More miscellaneous shit. What about Jack's compound? Wasn't that one of the most bizarre dreams you've ever had? Were you the actual arsonist who exploded the gas-line, or were you a horrified observer? It was excruciating when the city began to fall, and there was no where for me to go. Rob didn't make it. He still worked as an Intern for Fifth Third in downtown Lexington. That entire building shrugged its shoulders, as if to say, Who the fuck cares?, and tumbled. I think he was in there, along with all the trust fund documents. I had to get to the Safehaven, but separating me from the Safe- haven was miles and miles of wasted city engorged with angry killers. And they were all so bright. I found temporary rest and solace and sustenance in Jack's compound on the way to the haven. It was there that I realized that Weckham not only owned the land upon which my family had built their home, but he also owned the World. Even though I knew him, there was nothing he could do personally to transport me to the Haven. We stood and talked just within the gates of the compound, and I learned that Ralph had purchased a home not a mile from my family's, and for a moment I was filled with a strange joy and anticipation. I had no friends left. I thought how wonderful it would be to visit Ralph, to talk about some of our old adventures, taking flowers to pretty girls' front doors in the small hours of summer mornings, with a safe margin between us and dawn. But then I dismissed it as impossible. I left the compound and mounted a tram to Safe-Haven. It moved very slow, but the doors locked and I was safe along with a dozen people with muddled profiles. We traveled through the eery wastelands. The angry killers climbed on the tram like ants, and shouted and shrieked and cursed and cried. They all had terrible weapons clenched in their hands or attached to their bodies. I remember one man in particular. He stood alone, wearing nothing but red overalls. He had blonde hair and his mouth stayed open in a toothy snarl. A splintered baseball bat rested, aware, upon his shoulder. As we passed him by, I pressed against the glass of the tram and it yielded. It stretched against my hand like cellophane. My hand bumped against this guy's head and he howled. He glared at me and told me he was going to kill me, pushing his face into the elastic glass. I quickly apologized and his wild anger disappeared. He said, "Okay." He boarded the tram and sat down next to a profile and became another profile. We moved on.
Over
The Commerce of Judgment
The Commerce of Judgment.
I planned to meet with the Regional Manager at Crackhead Barrel Thursday morning to eat eggs and babble.
So, I sit in a rocking chair to read Stephen King's Everything's Eventual. I rock back and forth, reading about Dinky Earnshaw and his fatal geometry while locals and dapper businessmen walk up to the front doors for a breakfast.
While caressing the edges of the pages with the tips of my fingers, enthralled with Mr. King's imaginings, I notice movement beyond the reading tunnel and look up to see an old man striding out of the restaurant. His face is creased from the weight of the work he has done and the weight of the work he is thinking about doing. He picks his teeth with a toothpick.
Two feet and three moments later, an old lady emerges behind him. She's dressed in a pink paisley wrap-thing that was probably designed by a committee reeking of Palmolive and baby powder. A smile is on her face, but dark speckles gather in her eyes. Speckles of guilt.
I didn't make the biscuits today! It's another day I didn't make the biscuits!
Her hair is piled atop her head like an iceberg thrusting out of the Arctic Ocean. As she passes before me, her eyes alight on my paperback book.
"Oh!" she exclaims. "Is that a Lillian Braun?" Peering closer, she freezes. Her mouth goes slack, and a lone breeze makes the sparse hairs emerging from the crust of makeup around her lips stir. The lady's hand presses against her pink paisley heart, and I feel the horrified exhalation from everyone in the committee. It is a horde swollen and neutralized by entropy. My spine cracks in the wind of that exhalation.
Rising from her stoop, her face crumples as if she discovered the Cracker Barrel breakfast had been fried in shit.
"Oh," she says. "Stephen King." She turns to follow her husband. Her eyes catch mine. "I'll pray for you."
As she floats away, her shoulders square. The speckles of guilt rise from her head like bats on fire. She has been scoured by her good deed. And within her peanut mind, an angel who looks too much like GW is knitting her pink paisley wings.
There is a smile on my face. I continue to read Stephen King, a man aware of darkness, but more aware of the light we need to keep the darkness at bay.
Vitamin A
Vitamin A.
Something tickled the back of my neck. A fleeting note of wrongness on the plane, a new window into some vast absurdity.
