My car’s headlights pierce twin tunnels into the night’s remote darkness, as the rain stabs down, its bright pins glittering towards God’s paved earth. Nothing ahead, but two-lane tarmac interrupted by a white center line, and the promise of heavy weather for hours to come.
Suddenly, the beams sweep a half-naked man, shirtless, running at the side of this country road. As I approach him, I slow down, but he doesn’t look up, he doesn’t pause, he just keeps running---towards or away, it’s impossible to say.
I ease past him, and a half mile later, I glimpse a white Ford empty as an abandoned house readied for demolition, tilted on side of the road. Windows rolled down, rain pouring in, no telling how much has been lost, or just who managed to escape
Moo Orders Milk
Saturday, December 05, 2009
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Bone To Pick
Write it down. Don't worry if it's art. Write it down. Just write it down.
She left. She left again. Walked out. She was always leaving. She WAS her leaving. Her leaving is who she is.
How could he fall in love with someone who wasn't there? It was easy. People do it all the time. They fall in love with people who are absent. They fall in love with people on their way out. It happens every day.
She simply left. Said it was too much to love him. Too intense. Buried alive. Lights on in a small casket. The sound of shovels digging in earth, then the methodical thump of shovelsfull of earth on the casket. The lights on, and the sound of her own breathing. That's what she said. Until the breathing and the methodical thumps of the tossed earth were synchronized. Said she couldn't tell the difference between respiration and burial. Breathing felt like suffocation. Breathing was burial. That's why she was leaving.
Love doesn't matter. Not really. Other things matter. Hunger, honor, saving lives, creating a just world. Those things matter. Not love.
Wished she had stayed one more day, though.
Had one more bone I wanted to pick with her.
She left. She left again. Walked out. She was always leaving. She WAS her leaving. Her leaving is who she is.
How could he fall in love with someone who wasn't there? It was easy. People do it all the time. They fall in love with people who are absent. They fall in love with people on their way out. It happens every day.
She simply left. Said it was too much to love him. Too intense. Buried alive. Lights on in a small casket. The sound of shovels digging in earth, then the methodical thump of shovelsfull of earth on the casket. The lights on, and the sound of her own breathing. That's what she said. Until the breathing and the methodical thumps of the tossed earth were synchronized. Said she couldn't tell the difference between respiration and burial. Breathing felt like suffocation. Breathing was burial. That's why she was leaving.
Love doesn't matter. Not really. Other things matter. Hunger, honor, saving lives, creating a just world. Those things matter. Not love.
Wished she had stayed one more day, though.
Had one more bone I wanted to pick with her.
Monday, November 23, 2009
“SEND”
Yes, it’s true, she’d written the ‘poison pen’ e-mail, but she intended to obey the cardinal rule of e-mail: DON’T’ SEND death threats, confessions, flaming attacks, or love letters for complete strangers, until you WAIT for 24 HOURS and carefully consider all of the consequences, all the ramifications.
ALWAYS WAIT 24 HOURS!
She hated her boss—that arrogant mother @#^%#!, and she had the dirt that she knew would ruin his reputation--- with his employer AND with his wife.
Fuming, she sat at her keyboard and tapped out the most scathing expose a former English major could muster, filled with devastating accusations and undeniable evidence.
She knew he would squirm, he would grovel—she relished the imagined red-in-tooth-and-claw image that paraded across her mind’s eye.
Suddenly the phone rang, startled her like an electrocution, and without a thought, she hit “send.”
ALWAYS WAIT 24 HOURS!
She hated her boss—that arrogant mother @#^%#!, and she had the dirt that she knew would ruin his reputation--- with his employer AND with his wife.
Fuming, she sat at her keyboard and tapped out the most scathing expose a former English major could muster, filled with devastating accusations and undeniable evidence.
She knew he would squirm, he would grovel—she relished the imagined red-in-tooth-and-claw image that paraded across her mind’s eye.
Suddenly the phone rang, startled her like an electrocution, and without a thought, she hit “send.”
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Never Married
Why do we see the world through our eyes only? We are composed of chemicals and water and we’re animated by electrical charges. But why do we have this particular perspective? Why is the body the ground of everything that we know?
Standing there, dressed in his sky blue pajamas, Bob looked down at this feet and slowly began to scan upwards. Legs, abdomen, chest…that’s as far as he could see. He couldn’t see his own face without a mirror.
