for the real thing – Japanese Anime.
Kimba and Speed Racer were only the beginning of my love of Japanese Anime. To me, being limited to only those two was akin to giving a child a taste of coffee and then refusing the request for an actual cupful until s/he is an adult. I filled up on Speed Racer and Kimba whenever I could, investing myself thoroughly in the storylines and the characters. I wanted Speed Racer’s Mach 5 racecar so badly that it hurt to watch the show. When a die-cast car that looked like the Mach 5 hit toy stores in the late 70s, I did everything I could to get it. And I still have it, secreted away where my son can’t find it. After watching Kimba, I would prowl around the house on all fours saving all the jungle animals from hunters and terrible dangers. I was wise, fearless, and loyal. To this day I have a thing for a hero or heroine with long, white hair.
When these two shows suddenly ended I starved. It was years until Voltron: Defender of the Universe emerged from across the sea to satisfy my anime sweet tooth once again. Just as before I could be found waiting for the show to start, sitting cross-legged and entirely too close to the T.V. each afternoon. I longed to operate one of those amazing robotic lions. I wanted Keith, Commander of the Voltron Force, to care about me and not Princess Allura. I could not stand the fact that she would wear a pink uniform while piloting the blue lion. It was a travesty.
And then came Robotech and I was lost. After vicariously following Rick Hunter into the cockpit of a Veritech Fighter, and getting caught in the hyperspace jump of the SDF-1 Battle Fortress in an effort to escape the Zentraedi forces, I knew I needed my own Veritech Fighter. And I have one – in a box of priceless trinkets and treasures – safe from the hands of my children. The Robotech series ran for 85 glorious episodes and it became clear during the first year it ran that I was hooked on anime. I haven’t looked back since.
The following storyline came to me as the original Fullmetal Alchemist series that I had been watching came to an end. I feel a tremendous letdown upon the completion of an anime series that I have become fully invested in. This response - of which I have suffered countless times over the years - along with my limited knowledge of anime fandom and all of its nuances, got me thinking. How deeply engrained in a fan’s life does anime become? How much devotion is too much devotion? Where does reality end and the anime begin in the mind of the serious fan? When does the line between the two cease to exist? My imagination started to spin…
Paradigm Shift
"You’re crazy,” Melanie said as she twirled the wooden coffee stirrer in her fingers.
“I’m what?”
“I said, you’re crazy.”
Jess looked at her friend and drew her brows together in irritation. “I’m crazy. Why am I crazy?”
“Kane.” Melanie took a sip of her latte and glanced at Jess over the rim of the paper cup.
“Kane.”
“Mmmhmm.”
Jess cocked her head and sat open-mouthed for a moment. “How, exactly, does Kane make me crazy?”
Melanie set the cup down and leaned forward. “You like him.”
A blush inched its way over Jess’ cheeks. “Yeah, so?”
“A lot.”
“So?”
“So,” Melanie continued, “you’re acting like a school girl.”
Jess leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “I am not acting like a school girl.”
Melanie snorted. “Yes, you are.”
“I am not,” Jess said again and looked out the front window of the coffee shop. A young mother walked by pushing a stroller down the strip mall’s sidewalk.
“You are,” Melanie replied and held up her hand as Jess prepared to argue with her again. “Listen. Whose image is on the desktop of your computer?”
Jess refused to answer and simply stared at Melanie.
“When you logon to any site that has them, who’s your avatar?”
Jess drew her brows closer together until they seemed to form one continuous, undulating line of irritation on her forehead.
“How many different pictures of him are there in you’re My Pics folder?" Melanie pressed her. "How many times a day do you look at them?”
“What, exactly, are you trying to say?”
“I'm saying that I think you’re a little fixated.”
“Yeah, well he makes me happy. Tell me how that’s bad.”
“He’s not real, Jess. That’s how it’s bad.”
Jess tightened her grip on her arms, her finger tips pressing hard into her biceps. “Listen,” she snapped, “not all of us are blessed with your life. Not all of us can walk into a room and feel at home with whoever happens to be there. Some of us…”
“Are scared of real people,” Melanie said quietly. The frown on Jess’ face deepened.
“I’m not scared," she snapped. "It’s just that most people I meet lead boring, mundane lives and couldn’t care less what happens around them. They don’t do anything to make things better.”
“But Kane makes things better? He’s a cartoon, Jess. An anime hottie. He’s two dimensional in the truest sense of the word. He does the things the writers create for him to do and looks the way the animators draw him to look. He’s not real. He’s not flesh and blood.”
Jess blinked back the tears that were starting to fill her eyes. She reached down and picked her purse up off the floor and shoved her chair back. “Well I’m flesh and blood and my feelings are real. I’ve had enough of this conversation.”
“Jess, please wait…” Melanie reached out to grab her friend’s arm, but Jess avoided her.
“Leave me alone,” Jess snapped and pushed the chair hard against the table. “You don’t understand. You don’t know what it’s like.”
“I know that it scares me for you.”
“Well don’t let it," Jess barked. "I’m fine. Just leave me alone.” She turned and headed for the door, shoved her way between two people coming in and stepped out into the chill fall air. Down the block she could hear the approaching rumble of a MetroBus and she glanced over her shoulder. It was the Westside 210. That would get her home. She picked up her pace and reached the bus stop just as the last waiting passenger stepped on board. The red laser of the card reader ticked off the fare from her rider card and she moved down the aisle. The third seat behind the driver was empty and she slid in and stared out the window at the traffic passing by. She blinked several times and sniffed, then settled in for the fifteen minute ride to her apartment complex.
When she reached her apartment Jess slid the key into the lock and turned it until she felt the tumblers shift and the bolt give to the pressure. The knob twisted easily beneath her hand and she felt a certain amount of relief as she stepped over the threshold.
Melanie hadn’t been entirely wrong. The apartment was covered in “Dragon Sorcerer” paraphernalia. Figurines of all the characters lined the mantle over the fireplace, Kane’s figurine in the center. Posters of different scenes from the series hung on the walls, nearly everyone featuring a heroic, sensual Kane as the main focus. He watched her from all sides of her home with chestnut brown eyes, his long brown hair caught back in a braid, dragon sorcerer tattoo on his right forearm. DVDs of the movie and every volume of the series were scattered on the floor, the jackets covered with scenes from the show.
Jess tossed her purse on the couch and kicked her shoes off. She casually ran her hands over the blanket that lay draped across the back of a chair as she walked into the kitchen, her fingers following the curve of Kane’s face where he stared up from the soft nap. In the kitchen she opened a cupboard and took out a glass, a scene from the movie stenciled around its circumference. She filled the glass with cold water from the fridge and then carried it into her bedroom.
The largest poster hung there, beside her bed. Beneath it was a small bedside table with a drawer. There were manga stacked on top and on the floor all around the bottom of it, all of them “Dragon Sorcerer” volumes.
She sat down cross-legged on the floor and looked up at the poster. The series’ characters, Benish, Johnto, Whistia, Flaegen, Merrin, Beck, and Kane, all stared back at her, their eyes filled with warmth and hope. Her own eyes filled with tears once more and she let them fall, didn’t even bother to blink as they rose and slid from her lower lashes and fell onto the backs of her hands.
Melanie doesn’t understand, she thought to herself. She doesn’t know what it’s like. She belongs here. I don’t. I never did. I want to go home.
The poster blurred in her vision, the lines of the drawings becoming disjointed, the colors shifting and twisting around one another. After a minute she felt ill with vertigo and started to close her eyes to rid herself of the feeling. In the instant before her lids sealed out the spinning image she saw it, a dragon symbol beside each character, in the spaces between one character and another, all the same. She held her breath, kept her eyes locked in position, willed them to retain the odd focus that allowed her to finally see what had been missing all along. When she felt confident that she knew it, could recreate it, she blinked and looked at the poster straight on. The repeating dragon symbol was gone. She scrambled to her feet and rushed to the poster. With frantic hands she marked each place where the symbol had been, the tip of the pen she had grabbed off the side table shaking as she drew.
Eight points stood out on the poster when she stepped back and looked it over. Seven characters from the series with a symbol between each one, except where two symbols sat beside one another. The pattern was incomplete. A soft cry rose in her throat and she stepped back. The glass of water she had left on the floor tipped over as her foot brushed against it, the glass breaking as it hit the wooden floorboards. She let the cry escape her lips and reached down to pick up the pieces.
I’m so stupid, she thought as she gathered the shards into her hands. Nothing will change this. This is forever. She looked down at the broken pieces of glass and closed her hands around them. I can’t do this forever. The fine edges sliced into her skin. I can’t. Blood rose from the wounds, pooled in her palms, dripped onto the floor at her feet. She shuddered at the pain, closed her eyes and imagined all of it gone, all of it dark and silent and still.
She looked one last time at the poster and could not stop the wail that poured out of her throat. She let the shards fall to the floor and covered her face with her bloody hands, sobbed uncontrollably until the room began to spin again. She reached out on instinct to steady herself, stumbled and fell against the side table, checked her forward momentum as she caught herself against the wall, the bloodied palm of her right hand flat against the surface of the poster on top of the two dragon symbols drawn side by side.
There was a flash of light, a moment of firm resistance, and then a slow yielding beneath her hand.
Jeshria?
Her head snapped up.
Jeshria!
She saw her fingers lost somewhere inside the poster and jerked her hand violently back. Something brushed her fingertips before they came free of the paper.
JESHRIA!
A man’s hand shot out from the paper where her hand had been, directly between the two symbols. It was grasping, searching, the fingers spread wide and shaking with effort, a dragon symbol tattooed on its forearm.
