It is very late at night, and I am lying awake in a hostel in a quiet part of Amsterdam. I watch a ceiling fan trace out circles above me. I run through all the familiar nags -- need to recover, long day tomorrow, important to synchronize sleep schedules. I dig my phone out from under my pillow, check the time, sigh. The fan goes around, around, around.
My feet go tap-tap tap-tap down the steps of a ladder, and the cheap metal of the bunk bed sways and groans. I rub my eyes in the brightness of the hallway.
Someone has placed some folding chairs and table in front of a television, just inside the hostel's doors. A girl with a thick German accent is talking to the man sitting behind the counter. She is blond, probably late teens, slightly overweight. He is dark-skinned, possibly Arab, reasonably muscular. I tap away at the yellowing keys of an old computer that's set up on one of the tables, pretending to check my email.
He's been working the night shift for three or four months now, he tells the German girl. Before that, he was a waiter, and before that he was in the trunk of a car, crossing the border from Egypt. He says that he has a cousin who lives a few towns over, who visits him from time to time. He shows her a video that his cousin took on his birthday, when they took a tour of the city together. He says, he misses his family but it is impossible to go back now.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Sunday, December 27, 2009
untouched
On nights that I didn't want to see my uncle after work, I would walk to a small stand near my office. The middle-aged Korean man who worked the night shift there never seemed to age a single day nor learn a single word of English; he had been there for as long as anyone could remember and probably owned the stand himself. The seats were wooden stools pulled up to a bar that extended from his stand. I'd order the only thing on the menu -- a large bowl of noodles in broth -- and take out a book from the library or the used-book store across the street. When I finished, I'd exchange a nod with the owner and leave five or six dollars on the table.
I met Danielle for the first time on one of these nights. It was a pretty cold night for October, and the stand offered little enough shelter from the wind. I ducked under the tin roof and took a seat at the counter, noticed the tall brunette warming her hands over her bowl. Another bowl cooled on the counter next to her. She seemed reluctant to eat. I paged through my book without much interest. When I eventually fished out the last of my noodles and got up to leave, she was still picking disconsolately at her bowl, alone.
I met Danielle for the first time on one of these nights. It was a pretty cold night for October, and the stand offered little enough shelter from the wind. I ducked under the tin roof and took a seat at the counter, noticed the tall brunette warming her hands over her bowl. Another bowl cooled on the counter next to her. She seemed reluctant to eat. I paged through my book without much interest. When I eventually fished out the last of my noodles and got up to leave, she was still picking disconsolately at her bowl, alone.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
names
Eskimos have seven, or forty, or a thousand words for snow. We learn this early in life from overeager linguists. Later, we will learn that this knowledge is both true and also entirely without merit. In the polysynthetic Eskimo languages, words are created as the aggregation of whole phrases; adjectives and nouns and verbs can be mashed together into a single name. It is true that there are words for wet snow and packed snow, and for the snow molded under the paws of a wolf. But there are also words for solitary situations so specific as to be meaningless: the snow melting on a bright red T-shirt, writes one German author, also has its own name which might never be pronounced again in the whole long history of our world.
There is a name, then, for the water frozen onto the wings of a plane. Perhaps there is another for the snow clinging so tightly to concrete barriers that we mistake it at first for a salt stain. There is a word for the sludge that gathers at the edges of sidewalks and melts into the dirty brown puddles in the crossings that soak the fringes of our jeans. There is a name for the snow that sneaks down under my collar, that falls cold onto my back or flutters over my shoulder and catches in her lashes, the snow that she brushes away as she falls into bed in my arms.
But the purpose of language is to unify and abstract -- for the things that happen only once and never again, there are no true names.
There is a name, then, for the water frozen onto the wings of a plane. Perhaps there is another for the snow clinging so tightly to concrete barriers that we mistake it at first for a salt stain. There is a word for the sludge that gathers at the edges of sidewalks and melts into the dirty brown puddles in the crossings that soak the fringes of our jeans. There is a name for the snow that sneaks down under my collar, that falls cold onto my back or flutters over my shoulder and catches in her lashes, the snow that she brushes away as she falls into bed in my arms.
But the purpose of language is to unify and abstract -- for the things that happen only once and never again, there are no true names.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
rapture's coming, pt 2
The third omen appears unobtrusively in the third week of August. Late Tuesday afternoon, a designer browses through some shelves in an antique shop and notices an old paddleboard preserved in resin. He notes the roughly hewn grid-lines and the delicate inlay of carnelian and lapiz lazuli; the juxtaposition pleases him.
On Thursday night, he hosts a small dinner party and several of his guests express interest in his purchase. One is a graduate student who recently completed her thesis on Mesopotamian civilization, and she has seen a similar design etched into the burial stone of a Sumerian king. Later that night, her curiosity piqued, she looks through some old notes and discovers that the design is the playing-board for a favored game of Ur's court.
On Friday, her advisor calls to cancel their weekly meeting. He believes he has caught a cold; in reality, he will die on the following Monday. She takes the opportunity to return to her friend's apartment, where she had left her umbrella the previous night. She makes an offhand remark about the game she has discovered, and her friend mischievously suggests that they play a round.
The rules are simple. The squares inlaid with carnelian are points of refuge, the narrow neck represents paths which only one piece may cross. The game possesses a curious property: though each player possesses three pieces and three carnelian points, it is impossible to occupy all three points of refuge at once.
She does not leave until very late in the night on Friday. When she closes her eyes, she sees the six copper pennies they used as markers, marching across the back of her eyelids. She dreams of long, narrow bridges across unspeakably deep chasms. She wakes early in the afternoon to report to her shift at a local coffeehouse. She is stunned to find several customers playing the game she recently discovered, the board scrawled on the back of napkins. She stops one customer who is carving six points of refuge into a table, finds herself oddly reluctant to do so.
On the following Monday, she receives notice of her advisor's death. She notices children drawing in the street with chalk, and does not dare to look too carefully at their designs. On the side of her apartment complex, someone has spray-painted a grid with two long, narrow paths. There are splotches in the grid squares; she notes dully that only two of the points of refuge are marked. She is unsurprised to receive a call from her friend later in the day, who had returned to find his apartment door ajar and the lock broken. It seemed that one of the robbers had carelessly dropped the inlaid paddleboard; one of the two bridges is cracked.
On Thursday night, he hosts a small dinner party and several of his guests express interest in his purchase. One is a graduate student who recently completed her thesis on Mesopotamian civilization, and she has seen a similar design etched into the burial stone of a Sumerian king. Later that night, her curiosity piqued, she looks through some old notes and discovers that the design is the playing-board for a favored game of Ur's court.