I closed Killer Angels and slowly turned my head to look for that absurdity over my left shoulder. An elderly woman, perhaps in her mid-seventies, sat in an aisle seat. She had not succumbed to the Old-Lady-Bob-Hair-Trend. Her hair hung long and limp across bone-sharp shoulders, and the sunlight from the portals discovered an ancient gleam of strawberry at the roots.
The object upon her dessicated lap inverted rightness.
The woman was hunched over a number 10 can of chopped spinach. The can had been raggedly opened; a serrated circle gleamed with green juice. While her toothless jaws repeatedly mashed together, dripping juice, she dug into the huge container with a wooden spoon.
A little boy sat in the seat next to her. He wore a blue cap that read: WILBUR. The top of his bewildered eyes had disappeared above the brim of the cap. He gradually tried to become both one-dimensional and transparent.
The woman caught me staring at her. She finished her mouthful and stabbed her spoon into the can.
She had rainbow eyes, somewhere over which mutant birds flew.
"Is there something here you see which makes you stop and think? Some curiosity?" She indicated the spinach. "I will not dry up in time! I will no longer dust the floor with my breasts!" She grinned at me, a green and leafy grin. "The creams don't work. This once worked for a cartoon sailor. Thought I'd try."
I have since learned that minding one's business is the core of wisdom.
Something tickled the back of my neck. A fleeting note of wrongness on the plane, a new window into some vast absurdity.
I closed Killer Angels and slowly turned my head to look for that absurdity over my left shoulder. An elderly woman, perhaps in her mid-seventies, sat in an aisle seat. She had not succumbed to the Old-Lady-Bob-Hair-Trend. Her hair hung long and limp across bone-sharp shoulders, and the sunlight from the portals discovered an ancient gleam of strawberry at the roots.
The object upon her dessicated lap inverted rightness.
The woman was hunched over a number 10 can of chopped spinach. The can had been raggedly opened; a serrated circle gleamed with green juice. While her toothless jaws repeatedly mashed together, dripping juice, she dug into the huge container with a wooden spoon.
A little boy sat in the seat next to her. He wore a blue cap that read: WILBUR. The top of his bewildered eyes had disappeared above the brim of the cap. He gradually tried to become both one-dimensional and transparent.
The woman caught me staring at her. She finished her mouthful and stabbed her spoon into the can.
She had rainbow eyes, somewhere over which mutant birds flew.
"Is there something here you see which makes you stop and think? Some curiosity?" She indicated the spinach. "I will not dry up in time! I will no longer dust the floor with my breasts!" She grinned at me, a green and leafy grin. "The creams don't work. This once worked for a cartoon sailor. Thought I'd try."
I have since learned that minding one's business is the core of wisdom.
The Day the Towers Fell
I wrote this on the evening of the terrible event.
September 11, 2001
"The Day the Towers Fell"
I was adjusting inventory for my brother's business when ---, the good-natured racist sot walked through my office, asking me if I was watching what happened. It was a little after nine am.
"Watching what," I asked him. I was busy and wishing that he wouldn't interrupt my concentration.
"They got us. They bombed us."
"Say what?"
"Check it out."
I didn't turn on the small television immediately. I prided myself on being immune to news, to all the media shit that floats in and out of our country every moment of the day. But the magnitude of his statement was just too much for me to ignore. I switched on the set and saw the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center smoking heavily from close to the top of the buildings. Right beside this image in a split screen was the Pentagon, smoking as well.
The newscasters jabbered away. Two planes had crashed into the Towers, and one into the Pentagon. Believed to be a terrorist act. Befuddlement settled over me at first. Disasters like this, offensive disasters projected from a foreign state don't happen on United States soil. Pearl Harbor was the last time our country was hit, but even that was safely hundreds of miles into the South Pacific, away from the mainland.
But this was New York City and Washington, D.C. D.C. carries the title of capital, where our leader resides. Although, John Lennon put it best, "The United States is the Roman Empire and NYC is Rome." The Towers of the World Trade Center are the pulse of our Economic Sovereignty.
As I thought this screams emanated from the television. With a rumbling, the South Tower collapsed. To see a building collapse is nothing new to any American privy to the movies. But I was watching it live, and I swiftly imagined the thousands of people within those Tower walls, all of whom oblivious to any kind of script or cut in action. The last moments of their lives tumbled with the behemoth. Before I could try to understand what had just happened that second of my life the North Tower fell. I think I blinked.