Take my hand, Jesh! Please!
Without thinking she reached out, put her hand in the other. Blood from her palm spilled onto his.
Jesh! His hand tightened. For the love of all that’s holy, she’s bleeding! Help me! Jesh! Hold on! I’ve got you!
There was solidity in his touch, and warmth and life and familiarity. "Kane," she whispered. She plunged her left hand through the poster and felt a second hand grasp it. More hands gripped hers, then there was a brief resistance and pressure.
The corners of the "Dragon Sorcerer" poster curled inward, broke the tape’s adhesion to the wall, and floated free. It landed on the floor beside the shards of broken glass and slowly soaked up the water and blood pooled on the wooden floorboards.
~ Peace and possibility
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Of truth and memory - a response
I received the following comment from Michael after posting “A Taste of Memory”. I decided to respond via a standard post when my reply to him began to grow the more I thought about the comment. Pardon my long-winded response and feel free to add a comment of your own.
Michael M. wrote:
I think that one difference we have is in the use of “truth” – lower case t - and “Truth” - upper case T. Truth with the upper case T is a metaphysical ideal – the essence of what is actual and factual and absolute. In contrast, truth, with a lower case t, is that which one believes to be accurate, but is still subjective to some degree, especially, I would argue, when referring to memory and to memoir.
Take the sweater color example again – If I am red-green color blind then my memory of the sweater being black may, in fact, be accurate, since it may look black to me. If I am never told differently by someone who sees it as red, I have no way of knowing any different and, therefore, would retain my belief as true. Let’s complicate it a bit more. If I am unable to see red, yet I am told my perception of it as black is wrong and the sweater is red according to another set of eyes, I have to decide if I will accept the new information as true or maintain that my original thought is. Whose truth is right? To what degree does the sweater’s color affect the purpose of the piece written?
A psychologist friend of mine and I had a discussion about childhood memories of an incident between a child’s parents that was witnessed by that child and the parents' memory of that same situation. The memory retained by the child of the incident, which is observed from a child’s point of view, processed by a child’s brain, and stored in that fashion, does not necessarily reflect the same memory (or truth, if you will) of the situation as recalled by the parents. Yet both child and parents will believe his/her memory of the situation to be true. Who is right?
As a teenager I remember having an extremely heated discussion with my mother about an incident that I was adamant happened to me during my 2nd grade year at school. She had no memory of the situation, though I clearly remembered coming home with a black eye and bloody lip. She told me that she would remember such an incident since it would have startled her badly to see me in such a state. Since she didn’t remember it it couldn’t have happened. I refused to accept her answer at the time, convinced I was absolutely right.
Writing “A Taste of Memory” got me thinking about that 2nd grade situation and I realized that I could no longer clearly recall the circumstances. Does that mean that it didn’t occur? Does it mean that it did, but I am losing access to the memory? Does it mean that my mother’s adamancy about not remembering something so significant colored my own ability to remember it? And how do the answers to these questions affect whether I write about it later and how?
At this point in my life, knowing myself as well as I do, I am fairly certain that what I did as a child was create a wonderful story, probably acting it out to some degree on the playground that day, and then incorporating it into my memory as real. Having done that, I would then defend it with vehemence to anyone who would challenge my recollection of it. As a child I firmly believed what I remembered as true. Today I would suggest otherwise. Yet which is right? And, how much does it matter?
At some point the writer must decide why s/he is writing – what is the purpose of the piece – so s/he can also decide how to write it. Questions arise regarding the accuracy of the memories written down, which memories have significance and which do not, what voice should be used in the retelling, how much should be told, and how much withheld.
I could attempt to verify my own story by searching for Allen and asking him to recall the day I wrote about, but I no longer remember his last name and have no idea what became of him since he moved away from that neighborhood a little over a year later. Does this complication and lack of corroboration detract from the story I shared? I say the story is true. You only have me to believe. Do you trust me well enough to accept my version?
We know that memoirs have been written that contain nothing but fact. They exist, in part, because that level of attention to detail was deemed important. Others have been written with great literary license and the apparent lack of accuracy made way for a more poignant story that connected deeply with readers. Still others find some way to successfully blend those two extremes. The point where “the truth” of a memoir becomes a problem is when the trust between writer and reader is some how broken.
The responsibility for this bond does not end with the writer. As readers we need to ask ourselves why we are reading the memoir we have chosen. That answer informs us of just how much trust we will put in the writer, what we expect from him/her in terms of accuracy and proof, what type of connection we need between the writer, his/her story, and ourselves. Our reason for choosing the piece in the first place is as important as why it was written. When these two things don’t mesh the issues of truth and trust and merit arise.
~ Peace and musings
Michael M. wrote:
Your preface [to "A Taste of Memory"] raises the interesting issue which contrasts the concepts of truth versus fact. One's truth is not necessarily their perceptions. The truth of the sweater color, for example, would be what it was, not what he or she remembered it to be. Saying that "It is in the telling of the memory that the truth ultimately lies", suggests that everyone has their own truth, which suggests relativity, which in turn denies the definition of Truth.
I think that one difference we have is in the use of “truth” – lower case t - and “Truth” - upper case T. Truth with the upper case T is a metaphysical ideal – the essence of what is actual and factual and absolute. In contrast, truth, with a lower case t, is that which one believes to be accurate, but is still subjective to some degree, especially, I would argue, when referring to memory and to memoir.
Take the sweater color example again – If I am red-green color blind then my memory of the sweater being black may, in fact, be accurate, since it may look black to me. If I am never told differently by someone who sees it as red, I have no way of knowing any different and, therefore, would retain my belief as true. Let’s complicate it a bit more. If I am unable to see red, yet I am told my perception of it as black is wrong and the sweater is red according to another set of eyes, I have to decide if I will accept the new information as true or maintain that my original thought is. Whose truth is right? To what degree does the sweater’s color affect the purpose of the piece written?
A psychologist friend of mine and I had a discussion about childhood memories of an incident between a child’s parents that was witnessed by that child and the parents' memory of that same situation. The memory retained by the child of the incident, which is observed from a child’s point of view, processed by a child’s brain, and stored in that fashion, does not necessarily reflect the same memory (or truth, if you will) of the situation as recalled by the parents. Yet both child and parents will believe his/her memory of the situation to be true. Who is right?
As a teenager I remember having an extremely heated discussion with my mother about an incident that I was adamant happened to me during my 2nd grade year at school. She had no memory of the situation, though I clearly remembered coming home with a black eye and bloody lip. She told me that she would remember such an incident since it would have startled her badly to see me in such a state. Since she didn’t remember it it couldn’t have happened. I refused to accept her answer at the time, convinced I was absolutely right.
Writing “A Taste of Memory” got me thinking about that 2nd grade situation and I realized that I could no longer clearly recall the circumstances. Does that mean that it didn’t occur? Does it mean that it did, but I am losing access to the memory? Does it mean that my mother’s adamancy about not remembering something so significant colored my own ability to remember it? And how do the answers to these questions affect whether I write about it later and how?
At this point in my life, knowing myself as well as I do, I am fairly certain that what I did as a child was create a wonderful story, probably acting it out to some degree on the playground that day, and then incorporating it into my memory as real. Having done that, I would then defend it with vehemence to anyone who would challenge my recollection of it. As a child I firmly believed what I remembered as true. Today I would suggest otherwise. Yet which is right? And, how much does it matter?
At some point the writer must decide why s/he is writing – what is the purpose of the piece – so s/he can also decide how to write it. Questions arise regarding the accuracy of the memories written down, which memories have significance and which do not, what voice should be used in the retelling, how much should be told, and how much withheld.
I could attempt to verify my own story by searching for Allen and asking him to recall the day I wrote about, but I no longer remember his last name and have no idea what became of him since he moved away from that neighborhood a little over a year later. Does this complication and lack of corroboration detract from the story I shared? I say the story is true. You only have me to believe. Do you trust me well enough to accept my version?
We know that memoirs have been written that contain nothing but fact. They exist, in part, because that level of attention to detail was deemed important. Others have been written with great literary license and the apparent lack of accuracy made way for a more poignant story that connected deeply with readers. Still others find some way to successfully blend those two extremes. The point where “the truth” of a memoir becomes a problem is when the trust between writer and reader is some how broken.
The responsibility for this bond does not end with the writer. As readers we need to ask ourselves why we are reading the memoir we have chosen. That answer informs us of just how much trust we will put in the writer, what we expect from him/her in terms of accuracy and proof, what type of connection we need between the writer, his/her story, and ourselves. Our reason for choosing the piece in the first place is as important as why it was written. When these two things don’t mesh the issues of truth and trust and merit arise.
~ Peace and musings
Sunday, October 18, 2009
A Taste of Memory
Memoir is the retelling of moments in the life of the writer. Accuracy is often a concern for both the writer in the telling and the reader in the receiving of the moment given. Because memoir is, by its very nature, of the mind and memory, it is reasonable to say that only so much accuracy can be expected. Writers are human, humans are far from perfect, and, as such, their memories can be anything from quite accurate to down right wrong. This said it can make one wonder if a memoir is worth reading if the accuracy of the recounted moment(s) is questionable.
I would suggest that memories are subjective and fallible. They really can only be known truthfully from the point of view of the one relating the memory. Even when memories are shared by more than one individual it is hard to say whose is correct and whose is not. A varying degree of both accuracy and inaccuracy on behalf of all involved is really the only "correct" answer. I remember the first time I met my husband one way, he remembers it another. We will share similar details, but we will differ on others. Does this make his recount wrong and mine right? What if I remember wearing a black turtleneck sweater and he remembers a red one? How important is it that he was shy or that I was?