On Friday, her advisor calls to cancel their weekly meeting. He believes he has caught a cold; in reality, he will die on the following Monday. She takes the opportunity to return to her friend's apartment, where she had left her umbrella the previous night. She makes an offhand remark about the game she has discovered, and her friend mischievously suggests that they play a round.
The rules are simple. The squares inlaid with carnelian are points of refuge, the narrow neck represents paths which only one piece may cross. The game possesses a curious property: though each player possesses three pieces and three carnelian points, it is impossible to occupy all three points of refuge at once.
She does not leave until very late in the night on Friday. When she closes her eyes, she sees the six copper pennies they used as markers, marching across the back of her eyelids. She dreams of long, narrow bridges across unspeakably deep chasms. She wakes early in the afternoon to report to her shift at a local coffeehouse. She is stunned to find several customers playing the game she recently discovered, the board scrawled on the back of napkins. She stops one customer who is carving six points of refuge into a table, finds herself oddly reluctant to do so.
On the following Monday, she receives notice of her advisor's death. She notices children drawing in the street with chalk, and does not dare to look too carefully at their designs. On the side of her apartment complex, someone has spray-painted a grid with two long, narrow paths. There are splotches in the grid squares; she notes dully that only two of the points of refuge are marked. She is unsurprised to receive a call from her friend later in the day, who had returned to find his apartment door ajar and the lock broken. It seemed that one of the robbers had carelessly dropped the inlaid paddleboard; one of the two bridges is cracked.
Monday, December 14, 2009
vestigial
When we pry open the rusted door to the last chamber, there is nothing behind it but a thick mass of brown growth, like roots packed into a small metal box. I reach out to squeeze my companion's shoulder, there is nothing left here, but he is gripping and pulling at the growths. The bandages on his hands catch and tear, small red rivulets flow and swell from his palms and from under his fingernails. It is impossible that his hands should contain so much blood; our feet are sticky with it.
The root-like tendrils lie twiching on the floor behind us. Perhaps they are nourished by the blood of his hands. Even now they are growing behind us, though intimidated for the time being. We must leave, it is not safe here.
Mud is splattered across the back of the metal cell. I can just make out the shape of two ridged rubber tubes from under the mud, running up into the ceiling. Respirators. A soft and rhythmic wheezing wavers just at the edge of hearing.
We are clawing togther at the wet dirt now, my fingernails tearing. Just under the surface, there is a length of tattered hair. Something I heard, somewhere far away: we are freeing the figure in the marble. Two figures, a boy and a girl. Their chests are covered with mud -- I feel a sudden apprehension, distant but sharp. My companion is scooping the mud away in frantic handfuls.
This is victory, unexpected and sweet. But -- an irrational impulse to turn away, to leave well enough alone. I can not form the reason, my feet are rooted to the ground.
Hollow. Their chests gape open, wildly empty cavities beneath the mud. Late, too late, too late, something moans in our minds, helplessly. We can still help you, let us help you. The figure with shorter chin-length hair regards us sadly. Thank you, he says with his eyes. Their mouths are covered with plastic masks which feed into the ridged plastic tubes.
Boy and girl turn to each other, their masks clink together. A kiss -- I will understand this later. Then, gripping the plastic tightly -- no, we can help you, let us help you -- he pulls the masks away. The sound of wheezing fades away, presently. I hear something fall wetly beside me.
Hours later, I stumble into the light alone.
The root-like tendrils lie twiching on the floor behind us. Perhaps they are nourished by the blood of his hands. Even now they are growing behind us, though intimidated for the time being. We must leave, it is not safe here.
Mud is splattered across the back of the metal cell. I can just make out the shape of two ridged rubber tubes from under the mud, running up into the ceiling. Respirators. A soft and rhythmic wheezing wavers just at the edge of hearing.
We are clawing togther at the wet dirt now, my fingernails tearing. Just under the surface, there is a length of tattered hair. Something I heard, somewhere far away: we are freeing the figure in the marble. Two figures, a boy and a girl. Their chests are covered with mud -- I feel a sudden apprehension, distant but sharp. My companion is scooping the mud away in frantic handfuls.
This is victory, unexpected and sweet. But -- an irrational impulse to turn away, to leave well enough alone. I can not form the reason, my feet are rooted to the ground.
Hollow. Their chests gape open, wildly empty cavities beneath the mud. Late, too late, too late, something moans in our minds, helplessly. We can still help you, let us help you. The figure with shorter chin-length hair regards us sadly. Thank you, he says with his eyes. Their mouths are covered with plastic masks which feed into the ridged plastic tubes.
Boy and girl turn to each other, their masks clink together. A kiss -- I will understand this later. Then, gripping the plastic tightly -- no, we can help you, let us help you -- he pulls the masks away. The sound of wheezing fades away, presently. I hear something fall wetly beside me.
Hours later, I stumble into the light alone.
Thursday, December 10, 2009
tape art is the new shit
The graffiti was bright neon pink and yellow on a drab concrete wall, and its sudden appearance was the only bright spot in a long and dull winter. So when Shanna walked past the artist (stopping only briefly to admire his tight black jeans) and dialed for security, it was with some small twinge of regret.
When security arrived, they found only an empty aerosol can and a plastic water bottle half-filled with cheap wine. Shanna shrugged and said to skip the fingerprints, and looked halfheartedly through next year's budget for cleaning and repairs.
When security arrived, they found only an empty aerosol can and a plastic water bottle half-filled with cheap wine. Shanna shrugged and said to skip the fingerprints, and looked halfheartedly through next year's budget for cleaning and repairs.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
her name means sunshine
Just past the second marking stone, a dusty road splits off from the highway. It winds through a long field of wheat and down the rolling hills, up to the edge of the swamps. Here, at the narrowest crossing-point, a few boards lead from stone to stone, stone to stone, stone to shore. Past this, the path is overgrown with brush and grass, but a clearing is visible through the willow trees.
You led me here once when we were young. Do you remember? At the edge of the trees you squeezed my hand and lifted a finger to your lips, and then you were running through the leaves and into the light, startling a flock of birds into flight above you.
You led me here once when we were young. Do you remember? At the edge of the trees you squeezed my hand and lifted a finger to your lips, and then you were running through the leaves and into the light, startling a flock of birds into flight above you.
Friday, December 4, 2009
durham, north carolina
It is three days past his thirty-eighth birthday, and Thomas Pinchett is balancing a ledger. A cup of tea sits near his right hand, cooling. From the third drawer to the left of his desk, he removes a manila folder. He takes from the folder a yellowing grid paper and a small stack of pay statements.