On the heels of my thoughts for the horde of lives just vanquished in a few leaps of a second-hand came a selfish,selfish thought.
There will be a war. And the war will take your brothers.
I pushed it away, but felt it lingering outside the perimeter of my thoughts.
There were others in the office with me, watching the news. A Palestinian terrorist group claimed responsibility for the tragedy. "Raghead," and "Sand Nigger" were bandied about. The words were said with both anger and glee, as if those expressions had always been boiling deep inside, and this terror had prompted and reconciled such responses. I remember one bold statement from within the office in particular: "Would any of you allow a stranger into your house? Then how come our country don't take up that policy? It's all because we're letting them in and the Democrats. The democrats are giving away our country!" The tirade shifted to the computer and how he thought it was the Beast of Revelation.
I am not refuting the anger. Anger was justified. Of course, I was just as angry at whoever had done the ferocious thing. But that anger must be directed at those responsible. We have too much history of casting blame where blame does not lie. As I listened to him I began to feel another layer of fear atop what I had just seen blanket me. I began to sense history creeping up on us again. The repetition of damaging history thrives within an environment of anger and ignorance. I thought of the recent German removal of Jews. I thought of the sequestering of Japanese-Americans after Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. Are we going to do it again? How many Americans of Middle-Eastern descent are going to find that their lives are changed tomorrow? How many bruises on children's faces? How many jobs lost?
Of the one who refuses strangers into his house I wanted to ask, How many generations can you count back to he who first came here? How was he received?
The Falling of the Towers is already too strong an anchor on our hearts. We must make sure to end the misery between our shores there, rather than fall prey to our anger and spread that misery within. Let's make sure those who planned the hijacking of the planes have the regrets. We don't need any more.
September 11, 2001
"The Day the Towers Fell"
I was adjusting inventory for my brother's business when ---, the good-natured racist sot walked through my office, asking me if I was watching what happened. It was a little after nine am.
"Watching what," I asked him. I was busy and wishing that he wouldn't interrupt my concentration.
"They got us. They bombed us."
"Say what?"
"Check it out."
I didn't turn on the small television immediately. I prided myself on being immune to news, to all the media shit that floats in and out of our country every moment of the day. But the magnitude of his statement was just too much for me to ignore. I switched on the set and saw the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center smoking heavily from close to the top of the buildings. Right beside this image in a split screen was the Pentagon, smoking as well.
The newscasters jabbered away. Two planes had crashed into the Towers, and one into the Pentagon. Believed to be a terrorist act. Befuddlement settled over me at first. Disasters like this, offensive disasters projected from a foreign state don't happen on United States soil. Pearl Harbor was the last time our country was hit, but even that was safely hundreds of miles into the South Pacific, away from the mainland.
But this was New York City and Washington, D.C. D.C. carries the title of capital, where our leader resides. Although, John Lennon put it best, "The United States is the Roman Empire and NYC is Rome." The Towers of the World Trade Center are the pulse of our Economic Sovereignty.
As I thought this screams emanated from the television. With a rumbling, the South Tower collapsed. To see a building collapse is nothing new to any American privy to the movies. But I was watching it live, and I swiftly imagined the thousands of people within those Tower walls, all of whom oblivious to any kind of script or cut in action. The last moments of their lives tumbled with the behemoth. Before I could try to understand what had just happened that second of my life the North Tower fell. I think I blinked.
On the heels of my thoughts for the horde of lives just vanquished in a few leaps of a second-hand came a selfish,selfish thought.
There will be a war. And the war will take your brothers.
I pushed it away, but felt it lingering outside the perimeter of my thoughts.
There were others in the office with me, watching the news. A Palestinian terrorist group claimed responsibility for the tragedy. "Raghead," and "Sand Nigger" were bandied about. The words were said with both anger and glee, as if those expressions had always been boiling deep inside, and this terror had prompted and reconciled such responses. I remember one bold statement from within the office in particular: "Would any of you allow a stranger into your house? Then how come our country don't take up that policy? It's all because we're letting them in and the Democrats. The democrats are giving away our country!" The tirade shifted to the computer and how he thought it was the Beast of Revelation.
