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.
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