An envelope containing his biweekly paycheck sits on his desk; he slits this along the top with a bronze letter-opener and carefully unfolds the statement. He examines the amount listed at the bottom. His salary, reduced by exactly the amount required by federal and state tax withholding law and adjusted for his annual 1.6% raise. He adds a twenty-third point to the grid paper and uses a ruler to draw a line from the twenty-second.
In his ledger under Assets, he has written an estimation of his holdings in various markets and the market value of an apartment in Virginia that he owns jointly with his father. To this, he adds a prediction of future salary, adjusted for inflation and anticipated changes in tax exemptions.
Under Liabilities, the entries are more numerous. He glances at entries Co-pay, future operations and Child Support. He taps the end of his pencil against the desk thoughtfully but makes no corrections.
An envelope containing his biweekly paycheck sits on his desk; he slits this along the top with a bronze letter-opener and carefully unfolds the statement. He examines the amount listed at the bottom. His salary, reduced by exactly the amount required by federal and state tax withholding law and adjusted for his annual 1.6% raise. He adds a twenty-third point to the grid paper and uses a ruler to draw a line from the twenty-second.
In his ledger under Assets, he has written an estimation of his holdings in various markets and the market value of an apartment in Virginia that he owns jointly with his father. To this, he adds a prediction of future salary, adjusted for inflation and anticipated changes in tax exemptions.
Under Liabilities, the entries are more numerous. He glances at entries Co-pay, future operations and Child Support. He taps the end of his pencil against the desk thoughtfully but makes no corrections.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
on a train departing from the airport, tuesday night
A pale teenage girl is the first one to board at the station. A bulging piece of luggage and two adults (parents?) trail behind her. The luggage is about three feet tall, sporting blue-and-green polka dots on a stained white canvas, and looks like it weighs about as much as she does. The copper zippers at the top of the bag are visibly strained.
She shoves the luggage beside an elderly Asian man sitting in the first row of seats and flops herself down in the row behind him. She shakes curly brown hair out of her eyes and glares at the back of the old man's head. Her parents sit in the aisle across from her.
Someone in the train sneezes, and her mother offers a loud "bless you." A voice from the back calls out thanks, but the brown-haired girl rolls her eyes. Her father puts his arm around her mother. They both look very tired.
She shoves the luggage beside an elderly Asian man sitting in the first row of seats and flops herself down in the row behind him. She shakes curly brown hair out of her eyes and glares at the back of the old man's head. Her parents sit in the aisle across from her.
Someone in the train sneezes, and her mother offers a loud "bless you." A voice from the back calls out thanks, but the brown-haired girl rolls her eyes. Her father puts his arm around her mother. They both look very tired.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
the night before the incident
She gives him a hug and a thin-lipped smile, walks down towards the terminal. This is how he will remember her in all of the long years ahead -- a tasteful amber scarf over a knee-length coat, descending down a flight of stairs. It is winter in the city and the wind roars down between the skyscrapers, making her scarf and coat and long black hair all ripple together.
An updraft rips a few newspapers out of their bundles and up, up, up over the tops of streetlights and traffic signs and impossibly high into the dark blue sky, and when he looks back down again, she is gone.
An updraft rips a few newspapers out of their bundles and up, up, up over the tops of streetlights and traffic signs and impossibly high into the dark blue sky, and when he looks back down again, she is gone.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
rapture's coming
Subway station, 28th street. It is around three in the morning. A man in a battered-looking suit walks into the station and looks around. He is carrying a homemade sign, red lettering against a white board. The End is Near, predictably.
He squats down next to an overloaded shopping cart and a lumpy sleeping bag which, on inspection, turns out to contain a visibly drunk redhead.
"Evening, Sandra," says the street preacher.
Sandra groans and belches noisily. "Hello, Frank."
Frank scratches at the side of his nose tiredly. "Alcohol is the devil's snare," he says listlessly. "What will you do when, uh, judgment comes?"
Sandra shrugs. "See my sister again, I guess. You using my blankets, you can lay off about my whiskey."
Frank digs around in the shopping cart, coming up with a dirty blue sheet which he lays across some newspapers. "Rapture's coming," he mumbles. "You'll see."
He squats down next to an overloaded shopping cart and a lumpy sleeping bag which, on inspection, turns out to contain a visibly drunk redhead.
"Evening, Sandra," says the street preacher.
Sandra groans and belches noisily. "Hello, Frank."
Frank scratches at the side of his nose tiredly. "Alcohol is the devil's snare," he says listlessly. "What will you do when, uh, judgment comes?"
Sandra shrugs. "See my sister again, I guess. You using my blankets, you can lay off about my whiskey."
Frank digs around in the shopping cart, coming up with a dirty blue sheet which he lays across some newspapers. "Rapture's coming," he mumbles. "You'll see."
Monday, November 23, 2009
that girl, dance with that girl
Two bowls of rice and a platter of carrots and snap peas sit steaming on the table between us, and my uncle is telling me a story. I am rubbing the bottoms of my feet together, trying to massage some of the soreness out of them.
"I used to go dancing too," my uncle says. "We went out on Fridays. We'd invite the girls to meet us at a bus stop or something, then walk over to a classmate's house. Sometimes the parents would stay home, poke their head in from time to time. But some of our classmates had parents who would go out on a date and let us have the house to ourselves. Those were our favorites. "
"I had a classmate named Lisan who was a really good dancer, popular with the girls. When we went dancing, Lisan always got the prettiest girl. So I'd get to dance with her friends, who were usually pretty cute too. But every second or third week, we'd get to the bus stop, and Lisan's mom would be waiting for us there. 'I'll just come and sit in the kitchen,' she would insist. 'You won't notice me at all, I will just help to serve tea and snacks once in a while.' "
"He could never dissuade her. But once we all started dancing, Lisan's mother would sneak on into the living room and tap him on the shoulder. 'That girl, you should dance with her,' she'd say to him. He was so embarrased. "
My uncle and I laugh together, thinking about poor old Lisan and his mother who followed him to these dance parties. Little crow's feet appear in the corners of my uncle's graying eyes when he smiles.
"After a few times, we all got to be kind of fond of Mrs. Li, even though he wasn't too excited about her showing up," my uncle says. "Maybe it was a little annoying, but you got to thinking, 'that's kind of cute', you know?"
I nod. It is kind of cute, especially when it's not your own mother. My uncle puts down his chopsticks, rubs his eyes.