It is in the telling of the memory that the truth ultimately lies. The writer wishes to share some aspect of his or her life with the reader and in the honest retelling of those moments that truth is given. The key is the honest retelling. Adherence to the truth to the best of the writer's ability as the writer understands it is what the reader is seeking and what the reader expects.
Two versions of the following memoir piece exist. To me both are accurate, though I know they have different details. Perhaps it is not in the details (which most likely have been conglomerated over time into a few strong memories), but rather in the theme, emotions, and general feel of the memory that the truth of it lies. What I am giving you is a glimpse of what I remember as a seven year old child during the summer between first and second grade. It is the truth as I remember it some thirty-odd years later. Does the fact that I may not be relating 100% accurate memories affect how you read it? Do you worry that I am handing you something of less value because I am admitting my fallibility? Or, do you read what I offer with human eyes that know your own fallibility and, instead, find the truth of the piece within your own experience?
Juicy Fruit® Summer
Allen and I walked along Grand River Avenue, buckets in hand, carefully stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk like all seven and eight year olds do in order to keep their mothers safe from injury. It was early June. School was out and the summer was ours to do with as we wanted. At the top of our list was crayfish hunting.
The Grand River wound around the backside of our neighborhood and called to us like a siren. There were thousands of fossils to be found all along the waterline, the imprints of seashells and small, many-legged things that had died in the prehistoric mud that eventually became the shale in the river’s bed. Spotted salamanders lurked under the rotting forest debris, snails and any number of strange bugs, those more exotic than the common ones on our backyards, hid under the bark of fallen logs and beneath the low leaves of plants we didn’t know the names of. And there were crayfish. Miniature freshwater lobsters hiding under the flat river rocks and shooting out backward to escape capture, their claws extended and ready to snip fingers.
Our buckets were plastic. Mine the half-gallon ice cream variety, Allen’s the institutional-sized peanut butter kind, although the smallest version of something so large. His bucket had a white plastic cylinder at the apex of the handle to make carrying it more comfortable. Mine didn’t. Allen’s could hold a dozen crayfish easily. Mine, about eight. His bucket was white and the peanut butter label had long ago peeled away leaving behind the tenacious adhesive residue that collected and retained dirt no matter how many times you scrubbed it. The body of my bucket was orange and still had its lid, the imprinted label telling everyone to “put a tiger in your tummy”.
We kept the buckets at Allen’s since his house was closer to the path to the river. Keeping them there also made it easier to go to the river even when I wasn’t supposed to. We went several times in a month with my mother, but we also went many times without her, covertly, like spies.
I had permission to play at Allen’s that day, but not to go to the river. So we played and fooled around for as long as we could stand before the idea of the river and the thrill of catching crayfish finally won out. We gathered our tools – the buckets, some cookies, a canteen of water – and decided how to sneak away.
Sneaking away from Allen’s house wasn’t hard. His mother was never there to stop us and his older sister was so tired from working that she would actually give us gum as a bribe so we would go away. We trooped into his house, collected our payment, and trooped back out again, Juicy Fruit® gum filling our mouths with saliva and sweet fake fruit flavor. On our way out of the yard we grabbed our buckets, two good long sticks, and set off down the path that would lead us to Grand River and all its treasures.
The forest between our neighborhood and the river was not really that deep, nor was it dark or scary or truly dangerous. But to us it wase all those things and more, especially when we were making the trip alone. For some 500 feet we were surrounded on all sides by trees and low brush, chattering squirrels and screaming blue jays. Starlings and sparrows flew across the path, and once in a great while one of us might see a raccoon or a red fox. More often then not we would see a few cats from the nearby houses out hunting for mice, voles, or shrews. They would give us irritated looks, like we were intruding on their territory, and then hurry off into the woods.
Allen and I would carry our buckets in one hand, our long sticks in the other. One of us would carry the cookies and the other the canteen of water. We were prepared for anything. And you needed to be prepared. We had been told many times to be careful of snakes and loose dogs. The sticks would protect us from these. We watched the ground, careful not to step on any leaves in clusters of three. If we had to we could swing our buckets at anyone who tried to kidnap us or take our provisions away. Allen led because he was older. I brought up the rear since I had really good hearing and could tell if we were being followed.
As we walked we imagined our buckets into birch bark containers, sewn together with rawhide lacing and waterproofed with pine tar. The sticks we carried were tipped with strong spear points like the ones made by the Erie Nation that lived here so long ago. We were on a quest for food to feed our families and to gather anything else we could find that might be useful. We were savvy, skilled, and fearless. Until something behind us broke a few too many sticks as it walked through the woods. That’s when we started running.
I remember stopping for a second, swallowing and tapping Allen on his shoulder with my stick, now suddenly too small and lacking a sharp spear point. He turned and looked at me, his eyes wide. I remember the entire forest growing silent so that all we could hear was our own breathing and being startled at how loud it was. I watched Allen’s eyes grow wider and wider as he looked past my head to the path behind me. My skin crawled at the strange high-pitched fore-whine that came before he shouted and then turned and ran.
I was a year younger than Allen and about eight inches shorter, but I had no trouble following him at high speed down the trail to the river. I ran so hard and so fast that when Allen stumbled over a root I careened into him and we both fell down. We scrambled back to our feet and ran, clutching the handles of our buckets, our sticks left behind on the path. We came bursting through the last line of trees and into the sunlight bathing the river’s edge. The sand spit slowed us down abruptly and we both fell to our knees, our legs and feet unable to keep up with our terrified forward momentum.
I turned and looked at Allen. His face was red and covered in sweat and sand. He was breathing hard and staring at the ground where he had fallen. He glanced at me and blinked.
“What did you see?” I asked him between huffing breaths.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? I saw you’re eyes! You screamed.”
The strangest sound came snorting out of his nose. “Yea. It was a pretty good scream, wasn’t it,” he laughed and then grinned at me. “But yours was better.”
“I didn’t cream,” I snapped.
“You did, too. All the way here. Eeee! Eeee! Eeee!” he mimicked and then snorted into a fit of the giggles. “And your face! I bet you thought a bear was after us!”
I sat down on the sand and gave him a dirty look. “No I didn’t,” I said and then pushed myself up from the ground and picked up my bucket. “I knew you were joking.”
“You did not,” he replied and got up, brushing sand off his legs.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I did, too,” I growled and chewed my gum hard.
He looked at me funny for a second, then I could see his tongue moving around inside his mouth, pushing out his cheeks and lips. “Hey, my gum's gone,” he muttered.
“Ha! You swallowed it. See, you too were scared.”
“No, I wasn’t,” he said shaking his head. “How come you still have yours?”
I thought about it for a moment and could feel my cheeks get hot as I remembered. “Eeee. Eeee. Eeee,” I said softly, my back teeth clamped tightly down on my gum so I wouldn’t swallow it.
Allen started laughing all over again.
“Shut up,” I muttered. “At least I still have mine.”
He wiped his eyes and grinned at me. “It was worth a piece of gum to see the look on your face. Double to hear that scream.”
“Good, then you owe me a piece of gum,” I snarled and stomped off to search the shallows for crayfish.
For the remainder of that summer I heard “Eeee, eeee, eeee” a lot, but I also walked to the river behind Allen on many occasions with two sticks of gum in my mouth instead of just one, the extra sweet fake fruit flavor nearly dripping down my chin.
~ Peace and nostalgia
I would suggest that memories are subjective and fallible. They really can only be known truthfully from the point of view of the one relating the memory. Even when memories are shared by more than one individual it is hard to say whose is correct and whose is not. A varying degree of both accuracy and inaccuracy on behalf of all involved is really the only "correct" answer. I remember the first time I met my husband one way, he remembers it another. We will share similar details, but we will differ on others. Does this make his recount wrong and mine right? What if I remember wearing a black turtleneck sweater and he remembers a red one? How important is it that he was shy or that I was?
It is in the telling of the memory that the truth ultimately lies. The writer wishes to share some aspect of his or her life with the reader and in the honest retelling of those moments that truth is given. The key is the honest retelling. Adherence to the truth to the best of the writer's ability as the writer understands it is what the reader is seeking and what the reader expects.
Two versions of the following memoir piece exist. To me both are accurate, though I know they have different details. Perhaps it is not in the details (which most likely have been conglomerated over time into a few strong memories), but rather in the theme, emotions, and general feel of the memory that the truth of it lies. What I am giving you is a glimpse of what I remember as a seven year old child during the summer between first and second grade. It is the truth as I remember it some thirty-odd years later. Does the fact that I may not be relating 100% accurate memories affect how you read it? Do you worry that I am handing you something of less value because I am admitting my fallibility? Or, do you read what I offer with human eyes that know your own fallibility and, instead, find the truth of the piece within your own experience?
Juicy Fruit® Summer
Allen and I walked along Grand River Avenue, buckets in hand, carefully stepping over the cracks in the sidewalk like all seven and eight year olds do in order to keep their mothers safe from injury. It was early June. School was out and the summer was ours to do with as we wanted. At the top of our list was crayfish hunting.
The Grand River wound around the backside of our neighborhood and called to us like a siren. There were thousands of fossils to be found all along the waterline, the imprints of seashells and small, many-legged things that had died in the prehistoric mud that eventually became the shale in the river’s bed. Spotted salamanders lurked under the rotting forest debris, snails and any number of strange bugs, those more exotic than the common ones on our backyards, hid under the bark of fallen logs and beneath the low leaves of plants we didn’t know the names of. And there were crayfish. Miniature freshwater lobsters hiding under the flat river rocks and shooting out backward to escape capture, their claws extended and ready to snip fingers.