I am not refuting the anger. Anger was justified. Of course, I was just as angry at whoever had done the ferocious thing. But that anger must be directed at those responsible. We have too much history of casting blame where blame does not lie. As I listened to him I began to feel another layer of fear atop what I had just seen blanket me. I began to sense history creeping up on us again. The repetition of damaging history thrives within an environment of anger and ignorance. I thought of the recent German removal of Jews. I thought of the sequestering of Japanese-Americans after Japan bombed Pearl Harbor. Are we going to do it again? How many Americans of Middle-Eastern descent are going to find that their lives are changed tomorrow? How many bruises on children's faces? How many jobs lost?
Of the one who refuses strangers into his house I wanted to ask, How many generations can you count back to he who first came here? How was he received?
The Falling of the Towers is already too strong an anchor on our hearts. We must make sure to end the misery between our shores there, rather than fall prey to our anger and spread that misery within. Let's make sure those who planned the hijacking of the planes have the regrets. We don't need any more.
STRANGE EMAIL: its a combination of many reasons AND ITS TIME YOU FACED IT YOU ASSHOLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
do't care if you dont want to talk about it you better call me back or im going to ask Sharon to take away Michael and the BIMBIMS! you wouldn't last a week without the BIMBIMS!!!!!! last time you were away from the BIMBIMS, you remember, you went to gap at the mall and shit all over the shoes. i'm the one who gave them to you and you NEVER say thanks. michael doesn't really love you, you know that? when he left the military, he wanted stability and he wanted to be close to the BIMBIMS and away from people who pretend to know how to use guns but really want to play with laserguns. anytime now i can call michael and he will run away from you. sharon told me that you threw her squirrel babies off the bridge right after you fed them!!!!! how could you do that????? they trusted you because you gave them pecanbutter and then you just killed them like that!!! oh my god your fucking sick in the head!!!!! i should just call the fbi instead of asking you to call me, but i felt like i have to try to help you one last time before i wash you out of my wig. after all, i wont forget how you helped Meemot lay her eggs in the desert last year. nobody else would help her because of her slobber and teeth. so, yes, i thanks you for that, BUT YOU HAVE TO KNOW THAT YOU CANT BUY A FUTURE OF FAVORS JUST FOR HELPING AN UGLY CHICKENBITCH IN HER TIME OF NEEEED!!!!!!!@!!!!! you have one last chance, so call me call me call me call me OR ILL TURN THOSE BIMBIMS AGAINST YOU FOREVER!!!!!!
Sun Dreams: Pain and strange mutation.
There is a garden in my mind and it grows on both sides of the soil. That means roots and flowers intertwining. Dreams when I'm not sleeping.
These are a couple of my chronic images of pain and strange mutation.
Because of Cerebral Palsy, I had three operations when I was a kid. They cut into my heels. They cut into my thigh. They cut into my shin. They did it for free and it helped a lot. However, after the last surgery where they jiggled around my tibia, the nerves there ended up a little fucked up and confused. The lower part of the shin is extremely sensitive. The slightest pressure causes a locomotive of pain to roar down to my foot. Consequently, I began to imagine a scenario of hurt. In some dark wood of Eastern Europe, I stand in shadow, unable to move. A wolf approaches (in 2003 it became a Martin Direwolf). My left leg is exposed and the wolf bares its teeth; its right canine is absurdly long, some seven inches. The beast punctures the top of my shin and slowly rips down, digging a canal of agony. I scream a lot.
That hurts, doesn't it?
The second is about mutation.
I sit on a couch in a quiet room reading a book facing a door. I feel a sudden itch at the right base of my jaw. Reaching to scratch it, my fingers find a hard, plastic tab. Naturally, I pull it. My perspective changes and I'm watching from the wall. The Me pulls at the tab and it divides my skin along a wax track from my jaw, over my chin, up the center of my face over my scalp, and down the back of my head to the base of my neck. The two sides of my divided head fall away to my shoulders. Perched atop my shoulders is a perfect sphere of orange cheese. A knock sounds at the door. The Me stands up and opens the door. A very thin child is there, shaking. The Me takes the ball of cheese in both hands and gives it to him. The child hides it in his long coat and runs away. The door shuts.
More of these later.
These are a couple of my chronic images of pain and strange mutation.
Because of Cerebral Palsy, I had three operations when I was a kid. They cut into my heels. They cut into my thigh. They cut into my shin. They did it for free and it helped a lot. However, after the last surgery where they jiggled around my tibia, the nerves there ended up a little fucked up and confused. The lower part of the shin is extremely sensitive. The slightest pressure causes a locomotive of pain to roar down to my foot. Consequently, I began to imagine a scenario of hurt. In some dark wood of Eastern Europe, I stand in shadow, unable to move. A wolf approaches (in 2003 it became a Martin Direwolf). My left leg is exposed and the wolf bares its teeth; its right canine is absurdly long, some seven inches. The beast punctures the top of my shin and slowly rips down, digging a canal of agony. I scream a lot.