"You know, Lisan's a professor now. He lives just a few hours away," he says. "His mom is living with him now. He grew up to become a really responsible son. "
He thinks for a few moments. We are both about finished with the meal now, and it is dark outside.
"Mrs. Li is getting so old now," my uncle says finally, poking ruefully at his rice. "It does seem like a long time ago when we used to go out dancing. It seems right that we all grew up. But you don't expect Lisan's mother -- she used to just run right up to him and tap him on the shoulder, saying 'That girl, dance with that girl' -- you wouldn't think that she would get so old."
"I used to go dancing too," my uncle says. "We went out on Fridays. We'd invite the girls to meet us at a bus stop or something, then walk over to a classmate's house. Sometimes the parents would stay home, poke their head in from time to time. But some of our classmates had parents who would go out on a date and let us have the house to ourselves. Those were our favorites. "
"I had a classmate named Lisan who was a really good dancer, popular with the girls. When we went dancing, Lisan always got the prettiest girl. So I'd get to dance with her friends, who were usually pretty cute too. But every second or third week, we'd get to the bus stop, and Lisan's mom would be waiting for us there. 'I'll just come and sit in the kitchen,' she would insist. 'You won't notice me at all, I will just help to serve tea and snacks once in a while.' "
"He could never dissuade her. But once we all started dancing, Lisan's mother would sneak on into the living room and tap him on the shoulder. 'That girl, you should dance with her,' she'd say to him. He was so embarrased. "
My uncle and I laugh together, thinking about poor old Lisan and his mother who followed him to these dance parties. Little crow's feet appear in the corners of my uncle's graying eyes when he smiles.
"After a few times, we all got to be kind of fond of Mrs. Li, even though he wasn't too excited about her showing up," my uncle says. "Maybe it was a little annoying, but you got to thinking, 'that's kind of cute', you know?"
I nod. It is kind of cute, especially when it's not your own mother. My uncle puts down his chopsticks, rubs his eyes.
"You know, Lisan's a professor now. He lives just a few hours away," he says. "His mom is living with him now. He grew up to become a really responsible son. "
He thinks for a few moments. We are both about finished with the meal now, and it is dark outside.
"Mrs. Li is getting so old now," my uncle says finally, poking ruefully at his rice. "It does seem like a long time ago when we used to go out dancing. It seems right that we all grew up. But you don't expect Lisan's mother -- she used to just run right up to him and tap him on the shoulder, saying 'That girl, dance with that girl' -- you wouldn't think that she would get so old."
Sunday, November 22, 2009
basically just smut
Early November, late enough for the cold to creep past glass doors and sneak down high school hallways. I am sixteen years old, and a girl has me pushed up against a corner at the bottom of a stairwell. I think she is probably my best friend. Somewhere above our heads, footsteps go thump-thump, thump-thump.
Stop looking so scared, she says. I pretend to be exasperated. Her fingers move down my neck and draw a pattern across my shirt. Who's scared, I say. I choke on this last bit as she brushes past something sensitive.
She smirks a little. You are, she says.
She traces the outline of my hips with her hands. She hooks her fingers together at the small of my back and pulls me away from the wall. But you love me, she demands.
Do I? I wonder, but I say nothing, breathe a little quicker, stiffen against her. She is tugging at my belt, pulling the end through a loop.
Thump-thump, thump-thump is the sound of my heartbeat, and thump-thump, thump-thump is the sound of Mr. Brannan's footsteps as he catches sight first of our moving shadows and then of us, her eyes startled wide open and my jeans caught still just barely above my hips in a final moment of panic.
Stop looking so scared, she says. I pretend to be exasperated. Her fingers move down my neck and draw a pattern across my shirt. Who's scared, I say. I choke on this last bit as she brushes past something sensitive.
She smirks a little. You are, she says.
She traces the outline of my hips with her hands. She hooks her fingers together at the small of my back and pulls me away from the wall. But you love me, she demands.
Do I? I wonder, but I say nothing, breathe a little quicker, stiffen against her. She is tugging at my belt, pulling the end through a loop.
Thump-thump, thump-thump is the sound of my heartbeat, and thump-thump, thump-thump is the sound of Mr. Brannan's footsteps as he catches sight first of our moving shadows and then of us, her eyes startled wide open and my jeans caught still just barely above my hips in a final moment of panic.
Friday, November 20, 2009
twelve serious men
Twelve serious men sit around a serious table. There are five to a side, one at each of the ends. The serious men are dressed identically: pressed dark suits, pinstriped shirts, purple ties. The chairman stands.
Each of the serious men has a stack of papers in front of him. They sit in twelve white rectangular columns. The men do not touch the stacks of paper, the stacks sit untouched. The papers are stacked in ten rectangular columns. Perhaps there are only twelve. A few seconds ago, when we first entered the room, these papers were not here; now, they have been here forever.
We will have time for questions later, says the Chairman.
There is a well-polished but old-fashioned air conditioner attached to the ceiling above the table. Twelve sheets of paper drift off of their perfect stacks, circle perfectly counterclockwise. Counterclockwise means: from right to left above, left to right below. It is the opposite of the way that time turns. Someone must have switched on the air conditioning unit, because twelve sheets of paper turn in a counterclockwise circle around the room.
The room is a blizzard of papers. The twelve perfect stacks of paper are obliterated. A man stands up from the table and opens a window. Perhaps it is too cold inside, or perhaps it is too warm outside. There is an old saying: it is better to light a candle than -- how does the saying end? Darkness, curse the darkness. There is a desert outside, it is comical to cool the desert with a single rectangular air-conditioning unit suspended over a long table.
The men are laughing hysterically. One of them is dangling out of the opened window. This is not a laughing matter. Only his pinstriped pant legs are visible now. The Chairman is sprinting across the room in slow motion, snow-white papers streaming around him. He is too late. Only shoes are visible above the window. The Chairman does not speak, but this is what he says: why did you not help him? He is one of ours, one of hours, One of Hours.
Two through Eleven are heckling the Chairman. The man at the opposite end of the table has no face. He is here to announce the end of the world, tick-tock tick-tock. The Chairman is leaning out the window to help One, then he is only pinstriped pant legs, then only shoes. The Chairman is plunging headlong to his death. The room is a blizzard of papers and a madhouse of laughter. The faceless man is finishing the chairman's presentation. This is meaningless, only a dream, only a dream.
We will have time for questions later, says the faceless man.
Each of the serious men has a stack of papers in front of him. They sit in twelve white rectangular columns. The men do not touch the stacks of paper, the stacks sit untouched. The papers are stacked in ten rectangular columns. Perhaps there are only twelve. A few seconds ago, when we first entered the room, these papers were not here; now, they have been here forever.