Our buckets were plastic. Mine the half-gallon ice cream variety, Allen’s the institutional-sized peanut butter kind, although the smallest version of something so large. His bucket had a white plastic cylinder at the apex of the handle to make carrying it more comfortable. Mine didn’t. Allen’s could hold a dozen crayfish easily. Mine, about eight. His bucket was white and the peanut butter label had long ago peeled away leaving behind the tenacious adhesive residue that collected and retained dirt no matter how many times you scrubbed it. The body of my bucket was orange and still had its lid, the imprinted label telling everyone to “put a tiger in your tummy”.
We kept the buckets at Allen’s since his house was closer to the path to the river. Keeping them there also made it easier to go to the river even when I wasn’t supposed to. We went several times in a month with my mother, but we also went many times without her, covertly, like spies.
I had permission to play at Allen’s that day, but not to go to the river. So we played and fooled around for as long as we could stand before the idea of the river and the thrill of catching crayfish finally won out. We gathered our tools – the buckets, some cookies, a canteen of water – and decided how to sneak away.
Sneaking away from Allen’s house wasn’t hard. His mother was never there to stop us and his older sister was so tired from working that she would actually give us gum as a bribe so we would go away. We trooped into his house, collected our payment, and trooped back out again, Juicy Fruit® gum filling our mouths with saliva and sweet fake fruit flavor. On our way out of the yard we grabbed our buckets, two good long sticks, and set off down the path that would lead us to Grand River and all its treasures.
The forest between our neighborhood and the river was not really that deep, nor was it dark or scary or truly dangerous. But to us it wase all those things and more, especially when we were making the trip alone. For some 500 feet we were surrounded on all sides by trees and low brush, chattering squirrels and screaming blue jays. Starlings and sparrows flew across the path, and once in a great while one of us might see a raccoon or a red fox. More often then not we would see a few cats from the nearby houses out hunting for mice, voles, or shrews. They would give us irritated looks, like we were intruding on their territory, and then hurry off into the woods.
Allen and I would carry our buckets in one hand, our long sticks in the other. One of us would carry the cookies and the other the canteen of water. We were prepared for anything. And you needed to be prepared. We had been told many times to be careful of snakes and loose dogs. The sticks would protect us from these. We watched the ground, careful not to step on any leaves in clusters of three. If we had to we could swing our buckets at anyone who tried to kidnap us or take our provisions away. Allen led because he was older. I brought up the rear since I had really good hearing and could tell if we were being followed.
As we walked we imagined our buckets into birch bark containers, sewn together with rawhide lacing and waterproofed with pine tar. The sticks we carried were tipped with strong spear points like the ones made by the Erie Nation that lived here so long ago. We were on a quest for food to feed our families and to gather anything else we could find that might be useful. We were savvy, skilled, and fearless. Until something behind us broke a few too many sticks as it walked through the woods. That’s when we started running.
I remember stopping for a second, swallowing and tapping Allen on his shoulder with my stick, now suddenly too small and lacking a sharp spear point. He turned and looked at me, his eyes wide. I remember the entire forest growing silent so that all we could hear was our own breathing and being startled at how loud it was. I watched Allen’s eyes grow wider and wider as he looked past my head to the path behind me. My skin crawled at the strange high-pitched fore-whine that came before he shouted and then turned and ran.
I was a year younger than Allen and about eight inches shorter, but I had no trouble following him at high speed down the trail to the river. I ran so hard and so fast that when Allen stumbled over a root I careened into him and we both fell down. We scrambled back to our feet and ran, clutching the handles of our buckets, our sticks left behind on the path. We came bursting through the last line of trees and into the sunlight bathing the river’s edge. The sand spit slowed us down abruptly and we both fell to our knees, our legs and feet unable to keep up with our terrified forward momentum.
I turned and looked at Allen. His face was red and covered in sweat and sand. He was breathing hard and staring at the ground where he had fallen. He glanced at me and blinked.
“What did you see?” I asked him between huffing breaths.
He shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know? I saw you’re eyes! You screamed.”
The strangest sound came snorting out of his nose. “Yea. It was a pretty good scream, wasn’t it,” he laughed and then grinned at me. “But yours was better.”
“I didn’t cream,” I snapped.
“You did, too. All the way here. Eeee! Eeee! Eeee!” he mimicked and then snorted into a fit of the giggles. “And your face! I bet you thought a bear was after us!”
I sat down on the sand and gave him a dirty look. “No I didn’t,” I said and then pushed myself up from the ground and picked up my bucket. “I knew you were joking.”
“You did not,” he replied and got up, brushing sand off his legs.
I crossed my arms over my chest. “I did, too,” I growled and chewed my gum hard.
He looked at me funny for a second, then I could see his tongue moving around inside his mouth, pushing out his cheeks and lips. “Hey, my gum's gone,” he muttered.
“Ha! You swallowed it. See, you too were scared.”
“No, I wasn’t,” he said shaking his head. “How come you still have yours?”
I thought about it for a moment and could feel my cheeks get hot as I remembered. “Eeee. Eeee. Eeee,” I said softly, my back teeth clamped tightly down on my gum so I wouldn’t swallow it.
Allen started laughing all over again.
“Shut up,” I muttered. “At least I still have mine.”
He wiped his eyes and grinned at me. “It was worth a piece of gum to see the look on your face. Double to hear that scream.”
“Good, then you owe me a piece of gum,” I snarled and stomped off to search the shallows for crayfish.
For the remainder of that summer I heard “Eeee, eeee, eeee” a lot, but I also walked to the river behind Allen on many occasions with two sticks of gum in my mouth instead of just one, the extra sweet fake fruit flavor nearly dripping down my chin.
~ Peace and nostalgia
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Nature's Morbid Sense of Humor
At the beginning of September, after waiting all summer for them to appear, my red morning glories finally bloomed. I enjoyed their beauty for two weeks and could not refrain from taking a tremendous number of pictures. While I am still a fan of film, I am deeply grateful for my digital SLR and my macro lens. Of the 50 shots I took I chose and titled about a dozen. I could not have afforded to do this by conventional methods as I lack the training necessary to keep unnecessary waste to a minimum. Here is one of my favorites:
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I am drawn by the intensity of the color and texture of these flowers. Their vibrant explosion of color and the delicate nature of their form amazes me. Morning glories are among my favorites because of this. They make my mouth water with desire for their luscious beauty and my heart fill at the tenacity of their vines climbing ever higher. It is nearly impossible to untangle the twining tendrils that twist around any available string, twig, and wire, invading and taking advantage of every crack, crevice, and fissure to move toward the light and warmth of the sun. They inspire me in this way.
So I take time and allow them to guide my creative need in a different way. I follow my eye as it sifts through their world, peering at close distance through my lens, invading their space in order to capture an essence I can never hope to actually be.
And as I go along I see things I hadn't noticed before - ants deep inside the flower gathering nectar, the way a spider has connected the flowers with a fine silk thread, how the vines encapsulate the netting I have given them to climb, the fine hairs that cover the leaves and stems, the nearly crystalline nature of the flower petals - all of it making me feel blessed to have stopped to see it. Really see it. And appreciate it. And keep it, this wondrous, beautiful, peaceful, blessed moment. And then I step back and take one more look and I am caught by the deranged joke Nature has crafted on my front light using my beautiful morning glories and their innocent nature. Growing there in the warm, nurturing sunshine I find this...
The lovliest hangman's noose I think I have ever seen. What a morbid sense of humor Nature has.
~ Peace and, well, let's just say that I suggest you mind your Ps and Qs. Nature, apparently, is watching.
Sunday, October 4, 2009
Brain Break
In order to maintain its health and retain access to the creative force within, you have to give your mind a break from time to time. Follow the link below to 7 videos from the Strange & Amazing Video Network at Yahoo Video that do that very thing.
http://video.yahoo.com/network/101149635?v=5949466&l=5218106
It's worth the time it will take to watch.
~ Peace and mental floss!
http://video.yahoo.com/network/101149635?v=5949466&l=5218106
It's worth the time it will take to watch.
~ Peace and mental floss!
Monday, September 28, 2009
Absence
Fourteen days is a long time to be absent. Two weeks of non-communication and silence. Do I apologize? Do I list my reasons, my excuses? Do I stop altogether or slink back and offer up my belly in submission? Or do I simply pick up where I left off and continue?
I have encountered what every writer on the planet encounters – the encroachment of life into the refuge of my imagination. It is amazing how this happens. It is, in some ways like a cancer – insidious, undetected for at least a period of time, relentless, non-repentant, and sometimes, fatal.
I teach beginning writers. I know better than to let this happen. I advise them not to allow the world to waltz all over their dream, press it into the grain of the floor until it no longer resembles what they have started. And yet, here I am. Absent due to the world.
So I will now follow my own advice and push out the walls of my space until it fits me well once again. I will drag in the good chair and the snappy keyboard and the sharp monitor so that I can clearly see what my imagination is feeding me and I will write.
I will honor the need and the urge and the desire. I will put the words on the page, extend them until they blend seamlessly into the images they are cultivating, until they become nothing more than the fine silken thread connecting one moment to the next within the story. I will begin…again…like I have countless times before, because being absent is simply not an option I can choose.