That hurts, doesn't it?
The second is about mutation.
I sit on a couch in a quiet room reading a book facing a door. I feel a sudden itch at the right base of my jaw. Reaching to scratch it, my fingers find a hard, plastic tab. Naturally, I pull it. My perspective changes and I'm watching from the wall. The Me pulls at the tab and it divides my skin along a wax track from my jaw, over my chin, up the center of my face over my scalp, and down the back of my head to the base of my neck. The two sides of my divided head fall away to my shoulders. Perched atop my shoulders is a perfect sphere of orange cheese. A knock sounds at the door. The Me stands up and opens the door. A very thin child is there, shaking. The Me takes the ball of cheese in both hands and gives it to him. The child hides it in his long coat and runs away. The door shuts.
More of these later.
For Mr. Bradbury - Bless 'im.
Today I've been reading a multitude of thoughts and memories about the great and recently passed Ray Bradbury. So many great writers and film makers sharing how the gifts of this man's colossal imagination helped to shape their futures. Of course, he created futures and fantasies on the page, yet the power of this singular voice spoke like an oracle to the minds of those whose creative gardens we enjoy today.
Of my own influences, Bradbury resonates louder than that famous foghorn.
I discovered Bradbury relatively late. "There Will Come Soft Rains" was the first story of his I read; it was in my high school sophomore literature book. I found that apocalyptic masterpiece beautiful and eloquent and absolutely chilling. It's a ghost story; it's a work about absence and death and promises our damnation if we don't remember it.
In the spring of my senior year, I read Fahrenheit 451 and picked up Ray Bradbury's 100 Greatest Stories.
Oh my God, these stories!
I was overwhelmed by the thousands of windows he opened within my imagination. It was like spirits nobody has ever seen spoke to him! I felt like I had been given a ticket to everywhere I thought I would never go. His wondrous stories touched a deep loneliness, a sadness within me, and made it lighter. He made me better. One summer night after reading "Jack in the Box," I stood under the clear night sky, exhilirated, gazing up at the stars, and that infinite cluster of light was the closest representation of how I felt, a reflection of Bradbury's genius and my excitement about wanting to write stories too. The galactic possibilities!
Probably more than any writer who influenced me creatively, Mr. Bradbury was the voice of hope and joy and perseverance in the face of disappointment, of insatiable curiosity and excitement! Although I never met him personally, I was awarded an Honorable Mention in one of his Waukegan Library writing contests and received a certificate with his signature.
Oh boy.
If not for Ray Bradbury, I might have given up. He shared his wonder and immortal childhood.
He made me better.
Of my own influences, Bradbury resonates louder than that famous foghorn.
I discovered Bradbury relatively late. "There Will Come Soft Rains" was the first story of his I read; it was in my high school sophomore literature book. I found that apocalyptic masterpiece beautiful and eloquent and absolutely chilling. It's a ghost story; it's a work about absence and death and promises our damnation if we don't remember it.
In the spring of my senior year, I read Fahrenheit 451 and picked up Ray Bradbury's 100 Greatest Stories.
Oh my God, these stories!
I was overwhelmed by the thousands of windows he opened within my imagination. It was like spirits nobody has ever seen spoke to him! I felt like I had been given a ticket to everywhere I thought I would never go. His wondrous stories touched a deep loneliness, a sadness within me, and made it lighter. He made me better. One summer night after reading "Jack in the Box," I stood under the clear night sky, exhilirated, gazing up at the stars, and that infinite cluster of light was the closest representation of how I felt, a reflection of Bradbury's genius and my excitement about wanting to write stories too. The galactic possibilities!
Probably more than any writer who influenced me creatively, Mr. Bradbury was the voice of hope and joy and perseverance in the face of disappointment, of insatiable curiosity and excitement! Although I never met him personally, I was awarded an Honorable Mention in one of his Waukegan Library writing contests and received a certificate with his signature.
Oh boy.
If not for Ray Bradbury, I might have given up. He shared his wonder and immortal childhood.
He made me better.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