We will have time for questions later, says the Chairman.
There is a well-polished but old-fashioned air conditioner attached to the ceiling above the table. Twelve sheets of paper drift off of their perfect stacks, circle perfectly counterclockwise. Counterclockwise means: from right to left above, left to right below. It is the opposite of the way that time turns. Someone must have switched on the air conditioning unit, because twelve sheets of paper turn in a counterclockwise circle around the room.
The room is a blizzard of papers. The twelve perfect stacks of paper are obliterated. A man stands up from the table and opens a window. Perhaps it is too cold inside, or perhaps it is too warm outside. There is an old saying: it is better to light a candle than -- how does the saying end? Darkness, curse the darkness. There is a desert outside, it is comical to cool the desert with a single rectangular air-conditioning unit suspended over a long table.
The men are laughing hysterically. One of them is dangling out of the opened window. This is not a laughing matter. Only his pinstriped pant legs are visible now. The Chairman is sprinting across the room in slow motion, snow-white papers streaming around him. He is too late. Only shoes are visible above the window. The Chairman does not speak, but this is what he says: why did you not help him? He is one of ours, one of hours, One of Hours.
Two through Eleven are heckling the Chairman. The man at the opposite end of the table has no face. He is here to announce the end of the world, tick-tock tick-tock. The Chairman is leaning out the window to help One, then he is only pinstriped pant legs, then only shoes. The Chairman is plunging headlong to his death. The room is a blizzard of papers and a madhouse of laughter. The faceless man is finishing the chairman's presentation. This is meaningless, only a dream, only a dream.
We will have time for questions later, says the faceless man.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
it goes on and on and on and on
When I was young, I spent about a year living in a small town in the hills of California. I had planned to live in the sprawling city on the bay, from which a train ran daily to the suburb where I worked. But a few months after I began work, an older uncle living in the hills came down with a fever which turned with time into a slow, helpless forgetfulness. What could I do? A family must care for its own; for the time being, responsibility for his care fell to me.
So instead of riding the train, every day I drove sixty-three miles from the small town where I lived with him to the suburb where I worked. My uncle's aging automobile had a charm and elegance of its own, though it burned gasoline at an astonishing rate -- nearly a quarter of a tank per round trip.
I usually left work hours after sunset, the road stretched endlessly out ahead of me. At night, the white ramps and bridges are mute marvels, deserted and bewildering in size. I traveled past miles and miles of streetlights, their orange glow blotting out the stars. (Astrology is a lost art for good reason.) But the empty highway has a way of blanking my mind, and soon I was home. I felt a kind of sympathetic embarrassment for the sixty-three miles of desert between my office and my town in the hills -- to be surmounted so easily, first by a gang of overgrown monkeys and their bridges and roads, then by any old fool in an automobile!
It occurred to me much later that distance is only a kind of metaphor for something we knew once and have now forgotten. A symbol, maybe, for something like wonder, something like eternity. There is no word for it, of course -- the purpose of metaphor is to explain those things for which there are no exact words. But this is an age ruled by literal men, who know that a highway overpass is not an astonishing, blasphemous chain binding the earth away from the sky, but simply the most efficient way to cross from point A to point B with the minimum expenditure of time and treasure.
So instead of riding the train, every day I drove sixty-three miles from the small town where I lived with him to the suburb where I worked. My uncle's aging automobile had a charm and elegance of its own, though it burned gasoline at an astonishing rate -- nearly a quarter of a tank per round trip.
I usually left work hours after sunset, the road stretched endlessly out ahead of me. At night, the white ramps and bridges are mute marvels, deserted and bewildering in size. I traveled past miles and miles of streetlights, their orange glow blotting out the stars. (Astrology is a lost art for good reason.) But the empty highway has a way of blanking my mind, and soon I was home. I felt a kind of sympathetic embarrassment for the sixty-three miles of desert between my office and my town in the hills -- to be surmounted so easily, first by a gang of overgrown monkeys and their bridges and roads, then by any old fool in an automobile!
It occurred to me much later that distance is only a kind of metaphor for something we knew once and have now forgotten. A symbol, maybe, for something like wonder, something like eternity. There is no word for it, of course -- the purpose of metaphor is to explain those things for which there are no exact words. But this is an age ruled by literal men, who know that a highway overpass is not an astonishing, blasphemous chain binding the earth away from the sky, but simply the most efficient way to cross from point A to point B with the minimum expenditure of time and treasure.
Monday, November 16, 2009
a story from the revolution
The first thing my father feels that morning is the heat of sunlight against a bare shoulder. His eyes snap open, his arms already swinging him off the wooden bench. A sudden, searing pain jolts from his heels up his legs, collapsing him back into his seat. He inhales sharply, suppresses the sound out of instinct. His feet are wrapped in bloodied bandages.
A tanned man in a straw hat enters the room, smiling widely. "Looks like you came around," he says to my father. "You didn't look too good this morning."
My father gapes at the man. He presses a hand to his eyes, tries to gather his thoughts. Vague impressions seem to flee from his grasp. He remembers a guard in the tower, the numbness creeping up his arms and legs. Ice-cold waves, salt in his mouth and nostrils.
"I found you in my oyster fields this morning," says the stranger. "You're lucky I got out there before the low tide. Their shells are too sharp to walk on, if you don't know where the paths are. You should know better, what were you doing out there?"
Hollowness is spreading through my father's chest, robbing him of breath. Through the uneven joins in the roof, he can feel the sun already high overhead, the tide has gone out.
"We came from the mainland," my father says slowly, truthfully. He has never been a good liar, and he is beyond caring now, beyond thinking. "My friend... he was trying to help me get here. Do you know where he is?"
He already knows the answer, even before he sees the man in the straw hat begin to frown. What is beautiful is seized. He has read this in a book somewhere, some time before the revolution. It means: everything that is good is passing. He watches the man's lips move, but the sound seems to take forever to travel across the room. This is how things feel in dreams, he thinks. A stray gust of wind outside sends a few leaves scattering across the doorway, dancing their shadows across the floor, and then they are gone.
A tanned man in a straw hat enters the room, smiling widely. "Looks like you came around," he says to my father. "You didn't look too good this morning."
My father gapes at the man. He presses a hand to his eyes, tries to gather his thoughts. Vague impressions seem to flee from his grasp. He remembers a guard in the tower, the numbness creeping up his arms and legs. Ice-cold waves, salt in his mouth and nostrils.