I have encountered what every writer on the planet encounters – the encroachment of life into the refuge of my imagination. It is amazing how this happens. It is, in some ways like a cancer – insidious, undetected for at least a period of time, relentless, non-repentant, and sometimes, fatal.
I teach beginning writers. I know better than to let this happen. I advise them not to allow the world to waltz all over their dream, press it into the grain of the floor until it no longer resembles what they have started. And yet, here I am. Absent due to the world.
So I will now follow my own advice and push out the walls of my space until it fits me well once again. I will drag in the good chair and the snappy keyboard and the sharp monitor so that I can clearly see what my imagination is feeding me and I will write.
I will honor the need and the urge and the desire. I will put the words on the page, extend them until they blend seamlessly into the images they are cultivating, until they become nothing more than the fine silken thread connecting one moment to the next within the story. I will begin…again…like I have countless times before, because being absent is simply not an option I can choose.
Monday, September 14, 2009
A Little Fiction for You
The following is based on a writing prompt about 2 women in a cafe' talking. I'm searching for a title - What do you think I should call it?
“You know, I really don’t know what to do,” Sheila said as she dragged her finger through the condensation on her water glass.
Marie looked at her, her brow lightly furrowed with concern. “Okay, but you do have to do something. Anything.” She picked up her own water glass and took a long swallow then set it back down. “I mean, even if all you do is walk in and look him in the eye, steady for ten seconds, you know, hold your ground, well, then that’s something. Right?” She raised her eyebrows in an effort to look positive, even though she wasn’t, and supportive, even though she felt completely used up.
Sheila took a deep breath and let it out. “Look him in the eye,” she muttered. “For ten seconds. Hold my ground.” She snorted. “Maybe.”
A waitress walked over to their table, her fifty-something hair and make-up arriving a second ahead of her. “Ladies?” she said and gave them a well practiced, worn out smile. “My name is Estelle. What can I get for you this evening?”
“Cob salad, hold the egg, exchange the bacon for turkey bacon, house dressing on the side,” Marie replied without giving the woman a second look.
“Advice,” Sheila said and flushed as soon as the word was out of her mouth.
Estelle stopped writing Marie’s order on her pad and tilted her head to regard Shelia. “Man, money, love, job, dog, what?” sbe asked.
Sheila swallowed. “Yes.”
Estelle blinked. “He got money?”
“No.”
“Got a job?”
“No.”
“Dog?”
“Yes.”
“Dog listen to you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s easy then, honey. Kick the man to the curb and keep the dog. The dog knows what side his bread’s buttered on. You feed him, give him a good home, teach him who he can count on and watch how he keeps that man out of your house.”
“The dog’s a female.”
“Makes no never mind. Better even. She knows what you goin’ through. She’s been watchin’”
“I told her to stare him in the eye,” Marie put in. “For at least ten seconds.”
Estelle looked at Marie and nodded, then she turned back to Sheila. “Your friend’s right. Stand your ground. Nothing like long hard eye contact to put men and dogs in their place. They get that. Makes sense to them.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been good at those staring games. My eyes water the moment I try.”
“Look,” Estelle said and put her hands on her hips, boney, sharp things that poked out from her waist like armor. “Is he gonna stay if you do nothin’?”
“Probably,” Sheila replied softly.
“Oh, you know he will, Sheila!” Marie snapped, her limit nearly reached.
“That what you want? Him around all the time? Loafin’? Eatin’ your food? Messin’ your house? Addin’ to your list of things to be done every day and not helpin’?”
Sheila stared at the waitress and shook her head.
“Then you’re gonna have to do it. Otherwise he’s gonna fester in your soul.”
Sheila’s lips parted, her eyes wide. “He’s…he’s…he’s my son. He could never fester…”
The waitress rolled her eyes. “Honey, even the good ones can fester. You made him a good home, sounds like. Too good. He don’t want to leave. You got to be like a mother hawk. Push him outta the nest and make him fly. Stand your ground on the edge of your home and dare him to settle back down there.”
“Oh Sheila, the woman’s right. Kick him out already.”
“Pack his bags," Estelle continued. "Put them outside, walk him to the front door, hand the boy $300 and push him out. You stand in that doorway, you and that dog, and you look him in the eye and dare him to come back in. Tell him you love him. More now than the day he was born. But he was born, his rent on your body was done after nine months and he was out. Now he’s…”
“Thirty-two,” Marie sighed and shook her head.
Estelle looked down at Sheila and gave her a serious once-over. “The man’s thirty-two and you’re still taken care of him. Now that’s enough, honey. You tell him you love him, but you and the dog got things to do, people to see, and places to go, and so does he. It’s time for him to fly the nest and make something of himself. Then you stand there and you don’t let him back in your house. Stare him. And watch how that dog backs you up like nobody’s business. Cause she knows. She knows what he’s doin’ and I bet my paycheck she don’t like it either.”
“You know what?” Marie scooted her chair back and reached down for her purse. “Forget the salad,” she said, and pulled her wallet out and rifled through the bills tucked inside. “Here.” She slid a fifty across the table toward the waitress. “That should cover your time.” She turned to the other woman. “Sheila, get up.” She snapped the wallet shut and shoved it back into her purse. “Come on. Get up. I’ve had enough of this.” She reached over and dragged Sheila up out of her chair.
“Marie, wait.”
“No. No more waiting. I’ve spent years waiting for you to do this. Years, Sheila. I love you, but I’ve just about had it. He’s thirty-two for God’s sake.” She shook her head hard when Sheila tried to speak. “No. He’s your son, I know, but he’s my nephew and I can’t stand to watch him do this stupid thing to either of you any more.” She pulled Sheila in by the arm and pointed at Estelle. “The woman is right. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. Enough is enough. I’m taking you home and we’re packing him out of there.” She turned back to the waitress. “Thank you.”
Estelle nodded, smiled. “Certainly.”
Sheila blinked and whispered, “Thank you,” as Marie escorted her out of the café.
Estelle looked down at the fifty lying on the table. She reached out and tried to touch it. Her fingers passed right through the bill, left it rocking ever so slightly in the ethereal breeze of her translucent fingers. “Certainly,” she said again.
She put her pad back in her pocket and turned away, walked past a young waitress keying in orders at a side kiosk and touched her lightly on the shoulder. The girl turned and looked around but no one was there. She glanced at the table she had just seated and saw that the two older women were gone.
“Hey, Shelly,” she called to the other young woman waiting tables. “Table seven’s vacated.”
“Great. I needed that table.”
Shelly finished serving her customers and then went to clear the used water glasses and wet napkins. The fifty was resting against one of the glasses, the edge of it wet from the condensation dripping down the glass.
“Holy crap,” she whispered and then added “Thank you,” to no one in particular.
“Certainly.”
She turned around, but no one was there.
~ ~ ~
“You know, I really don’t know what to do,” Sheila said as she dragged her finger through the condensation on her water glass.
Marie looked at her, her brow lightly furrowed with concern. “Okay, but you do have to do something. Anything.” She picked up her own water glass and took a long swallow then set it back down. “I mean, even if all you do is walk in and look him in the eye, steady for ten seconds, you know, hold your ground, well, then that’s something. Right?” She raised her eyebrows in an effort to look positive, even though she wasn’t, and supportive, even though she felt completely used up.
Sheila took a deep breath and let it out. “Look him in the eye,” she muttered. “For ten seconds. Hold my ground.” She snorted. “Maybe.”
A waitress walked over to their table, her fifty-something hair and make-up arriving a second ahead of her. “Ladies?” she said and gave them a well practiced, worn out smile. “My name is Estelle. What can I get for you this evening?”
“Cob salad, hold the egg, exchange the bacon for turkey bacon, house dressing on the side,” Marie replied without giving the woman a second look.
“Advice,” Sheila said and flushed as soon as the word was out of her mouth.
Estelle stopped writing Marie’s order on her pad and tilted her head to regard Shelia. “Man, money, love, job, dog, what?” sbe asked.
Sheila swallowed. “Yes.”
Estelle blinked. “He got money?”
“No.”
“Got a job?”
“No.”
“Dog?”
“Yes.”
“Dog listen to you?”
“Yes.”
“That’s easy then, honey. Kick the man to the curb and keep the dog. The dog knows what side his bread’s buttered on. You feed him, give him a good home, teach him who he can count on and watch how he keeps that man out of your house.”
“The dog’s a female.”
“Makes no never mind. Better even. She knows what you goin’ through. She’s been watchin’”
“I told her to stare him in the eye,” Marie put in. “For at least ten seconds.”
Estelle looked at Marie and nodded, then she turned back to Sheila. “Your friend’s right. Stand your ground. Nothing like long hard eye contact to put men and dogs in their place. They get that. Makes sense to them.”
“I don’t know. I’ve never been good at those staring games. My eyes water the moment I try.”
“Look,” Estelle said and put her hands on her hips, boney, sharp things that poked out from her waist like armor. “Is he gonna stay if you do nothin’?”
“Probably,” Sheila replied softly.
“Oh, you know he will, Sheila!” Marie snapped, her limit nearly reached.
“That what you want? Him around all the time? Loafin’? Eatin’ your food? Messin’ your house? Addin’ to your list of things to be done every day and not helpin’?”
Sheila stared at the waitress and shook her head.
“Then you’re gonna have to do it. Otherwise he’s gonna fester in your soul.”
Sheila’s lips parted, her eyes wide. “He’s…he’s…he’s my son. He could never fester…”
The waitress rolled her eyes. “Honey, even the good ones can fester. You made him a good home, sounds like. Too good. He don’t want to leave. You got to be like a mother hawk. Push him outta the nest and make him fly. Stand your ground on the edge of your home and dare him to settle back down there.”