"I found you in my oyster fields this morning," says the stranger. "You're lucky I got out there before the low tide. Their shells are too sharp to walk on, if you don't know where the paths are. You should know better, what were you doing out there?"
Hollowness is spreading through my father's chest, robbing him of breath. Through the uneven joins in the roof, he can feel the sun already high overhead, the tide has gone out.
"We came from the mainland," my father says slowly, truthfully. He has never been a good liar, and he is beyond caring now, beyond thinking. "My friend... he was trying to help me get here. Do you know where he is?"
He already knows the answer, even before he sees the man in the straw hat begin to frown. What is beautiful is seized. He has read this in a book somewhere, some time before the revolution. It means: everything that is good is passing. He watches the man's lips move, but the sound seems to take forever to travel across the room. This is how things feel in dreams, he thinks. A stray gust of wind outside sends a few leaves scattering across the doorway, dancing their shadows across the floor, and then they are gone.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
nantou county, taiwan
The dust is everywhere here. My shoes and sandals are bleached with it. My hair smells like dust, and my t-shirt looks like it will never be clean again. The wheels of our faithful blue van churn up a cloud as they drag us over another hill. The vehicle's strain is tangible, and we crack jokes about the three lonely squirrels allegedly powering its engine.
Our director turns halfway around in the driver's seat. "See if you can feel the change in the, uh, spiritual climate here. It's really amazing, you can really feel it. Try to identify where it changes," he says. We are all teachers at a Christian camp here, but he believes with an intensity and directness that still feels very new to me even after all the weeks we've spent together.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, tentatively feeling for this elusive boundary. "Was it back there, at those two rocks?" ventures a girl. The director considers this. "A little earlier," he says. "But yeah, around there. If you try, you can become more sensitive to things like this."
We are headed to a tea house in the mountains. We've spent a month in the only landlocked county on this island, the central and poorest province. The hills here are all cut into concentric steps to provide level growing surfaces. While the coasts have seen astonishing modernization in the last decade, this area is still given over to dirt roads and rice paddies. The tea from this region, though, is justly famous.
The tea house is near the peak of one of the mountains. From windows facing east and west, we can just make out the water on either side of the island. Even the bathroom here has a narrow strip cut out of the wall at approximately eye level, presumably so that guests can enjoy the view while relieving themselves. The sunset glows golden out to the west, framed between two peaks and reflected from the water below. I wonder if the dragon deities of the east looked something like this, serpentine and luminous and eternal. A wind blows warmly from somewhere behind us, and I imagine that I can make out the scent of the ocean.
Our director turns halfway around in the driver's seat. "See if you can feel the change in the, uh, spiritual climate here. It's really amazing, you can really feel it. Try to identify where it changes," he says. We are all teachers at a Christian camp here, but he believes with an intensity and directness that still feels very new to me even after all the weeks we've spent together.
We sit in silence for a few minutes, tentatively feeling for this elusive boundary. "Was it back there, at those two rocks?" ventures a girl. The director considers this. "A little earlier," he says. "But yeah, around there. If you try, you can become more sensitive to things like this."
We are headed to a tea house in the mountains. We've spent a month in the only landlocked county on this island, the central and poorest province. The hills here are all cut into concentric steps to provide level growing surfaces. While the coasts have seen astonishing modernization in the last decade, this area is still given over to dirt roads and rice paddies. The tea from this region, though, is justly famous.
The tea house is near the peak of one of the mountains. From windows facing east and west, we can just make out the water on either side of the island. Even the bathroom here has a narrow strip cut out of the wall at approximately eye level, presumably so that guests can enjoy the view while relieving themselves. The sunset glows golden out to the west, framed between two peaks and reflected from the water below. I wonder if the dragon deities of the east looked something like this, serpentine and luminous and eternal. A wind blows warmly from somewhere behind us, and I imagine that I can make out the scent of the ocean.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
2:25
He has not slept in days. He does not see the homeless woman leaning against the coffeeshop wall until it is too late to react. She is on her feet, grabbing the lapels of his shirt. Her face is sunburned brown and long locks of her matted black hair whip into his face.
"A blessing, preacherman," she hisses. Her blue eyes are oddly clear.
The response rises without thought. "What do you seek, daughter?" croaks a voice from some place in his throat.
She mouths something that he cannot hear. There is a faint ringing in his ears, growing louder. Get a grip, he mutters to himself. He pries her hands away gently, removes them from his shirt. "I'm sorry," he says to her. "I don't do that any more. I can't help you."
"A blessing, preacherman," she hisses. Her blue eyes are oddly clear.
The response rises without thought. "What do you seek, daughter?" croaks a voice from some place in his throat.
She mouths something that he cannot hear. There is a faint ringing in his ears, growing louder. Get a grip, he mutters to himself. He pries her hands away gently, removes them from his shirt. "I'm sorry," he says to her. "I don't do that any more. I can't help you."
Monday, November 9, 2009
an emergency room, pt 2.
(continued from this post)
The old man in Bed 3 catches sight of the nurse as she walks into the room. You called my cousin yet, he nearly shouts. It's hard to say whether this is a question. He doubles over, coughing, and Louis and the nurse both go over to him. She helps him lean back against the bed. They couldn't find anyone by that name, she explains. We already called your brother. Is there anyone else we can call?
Why did you call my brother, he demands. He can't do anything. Just call the operator in Pasadena. My cousin's name is Robert Johns, and he and his wife are going to drive down to pick me up.
She turns away. The nurse comes over to my relative's bed, adjusts the IV bag. What's your name, the nurse asks her. Can you grip my hand for me? There is no response. There is nothing conclusive yet, she says to me. We'll do some more tests. She exchanges some words with Louis. I only make out a few of them: operator, discharged, disconnected. Louis shrugs, grimaces.
My back hurts, the old man complains. Why won't you help me? Louis tries to look reassuring. We already gave you some medication for that, he says. You'll feel better soon. We will call you a taxi, okay? I'm sure your cousin will be down to see you tomorrow. Pasadena is a long drive for tonight.
I expect another outburst, but I don't hear anything from his bed. I get up, rub my eyes. I need a cigarette. The night is cold and fresh, and I borrow a lighter from a middle-aged Asian woman sitting outside. Someone as young as you shouldn't smoke, she says. I shrug. My daughter had rashes on her legs, she explains. We put some cream on them, and they went away for a few weeks. Now they are all over her body. I nod. This is some sort of sympathy, I hope, the best I can muster.
When I come back in, there are two or three nurses standing around Bed 3. I told you he would come, the old man is saying. Him and his wife are going to drive down. A younger nurse is here now as well, looking doubtful. I haven't seen this nurse before. Louis smiles. You have a very kind cousin, Louis says. He should be here soon. I guess the operator found him after all, he says.
Some time passes, maybe an hour or two. The old man seems to have gone to sleep. More tests. There is nothing conclusive. I have brought a woman to two clinics and an emergency room tonight. When the nurses ask her to grip their hands, she turns away silently. Her right hand twitches involuntarily.
Louis touches my arm. I'm going off my shift soon, he says. There isn't anything more you can do. We'll keep her here overnight; you should go home. I close my eyes, think of a warm bed, pillows. I nod. Thank you, I say to him. I start to form a question, decide against it.
Outside, the sky is just starting to turn to a faint blue. There is a yellow checkered taxicab waiting. "Are you --", the driver begins. I cut him off. This is enough, for one night. I pull my hands out of my pockets, show him my keys. I drove here, I tell him. I am going home.
The old man in Bed 3 catches sight of the nurse as she walks into the room. You called my cousin yet, he nearly shouts. It's hard to say whether this is a question. He doubles over, coughing, and Louis and the nurse both go over to him. She helps him lean back against the bed. They couldn't find anyone by that name, she explains. We already called your brother. Is there anyone else we can call?
Why did you call my brother, he demands. He can't do anything. Just call the operator in Pasadena. My cousin's name is Robert Johns, and he and his wife are going to drive down to pick me up.
She turns away. The nurse comes over to my relative's bed, adjusts the IV bag. What's your name, the nurse asks her. Can you grip my hand for me? There is no response. There is nothing conclusive yet, she says to me. We'll do some more tests. She exchanges some words with Louis. I only make out a few of them: operator, discharged, disconnected. Louis shrugs, grimaces.
My back hurts, the old man complains. Why won't you help me? Louis tries to look reassuring. We already gave you some medication for that, he says. You'll feel better soon. We will call you a taxi, okay? I'm sure your cousin will be down to see you tomorrow. Pasadena is a long drive for tonight.
I expect another outburst, but I don't hear anything from his bed. I get up, rub my eyes. I need a cigarette. The night is cold and fresh, and I borrow a lighter from a middle-aged Asian woman sitting outside. Someone as young as you shouldn't smoke, she says. I shrug. My daughter had rashes on her legs, she explains. We put some cream on them, and they went away for a few weeks. Now they are all over her body. I nod. This is some sort of sympathy, I hope, the best I can muster.
When I come back in, there are two or three nurses standing around Bed 3. I told you he would come, the old man is saying. Him and his wife are going to drive down. A younger nurse is here now as well, looking doubtful. I haven't seen this nurse before. Louis smiles. You have a very kind cousin, Louis says. He should be here soon. I guess the operator found him after all, he says.
Some time passes, maybe an hour or two. The old man seems to have gone to sleep. More tests. There is nothing conclusive. I have brought a woman to two clinics and an emergency room tonight. When the nurses ask her to grip their hands, she turns away silently. Her right hand twitches involuntarily.
Louis touches my arm. I'm going off my shift soon, he says. There isn't anything more you can do. We'll keep her here overnight; you should go home. I close my eyes, think of a warm bed, pillows. I nod. Thank you, I say to him. I start to form a question, decide against it.
Outside, the sky is just starting to turn to a faint blue. There is a yellow checkered taxicab waiting. "Are you --", the driver begins. I cut him off. This is enough, for one night. I pull my hands out of my pockets, show him my keys. I drove here, I tell him. I am going home.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
an emergency room, pt 1.
A few months ago: I am bringing a relative of mine to the emergency room. I am exhausted. I've already spent three hours with her at a clinic earlier, where they'd told us nothing was wrong with her (good work, doc). Lunch had been two granola bars. Dinner was cold chicken and half a raw onion.
Emergency rooms today are basically rows of beds separated by thin curtains draped from the ceiling. The bed next to ours is unoccupied, so I draw back the separating curtain and sit on the edge, looking at the woman I have brought here. Her eyelids are half closed, her eyes rolled back. She could be sleeping, could just be unresponsive.
There is an old man in the bed behind us. Bed 3, room 140. I have no idea what his name might be. He has not been quiet for a moment since we arrived. Why won't you help me, he is saying now. His voice is tinged with either pain or frustration. A tired-looking resident fixes his nametag -- Louis, it says in neat black print -- and gets up to attend to him.
I want to sit up, says the old man in Bed 3. I can see his mottled feet peeking out past the edge of the curtain. Have you called my cousin yet? Louis catches me watching this sad scene and smiles wanly at me. Sir, you can't sit up any more, Louis explains. This is the highest the bed will go.
Where did the nurse go, asks the man in Bed 3. I've turned back around now, facing my relative's bed. She was supposed to call my cousin. His name is Robert Johns. He lives in Pasadena. He is supposed to come and get me. Pasadena is more than two hours drive away, I think to myself. Louis is not making eye contact with either of us.
I remember something a grinning young tour guide told me a few months ago, making fun of the a guidebook we'd brought with us. Never trust a man with two Christian names.
We're doing our best, Louis says to the old man, walking past me. He turns back to the old man. The nurse will be back soon, he says reassuringly. It is late now, around one in the morning.
Emergency rooms today are basically rows of beds separated by thin curtains draped from the ceiling. The bed next to ours is unoccupied, so I draw back the separating curtain and sit on the edge, looking at the woman I have brought here. Her eyelids are half closed, her eyes rolled back. She could be sleeping, could just be unresponsive.
There is an old man in the bed behind us. Bed 3, room 140. I have no idea what his name might be. He has not been quiet for a moment since we arrived. Why won't you help me, he is saying now. His voice is tinged with either pain or frustration. A tired-looking resident fixes his nametag -- Louis, it says in neat black print -- and gets up to attend to him.
I want to sit up, says the old man in Bed 3. I can see his mottled feet peeking out past the edge of the curtain. Have you called my cousin yet? Louis catches me watching this sad scene and smiles wanly at me. Sir, you can't sit up any more, Louis explains. This is the highest the bed will go.
Where did the nurse go, asks the man in Bed 3. I've turned back around now, facing my relative's bed. She was supposed to call my cousin. His name is Robert Johns. He lives in Pasadena. He is supposed to come and get me. Pasadena is more than two hours drive away, I think to myself. Louis is not making eye contact with either of us.
I remember something a grinning young tour guide told me a few months ago, making fun of the a guidebook we'd brought with us. Never trust a man with two Christian names.
We're doing our best, Louis says to the old man, walking past me. He turns back to the old man. The nurse will be back soon, he says reassuringly. It is late now, around one in the morning.