“Oh Sheila, the woman’s right. Kick him out already.”
“Pack his bags," Estelle continued. "Put them outside, walk him to the front door, hand the boy $300 and push him out. You stand in that doorway, you and that dog, and you look him in the eye and dare him to come back in. Tell him you love him. More now than the day he was born. But he was born, his rent on your body was done after nine months and he was out. Now he’s…”
“Thirty-two,” Marie sighed and shook her head.
Estelle looked down at Sheila and gave her a serious once-over. “The man’s thirty-two and you’re still taken care of him. Now that’s enough, honey. You tell him you love him, but you and the dog got things to do, people to see, and places to go, and so does he. It’s time for him to fly the nest and make something of himself. Then you stand there and you don’t let him back in your house. Stare him. And watch how that dog backs you up like nobody’s business. Cause she knows. She knows what he’s doin’ and I bet my paycheck she don’t like it either.”
“You know what?” Marie scooted her chair back and reached down for her purse. “Forget the salad,” she said, and pulled her wallet out and rifled through the bills tucked inside. “Here.” She slid a fifty across the table toward the waitress. “That should cover your time.” She turned to the other woman. “Sheila, get up.” She snapped the wallet shut and shoved it back into her purse. “Come on. Get up. I’ve had enough of this.” She reached over and dragged Sheila up out of her chair.
“Marie, wait.”
“No. No more waiting. I’ve spent years waiting for you to do this. Years, Sheila. I love you, but I’ve just about had it. He’s thirty-two for God’s sake.” She shook her head hard when Sheila tried to speak. “No. He’s your son, I know, but he’s my nephew and I can’t stand to watch him do this stupid thing to either of you any more.” She pulled Sheila in by the arm and pointed at Estelle. “The woman is right. She’s right, she’s right, she’s right. Enough is enough. I’m taking you home and we’re packing him out of there.” She turned back to the waitress. “Thank you.”
Estelle nodded, smiled. “Certainly.”
Sheila blinked and whispered, “Thank you,” as Marie escorted her out of the café.
Estelle looked down at the fifty lying on the table. She reached out and tried to touch it. Her fingers passed right through the bill, left it rocking ever so slightly in the ethereal breeze of her translucent fingers. “Certainly,” she said again.
She put her pad back in her pocket and turned away, walked past a young waitress keying in orders at a side kiosk and touched her lightly on the shoulder. The girl turned and looked around but no one was there. She glanced at the table she had just seated and saw that the two older women were gone.
“Hey, Shelly,” she called to the other young woman waiting tables. “Table seven’s vacated.”
“Great. I needed that table.”
Shelly finished serving her customers and then went to clear the used water glasses and wet napkins. The fifty was resting against one of the glasses, the edge of it wet from the condensation dripping down the glass.
“Holy crap,” she whispered and then added “Thank you,” to no one in particular.
“Certainly.”
She turned around, but no one was there.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
The Wonder of 9
It is the 9th second of the 9th minute of the 9th hour of the 9th day of the 9th month in the 9th year of the 21st century. That’s pretty cool. That’s 9 six times, which is 54, and of course 5 + 4 = 9. Did you know that you can do that with products of 9?
2 x 9 = 18 -> 1 + 8 = 9
3 x 9 = 27 -> 2 + 7 = 9
7 x 9 = 63 -> 6 + 3 = 9
23 x 9 = 207 -> 2 + 0 + 7 = 9
368 x 9 = 3312 -> 3 + 3 + 1 + 2 = 9
And did you know, assuming you are in possession of two healthy hands with all their digits, that you can do the nines tables, 1- 9, on your hands? Try it…
1 x 9 -> Hold your hands up in front of you, fingers spread wide, palms facing out. Bend your left little finger down so that all the other fingers and thumbs are still spread out and visible. Now, starting from the left, count the number of fingers/thumbs still out -> 9, right? Seems obvious and a bit silly. Now try…
2 x 9 -> Hands out, fingers splayed. Starting from the left,bend the second finger in (this represents the #2 in the problem). This should be your left ring finger. Now, how many fingers are still extended to the LEFT of this bent finger?
1
How many fingers are still extended to the RIGHT of the bent finger?
8
Put these two numbers beside each other and you get 18. 2 x 9 = 18. Cool, huh?
Try 5 x 9.
Hands out, fingers spread, count 5 in from the left and bend that finger. Count the number of fingers to the LEFT of the bent finger.
4
Count the number of fingers to the RIGHT.
5
Put the two numbers side by side and you get…
45
5 x 9 = 45
Are you back now? Come on. We all know you just took a small break from reading this to do the rest of the 9s tables on your hands. It’s fine. Seriously. It’s all good. Mostly because 9 is cool.
Look at how 9 shows up. There are 9 months in a normal school year – many of which are divided up into 9 week quarters. It takes 9 months to build a human baby, and, in some cases, 9 minutes to send in the “troops” to get the baby started in the first place.
We dress “to the nines”, a favorite medieval weapon of choice was the cat-o-nine-tails, and don’t forget those felines and their famous “nine lives”. They may need them, of course, while evading their historic nemesis the K-9.
There are 9 innings in a standard baseball game, during which we might end up on “cloud 9” while day dreaming about dancing to “Love Potion Number 9” as we “party like it’s 1999”.
There are 9 Supreme Court Justices and 9 circles of Hell in Dante’s Divine Comedy. And while I haven’t purposefully placed them this way, I imagine there are days when those justices feel like they must be somewhere among those nine circles.
Last, but hardly least, as a writer and artist I would be remiss if I failed to mention that there are 9 Muses to lend us mere mortals their creative influence and silliness.
(The title of this piece and these words exempted, there are 585 words total written here.
5 + 8 + 5 = 18.
1 + 8 = yes, you guessed it, 9.
~ Peace and fun)
2 x 9 = 18 -> 1 + 8 = 9
3 x 9 = 27 -> 2 + 7 = 9
7 x 9 = 63 -> 6 + 3 = 9
23 x 9 = 207 -> 2 + 0 + 7 = 9
368 x 9 = 3312 -> 3 + 3 + 1 + 2 = 9
And did you know, assuming you are in possession of two healthy hands with all their digits, that you can do the nines tables, 1- 9, on your hands? Try it…
1 x 9 -> Hold your hands up in front of you, fingers spread wide, palms facing out. Bend your left little finger down so that all the other fingers and thumbs are still spread out and visible. Now, starting from the left, count the number of fingers/thumbs still out -> 9, right? Seems obvious and a bit silly. Now try…
2 x 9 -> Hands out, fingers splayed. Starting from the left,bend the second finger in (this represents the #2 in the problem). This should be your left ring finger. Now, how many fingers are still extended to the LEFT of this bent finger?
1
How many fingers are still extended to the RIGHT of the bent finger?
8
Put these two numbers beside each other and you get 18. 2 x 9 = 18. Cool, huh?
Try 5 x 9.
Hands out, fingers spread, count 5 in from the left and bend that finger. Count the number of fingers to the LEFT of the bent finger.
4
Count the number of fingers to the RIGHT.
5
Put the two numbers side by side and you get…
45
5 x 9 = 45
Are you back now? Come on. We all know you just took a small break from reading this to do the rest of the 9s tables on your hands. It’s fine. Seriously. It’s all good. Mostly because 9 is cool.
Look at how 9 shows up. There are 9 months in a normal school year – many of which are divided up into 9 week quarters. It takes 9 months to build a human baby, and, in some cases, 9 minutes to send in the “troops” to get the baby started in the first place.
We dress “to the nines”, a favorite medieval weapon of choice was the cat-o-nine-tails, and don’t forget those felines and their famous “nine lives”. They may need them, of course, while evading their historic nemesis the K-9.
There are 9 innings in a standard baseball game, during which we might end up on “cloud 9” while day dreaming about dancing to “Love Potion Number 9” as we “party like it’s 1999”.
There are 9 Supreme Court Justices and 9 circles of Hell in Dante’s Divine Comedy. And while I haven’t purposefully placed them this way, I imagine there are days when those justices feel like they must be somewhere among those nine circles.
Last, but hardly least, as a writer and artist I would be remiss if I failed to mention that there are 9 Muses to lend us mere mortals their creative influence and silliness.
(The title of this piece and these words exempted, there are 585 words total written here.
5 + 8 + 5 = 18.
1 + 8 = yes, you guessed it, 9.
~ Peace and fun)
Friday, September 4, 2009
Advance Across the Lawn
When I open the front door they are there, line upon line of black-coated soldiers, advancing across my neighbor’s lawn, moving north into mine. Looking south I can see no end to their ranks. Their numbers seem endless, their forward movement unencumbered by the dips in the ground, the trees, the gas light. They are searching, heads tilted toward the ground then to the right, now left. Occasionally one looks up, another turns and faces me as I stand there watching in a confused silence as they march. Sharp faces, bright eyes, sleek uniforms all.
It takes a moment for me to realize that even the house is no obstacle to their mission. Scouting parties scramble along the steep incline, tossing debris from the gutters. It snows twigs and leaves and dust past my door.
I’ve hidden nothing, I think. There’s nothing up there to find. Nothing anyone would want. Nothing of value.
One of them stops and stares at me, looks hard with his sharp eyes while his comrades shower my front step with more gutter litter. I close my open mouth, swallow and hope it doesn't make me look guilty. A mercenary, his uniform a drab brown and beige camouflage, stops and regards me, regards my innocence. He glances at the soldier in black and then continues on, as if to say – “Leave the questioning of civilians to the officers; I’ve other stones to turn”.