Thursday, November 5, 2009
burn baby burn
Here is a short portrait of myself. It is three o'clock on a Saturday afternoon, and I am slumped against the side of my bed, staring at a blank white wall. I have been sitting here for half an hour. A voice somewhere within says listen to me, and closely. Ben, someday soon you will die. You are running out of time. What is forty years, or fifty, or a hundred? Ben, you are going to die.
I know that already. Out of all the things passing and gone and lost in my life, this knowledge is the single constant.
Run, child, run. Live while you are alive.
But what am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to become?
Silence. The voices are all mine, anyways. There's a God somewhere out there, I think, but he's seldom so morbid. This constant restlessness, undirected urgency -- is this what it feels like to be alive and mortal? Twenty years in, maybe a third of the way into my productive years. I should have this figured out by now, but I don't. Twenty years training for some unknown purpose, or even worse, getting so flabby and undisciplined that even when I find it, I'll trip and fall on my way out the door. I have to find it soon. I'm running out of time.
I am imago dei -- made in the image of the eternal God -- but even so: we only live once.
So I'm drawn to the passion of others like... oh, I don't know. Like moth to flame, to use the cliche that leaps immediately to mind. I don't know what the moths have to do with anything, but the flame -- oh, flame. Flickering orange and amber and red, raging against the dark, dancing in the fatal wind. I want to burn brightly. Everyone dies, everyone is forgotten. There are seven billion of us on Earth, and beyond that only infinite darkness. How could it be otherwise? We struggle and love and fight and win or lose, we will die. But before that, some of us will be incandescent.
I know that already. Out of all the things passing and gone and lost in my life, this knowledge is the single constant.
Run, child, run. Live while you are alive.
But what am I supposed to do? Who am I supposed to become?
Silence. The voices are all mine, anyways. There's a God somewhere out there, I think, but he's seldom so morbid. This constant restlessness, undirected urgency -- is this what it feels like to be alive and mortal? Twenty years in, maybe a third of the way into my productive years. I should have this figured out by now, but I don't. Twenty years training for some unknown purpose, or even worse, getting so flabby and undisciplined that even when I find it, I'll trip and fall on my way out the door. I have to find it soon. I'm running out of time.
I am imago dei -- made in the image of the eternal God -- but even so: we only live once.
So I'm drawn to the passion of others like... oh, I don't know. Like moth to flame, to use the cliche that leaps immediately to mind. I don't know what the moths have to do with anything, but the flame -- oh, flame. Flickering orange and amber and red, raging against the dark, dancing in the fatal wind. I want to burn brightly. Everyone dies, everyone is forgotten. There are seven billion of us on Earth, and beyond that only infinite darkness. How could it be otherwise? We struggle and love and fight and win or lose, we will die. But before that, some of us will be incandescent.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
untitled
From time to time, I run into an old friend of mine who we'll call B. (I've decided to truncate the names of the people I write about; I'll get to that later.) B is maybe the fifth or sixth smartest person I know, and probably around second on the list of most squandered potential.
The last time I saw him, I was staying in his spare bedroom for a night while traveling from the south of Taiwan up to Taipei. He's teaching English to some high-schoolers there. B graduated from my alma mater half a decade ago, major in Biology and minor in music. He was running a record label for awhile, back where I grew up, but something went south with some of his artists and maybe a girl of his. I don't really know. As far as I can tell, every arc of my friend's life starts with a few months of blood and sweat and overcoming our doubts and just really believing, and ends with some girl leaving. I'm not sure how he ended up in Taiwan, and I don't think he is, either. I think he went there for a summer to recover from a year's worth of depression, and accidentally started up a successful tutoring business. That's just the kind of guy he is.
Anyways, I asked him about this just before I went to bed. Mainly I was asking, when are you going to stop dicking around with all this and get back to the music and the friends and the city you love? but dressed up with some softer edges and kinder words. B was an inspiration to me when I was growing up, and we're always harshest to our heroes.
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe when I find God again, or maybe a girl. It's sad, how a girl is just about the only thing that can change a guy." He thought about this for a bit. "Money is a third, " he said, "but usually not for the better."
So that's why I'm writing again, by the way, because I met a girl the other day and we agreed that we would do this. Every other day, and did we say for a month? Or until we can get back to the things we love.
The last time I saw him, I was staying in his spare bedroom for a night while traveling from the south of Taiwan up to Taipei. He's teaching English to some high-schoolers there. B graduated from my alma mater half a decade ago, major in Biology and minor in music. He was running a record label for awhile, back where I grew up, but something went south with some of his artists and maybe a girl of his. I don't really know. As far as I can tell, every arc of my friend's life starts with a few months of blood and sweat and overcoming our doubts and just really believing, and ends with some girl leaving. I'm not sure how he ended up in Taiwan, and I don't think he is, either. I think he went there for a summer to recover from a year's worth of depression, and accidentally started up a successful tutoring business. That's just the kind of guy he is.
Anyways, I asked him about this just before I went to bed. Mainly I was asking, when are you going to stop dicking around with all this and get back to the music and the friends and the city you love? but dressed up with some softer edges and kinder words. B was an inspiration to me when I was growing up, and we're always harshest to our heroes.
"I don't know," he said. "Maybe when I find God again, or maybe a girl. It's sad, how a girl is just about the only thing that can change a guy." He thought about this for a bit. "Money is a third, " he said, "but usually not for the better."
So that's why I'm writing again, by the way, because I met a girl the other day and we agreed that we would do this. Every other day, and did we say for a month? Or until we can get back to the things we love.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
fragment
The first time that he saw her, a gust of wind rolled a crumpled newpaper through the crosswalk between them and scattered a nearby flock of pigeons into flight. The setting sun flashed behind her, blazing her silhouette, blinding. Like a showdown in an old Western, he thought later, or maybe the final battle in some Hong Kong kung-fu import. That was the kind of love they had.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
notes (topic: a familar place)
I wish for a place with gray hallways and long wooden shelves. On the shelves there are picture frames, some empty. There is a picture of a young ballerina in a pink tutu. She is my sister at six, before she turned suicidal. Scattered among the frames are possessions lost and broken years ago: a metal necklace strung with hard blue cord, a letter from a friend before she moved to New Delhi. An unredeemed ticket for Spiderman 2 at the Route 4 cineplex, where I waited in the rain for a girl who didn't come. A ticket stub for Black Hawk Down, when I waited for one who did.
This is a place I dreamed of once, a few years ago.
This is a place I dreamed of once, a few years ago.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)