The officer glances skyward, receives some sort of communication from the soldiers on the roof. He gives me no second glance after that, but turns north and resumes his march. The relief I feel in my stomach is enough to make me feel I really have hidden something from them. I’m no criminal. There’s nothing here for me to hide. It’s all legal and mine.
I start to count them, the soldiers and mercenaries pushing the frontline north through my yard. Twenty. Thirty. Six on the roof. Now I see ten in the tree. How did that happen? Slowly I step back from the storm door, slide my left foot behind the heavy oak front door and begin to ease it shut. Every time one of them snaps his gaze on me I stiffen, freeze, wait until he looks away.
I’m no criminal! There’s nothing hidden here! I want to shout, but I don’t. Instead I slowly close the door and then I run. I run for the sitting room and the box tucked in the back of the closet. I jerk it carelessly out from under the blankets piled on top to save it from casual notice. I work the latch with frenzied fingers.
Hurry! Get it out! Now!
The latch gives and I am in. I snatch the camera out, pull it tight to my chest and run to the living room window. The soldiers are still marching. There seems to be no end to their ranks, their continuous forward motion. I pinch the edges of the lens cover and remove it, press the power button, and raise the camera to my eye. The soldiers look so small in the viewfinder and I cannot decide which area to photograph first, swinging my head from side to side, turning the camera on end and then back. I take too long and the battery powers down. I press the shutter release, regain the electric image, and see the ranks pull their shoulders in, gather themselves and leap, as a single unit, as one organism, into the air and fly. All of them. Even the mercenaries. Someone across the street has slammed a car door, the sound like a gunshot in the early morning, and has sent them fleeing.
Branches bob from the power of their departure; dead leaves and dust float down from my gutters. All I can do is stare, open mouthed, out my window and scan my side of the street. They are gone. Not a single one is left behind. Not on the ground, nor in the trees, nor on my roof. Except for the camera in my hand and the image seared into my mind’s eye of one hundred grackles and starlings marching north across my lawn, it is a normal early morning.
It takes a moment for me to realize that even the house is no obstacle to their mission. Scouting parties scramble along the steep incline, tossing debris from the gutters. It snows twigs and leaves and dust past my door.
I’ve hidden nothing, I think. There’s nothing up there to find. Nothing anyone would want. Nothing of value.
One of them stops and stares at me, looks hard with his sharp eyes while his comrades shower my front step with more gutter litter. I close my open mouth, swallow and hope it doesn't make me look guilty. A mercenary, his uniform a drab brown and beige camouflage, stops and regards me, regards my innocence. He glances at the soldier in black and then continues on, as if to say – “Leave the questioning of civilians to the officers; I’ve other stones to turn”.
The officer glances skyward, receives some sort of communication from the soldiers on the roof. He gives me no second glance after that, but turns north and resumes his march. The relief I feel in my stomach is enough to make me feel I really have hidden something from them. I’m no criminal. There’s nothing here for me to hide. It’s all legal and mine.
I start to count them, the soldiers and mercenaries pushing the frontline north through my yard. Twenty. Thirty. Six on the roof. Now I see ten in the tree. How did that happen? Slowly I step back from the storm door, slide my left foot behind the heavy oak front door and begin to ease it shut. Every time one of them snaps his gaze on me I stiffen, freeze, wait until he looks away.
I’m no criminal! There’s nothing hidden here! I want to shout, but I don’t. Instead I slowly close the door and then I run. I run for the sitting room and the box tucked in the back of the closet. I jerk it carelessly out from under the blankets piled on top to save it from casual notice. I work the latch with frenzied fingers.
Hurry! Get it out! Now!
The latch gives and I am in. I snatch the camera out, pull it tight to my chest and run to the living room window. The soldiers are still marching. There seems to be no end to their ranks, their continuous forward motion. I pinch the edges of the lens cover and remove it, press the power button, and raise the camera to my eye. The soldiers look so small in the viewfinder and I cannot decide which area to photograph first, swinging my head from side to side, turning the camera on end and then back. I take too long and the battery powers down. I press the shutter release, regain the electric image, and see the ranks pull their shoulders in, gather themselves and leap, as a single unit, as one organism, into the air and fly. All of them. Even the mercenaries. Someone across the street has slammed a car door, the sound like a gunshot in the early morning, and has sent them fleeing.
Branches bob from the power of their departure; dead leaves and dust float down from my gutters. All I can do is stare, open mouthed, out my window and scan my side of the street. They are gone. Not a single one is left behind. Not on the ground, nor in the trees, nor on my roof. Except for the camera in my hand and the image seared into my mind’s eye of one hundred grackles and starlings marching north across my lawn, it is a normal early morning.
Sunday, August 30, 2009
The Right Hat
There is a photograph on the wall of one of the coffee shops I spend time at that fascinates me. It is a black and white photo from what I believe is the mid-1940s to the mid-1950s of four women in dark, one piece bathing suits and straw hats. They rest on the sand, three of them with their knees drawn up to their chests, their backs to the camera, their faces completely hidden by the large straw hats they are wearing. The fourth is kneeling in front of the other three. She is smiling, her lips parted and her teeth partially showing, though the rest of her face is obscured by the straw fringe of her hat. I imagine her lipstick must have been a rich shade of red since her lips are so dark in this picture.
Because she is kneeling, and the others are seated, the one facing the camera is taller by about a foot, the heads of the other three tipped up to look at her. Each woman is wearing a different bathing suit, and perhaps they were even different colors, though it's impossible to know this now. The hats are different too, and I can't help but think they have put on the wrong ones. Only the woman who is smiling and turned towards the camera seems to have the right hat; the narrow palm fronds that it is woven from corkscrewing from the crown into a brim much like a lampshade hat with the pointed fringe spiraling counter-clockwise, hanging low enough to hide her eyes, but not her smile. I get the feeling that if you ran your hand along the flow of fronds it would feel momentarily stiff and then give way gently as you followed the curve of the weave. Try to stroke the fibers in the opposite direction and learn what a sharp edge soft can actually have when forced into an unnatural direction.
The woman on the left is wearing a modified Chinese peasant hat, the weave not as tight, since only the sun must be avoided in this instance. She wears a one piece bathing suit with a bow tied at the middle of her lower back. The suit hugs her curving frame, a body that seems to have lived 40 or more years, had children, eaten just a few too many slices of dessert from time to time, but not enough to hurt her. This softer, curving shape, the bow at her waist, is incongruent with the hat. I want her to have the hat on the woman in the middle. It is a tightly woven, softly curving, typical straw sunhat with a wide patterned ribbon around the crown and a bow with long tails flowing off the back.
The middle woman, also in a one piece bathing suit, is thin. Her shoulder blades stick out and her vertebra undulated like a small rise of worn down mountains under her skin. Her suit cuts a straight line across her lower back. No frills, no decoration, clean cut. She seems older than the other women, her body feels to me like it has fought life or fought for life and she is harder because of this. She should have the hat of the woman on the right. It has sharp lines and definite points to the fringe that sticks out defiantly from the brim. This hat is certain, unbending, absolute. It does not flex, even in high wind, but resists and endures and maintains its shape at all costs. Even if that means being pulled violently from the head of the one wearing it and being tossed recklessly in a gale. When it lands it will still look much as it does now. It could still be worn, still be useful, still exist out of shear tenacity.
The woman on the right should be wearing the Chinese peasant hat. The stiff, sharpness of the hat she currently wears doesn't quite fit her. Almost, but not quite. She is wearing a bathing suit that wraps, halter-style, around the back of her neck and then leaves the majority of her back bare. The lines and edges of her body are somewhere between those of the other two seated women, softness and angles intermingled. It is hard to tell her age, the flow of skin over bone coy. The slightly open weave of this particular Chinese peasant hat, completely ineffective for keeping off the rain, is intricate enough to allow snatches of sunlight to flash through and sparkle around her face. It is a weave that reminds me of the beautiful caning of an antique chair my mother once restored, open and fine and strong, the beauty of it lying in the pattern and not requiring extra decoration to catch and hold the eye.
I want to change the hats around, want to set things to the way I see them. But I can't. This moment is long past. The women now exist in some other way. And there is also the fact that I have only seen them from behind. What of the faces that were hidden from my view? If I were privileged enough to have witnessed the curve of their cheeks, the line of their noses, the tip of their smiles, would I have chosen a different hat again? Or, would I have left them as they are in the photo? Then I wonder, did each one chose the hat she wears or was it chosen for her, in some way, through some impulse, after some moment of knowing? And then I think, Who am I to say these hats are the wrong ones at all?
Because she is kneeling, and the others are seated, the one facing the camera is taller by about a foot, the heads of the other three tipped up to look at her. Each woman is wearing a different bathing suit, and perhaps they were even different colors, though it's impossible to know this now. The hats are different too, and I can't help but think they have put on the wrong ones. Only the woman who is smiling and turned towards the camera seems to have the right hat; the narrow palm fronds that it is woven from corkscrewing from the crown into a brim much like a lampshade hat with the pointed fringe spiraling counter-clockwise, hanging low enough to hide her eyes, but not her smile. I get the feeling that if you ran your hand along the flow of fronds it would feel momentarily stiff and then give way gently as you followed the curve of the weave. Try to stroke the fibers in the opposite direction and learn what a sharp edge soft can actually have when forced into an unnatural direction.
The woman on the left is wearing a modified Chinese peasant hat, the weave not as tight, since only the sun must be avoided in this instance. She wears a one piece bathing suit with a bow tied at the middle of her lower back. The suit hugs her curving frame, a body that seems to have lived 40 or more years, had children, eaten just a few too many slices of dessert from time to time, but not enough to hurt her. This softer, curving shape, the bow at her waist, is incongruent with the hat. I want her to have the hat on the woman in the middle. It is a tightly woven, softly curving, typical straw sunhat with a wide patterned ribbon around the crown and a bow with long tails flowing off the back.
The middle woman, also in a one piece bathing suit, is thin. Her shoulder blades stick out and her vertebra undulated like a small rise of worn down mountains under her skin. Her suit cuts a straight line across her lower back. No frills, no decoration, clean cut. She seems older than the other women, her body feels to me like it has fought life or fought for life and she is harder because of this. She should have the hat of the woman on the right. It has sharp lines and definite points to the fringe that sticks out defiantly from the brim. This hat is certain, unbending, absolute. It does not flex, even in high wind, but resists and endures and maintains its shape at all costs. Even if that means being pulled violently from the head of the one wearing it and being tossed recklessly in a gale. When it lands it will still look much as it does now. It could still be worn, still be useful, still exist out of shear tenacity.
The woman on the right should be wearing the Chinese peasant hat. The stiff, sharpness of the hat she currently wears doesn't quite fit her. Almost, but not quite. She is wearing a bathing suit that wraps, halter-style, around the back of her neck and then leaves the majority of her back bare. The lines and edges of her body are somewhere between those of the other two seated women, softness and angles intermingled. It is hard to tell her age, the flow of skin over bone coy. The slightly open weave of this particular Chinese peasant hat, completely ineffective for keeping off the rain, is intricate enough to allow snatches of sunlight to flash through and sparkle around her face. It is a weave that reminds me of the beautiful caning of an antique chair my mother once restored, open and fine and strong, the beauty of it lying in the pattern and not requiring extra decoration to catch and hold the eye.
I want to change the hats around, want to set things to the way I see them. But I can't. This moment is long past. The women now exist in some other way. And there is also the fact that I have only seen them from behind. What of the faces that were hidden from my view? If I were privileged enough to have witnessed the curve of their cheeks, the line of their noses, the tip of their smiles, would I have chosen a different hat again? Or, would I have left them as they are in the photo? Then I wonder, did each one chose the hat she wears or was it chosen for her, in some way, through some impulse, after some moment of knowing? And then I think, Who am I to say these hats are the wrong ones at all?
Friday, August 28, 2009
The Compelling Blank Page
I sit here at my desk, the keyboard staring me in the face – yes, I look at the keys. I have no clue how to actually type – and the screen casting a white glow over the letters and I wait. Inspiration is a real b*tch. It often hits me when I can’t reach the computer, like while I’m washing the dishes, driving the car, using the..uh…facilities. My mind fills with a multitude of things, related and unrelated, that I can hardly contain, begin almost immediately to lose, and I ache for the keys to save my thoughts from the void that exists just this side of the screen.
Then there are moments like this one. Moments where it almost hurts not to write, not to compose, not to tell some tale, any tale, and I can’t. The words, even though they must be there somewhere, refuse to come. And I sit, fingers on the keys, the right ones only because I know to put certain fingers on the letters with the raised spots, and wait. It’s like having restless legs in your head and your fingers. I want to write. I need to write. If I don’t write something I am pretty sure I’ll do some thing desperate in order to make the words come.
I will let the dishes pile up, the laundry go unwashed, unfolded, and scattered on the couch. I will forget to buy groceries. I will sit in an awkward position at a non-ergonomic desk and torture my back waiting. I will snarl at my kids and growl at my husband and foam at the mouth with this need and I will not apologize.
It’s like needing to breathe. I’m quite certain that brain cells would die if I were forced to stop writing, made to refrain from trying. To refuse this drive would be akin to suicide. Is that too strong a comparison? I don’t think so. My creative drive is such an essential part of who I am that if I were stripped of it, stripped of my ability to express it, then I don’t know how I could put one foot in front of the other on a day-to-day basis. It would be like trying to breathe without lungs. Impossible.
~ Peace and passion
Then there are moments like this one. Moments where it almost hurts not to write, not to compose, not to tell some tale, any tale, and I can’t. The words, even though they must be there somewhere, refuse to come. And I sit, fingers on the keys, the right ones only because I know to put certain fingers on the letters with the raised spots, and wait. It’s like having restless legs in your head and your fingers. I want to write. I need to write. If I don’t write something I am pretty sure I’ll do some thing desperate in order to make the words come.
I will let the dishes pile up, the laundry go unwashed, unfolded, and scattered on the couch. I will forget to buy groceries. I will sit in an awkward position at a non-ergonomic desk and torture my back waiting. I will snarl at my kids and growl at my husband and foam at the mouth with this need and I will not apologize.
It’s like needing to breathe. I’m quite certain that brain cells would die if I were forced to stop writing, made to refrain from trying. To refuse this drive would be akin to suicide. Is that too strong a comparison? I don’t think so. My creative drive is such an essential part of who I am that if I were stripped of it, stripped of my ability to express it, then I don’t know how I could put one foot in front of the other on a day-to-day basis. It would be like trying to breathe without lungs. Impossible.
~ Peace and passion
Abundance
Every once in a while I am struck by the sheer abundance that surrounds me. While driving home at the end of our summer vacation, staring out the passenger window and watching farm after farm pass by, I found myself overwhelmed by emotion. I was surrounded on all sides by a sea of feed corn, soy beans, wheat, and pastures dotted with livestock. We were traveling in a minivan, and yet, we were so small in comparison to the greenery and life all around us. And yet, all I could see, perhaps three miles in any given direction, was only a small fraction of what exists in the state I was traveling through. Add this to all the states that have similar landscapes and then to all the countries in the world and the entire thing becomes unimaginable. It’s a bit like trying to wrap your head around a trillion – 1,000,000,000,000.
I do this in the grocery store, especially in the produce section. I am standing there examining the tomatoes, or the lettuce, or the apples and I think, There are maybe 150 apples here and those are just the ones on display in the Braeburn section. There are probably at least that many in the stockroom waiting to come out to the floor. I am standing in one grocery store in one city in one state. There are at least 6 grocery stores in 3 miles of my home and each one has Braeburn apples. 6 stores x300 apples =1800 Braeburn apples. If I really think about it I can come up with 20 cities surrounding mine that have these same grocery stores in them. 20 cities x1800 Braeburn apples = 36,000 Braeburn apples. If I reach back into my 5th grade social studies lessons I come up with something like 900 cities in Minnesota. 900 cities x an average of 4 grocery stores per city = 3200 grocery stores x 300 apples = 960,000 Braeburn apples. On display today. The population of Minneapolis/St. Paul is something like 600,000. That’s one and a half Braeburn apples for everyone. Today.
Then I think, How many apples does an average apple tree grow in a season? Say 1000. 960,000 Braeburn apples / 1000 = 960 trees needed to grow all the Braeburn apples that were available for purchase in all the grocery stores in Minnesota today. Next week there will be that many Braeburns again available for purchase. There are at least 10 commonly available apple types at grocery stores. 10 types x 960,000 apples available in all the cities in Minnesota = 9,600,000 apples of all varieties available today in all the grocery stores in all the cities in Minnesota. There are 50 states in the union. 50 states x 9,600,000 apples = 480,000,000 apples of at least 10 types of apples available in the US for purchase today. There are 305,000,000 people in the US. 480,000,000 apples / 305,000,000 people = 1 ½ apples for everyone in the US today.
And that was just apples. When I look at the green beans and then the corn and then the peppers, I pop a fuse. How is it possible that anyone is starving when there is so much today. And there will be that much again and again and again.
~ Peace and abundance
I do this in the grocery store, especially in the produce section. I am standing there examining the tomatoes, or the lettuce, or the apples and I think, There are maybe 150 apples here and those are just the ones on display in the Braeburn section. There are probably at least that many in the stockroom waiting to come out to the floor. I am standing in one grocery store in one city in one state. There are at least 6 grocery stores in 3 miles of my home and each one has Braeburn apples. 6 stores x300 apples =1800 Braeburn apples. If I really think about it I can come up with 20 cities surrounding mine that have these same grocery stores in them. 20 cities x1800 Braeburn apples = 36,000 Braeburn apples. If I reach back into my 5th grade social studies lessons I come up with something like 900 cities in Minnesota. 900 cities x an average of 4 grocery stores per city = 3200 grocery stores x 300 apples = 960,000 Braeburn apples. On display today. The population of Minneapolis/St. Paul is something like 600,000. That’s one and a half Braeburn apples for everyone. Today.
Then I think, How many apples does an average apple tree grow in a season? Say 1000. 960,000 Braeburn apples / 1000 = 960 trees needed to grow all the Braeburn apples that were available for purchase in all the grocery stores in Minnesota today. Next week there will be that many Braeburns again available for purchase. There are at least 10 commonly available apple types at grocery stores. 10 types x 960,000 apples available in all the cities in Minnesota = 9,600,000 apples of all varieties available today in all the grocery stores in all the cities in Minnesota. There are 50 states in the union. 50 states x 9,600,000 apples = 480,000,000 apples of at least 10 types of apples available in the US for purchase today. There are 305,000,000 people in the US. 480,000,000 apples / 305,000,000 people = 1 ½ apples for everyone in the US today.
And that was just apples. When I look at the green beans and then the corn and then the peppers, I pop a fuse. How is it possible that anyone is starving when there is so much today. And there will be that much again and again and again.
~ Peace and abundance
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