Maybe this isn’t me after all? Maybe it is another person, and my consciousness has blossomed inside their body? Maybe those aren’t my feet or legs? Maybe that’s not my heart inside this chest?
He became hungry, but now he wasn’t trusting his, or what he thought was his, experience. Nonetheless, he opened the refrigerator and took out a small container of yogurt. Plain yogurt, the color of a white ceiling. He dipped a spoon in, and then raised it to his mouth.
I hate yogurt. But I have eaten yogurt for breakfast now, for 45 years. It’s a habit. Why do I have habits that I don’t even like? Voluntary habit that I don’t like. He paused for a moment and considered that maybe he wasn’t himself, but rather, he was someone else. Someone who liked yogurt.
His wife was gone. She had risen, and left early for a business trip. He had discovered that his bed was empty when he arose. There had been only one body in it. It was his.
I like sleeping alone. I like the way the bed is all mine. Lots of room. No other body to nudge away when I feel crowded. No one else to steal the sheets and leave me in the cold.
He walked back from the kitchen and into the bedroom and sat on the unmade bed. It seemed large, even for a king-sized bed. The sheets strewn about, looked like pale ruts embossed in an impressionable cotton road. He continued to occasionally spoon yogurt into his hungry mouth.
I hate yogurt.
He looked out the bedroom window, which itself looked out on a stand of oaks and maples. The trees were silent and waiting for a change in the weather. They were sleeping. Each tree sleeping alone. Their bark was beautiful skin. Thick and old and rough textured. It was hard to imagine that their skin was theirs, and theirs, only. Who could imagine that the trees belonged only to themselves?
He phoned his wife. But there was no answer.
Funny, he thought, I wonder why I never married?
Standing there, dressed in his sky blue pajamas, Bob looked down at this feet and slowly began to scan upwards. Legs, abdomen, chest…that’s as far as he could see. He couldn’t see his own face without a mirror.
Maybe this isn’t me after all? Maybe it is another person, and my consciousness has blossomed inside their body? Maybe those aren’t my feet or legs? Maybe that’s not my heart inside this chest?
He became hungry, but now he wasn’t trusting his, or what he thought was his, experience. Nonetheless, he opened the refrigerator and took out a small container of yogurt. Plain yogurt, the color of a white ceiling. He dipped a spoon in, and then raised it to his mouth.
I hate yogurt. But I have eaten yogurt for breakfast now, for 45 years. It’s a habit. Why do I have habits that I don’t even like? Voluntary habit that I don’t like. He paused for a moment and considered that maybe he wasn’t himself, but rather, he was someone else. Someone who liked yogurt.
His wife was gone. She had risen, and left early for a business trip. He had discovered that his bed was empty when he arose. There had been only one body in it. It was his.
I like sleeping alone. I like the way the bed is all mine. Lots of room. No other body to nudge away when I feel crowded. No one else to steal the sheets and leave me in the cold.
He walked back from the kitchen and into the bedroom and sat on the unmade bed. It seemed large, even for a king-sized bed. The sheets strewn about, looked like pale ruts embossed in an impressionable cotton road. He continued to occasionally spoon yogurt into his hungry mouth.
I hate yogurt.
He looked out the bedroom window, which itself looked out on a stand of oaks and maples. The trees were silent and waiting for a change in the weather. They were sleeping. Each tree sleeping alone. Their bark was beautiful skin. Thick and old and rough textured. It was hard to imagine that their skin was theirs, and theirs, only. Who could imagine that the trees belonged only to themselves?
He phoned his wife. But there was no answer.
Funny, he thought, I wonder why I never married?
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Bone to Pick
Write it down. Don't worry if it's art. Write it down. Just write it down.
She left. She left again. Walked out. She was always leaving. She WAS her leaving. Her leaving is who she is.
How could he fall in love with someone who wasn't there? It was easy. People do it all the time. They fall in love with people who are absent. They fall in love with people on their way out. It happens every day.
She simply left. Said it was too much to love him. Too intense. Buried alive. Lights on in a small casket. The sound of shovels digging in earth, then the methodical thump of shovelsfull of earth on the casket. The lights on, and the sound of her own breathing. That's what she said. Until the breathing and the methodical thumps of the tossed earth were synchronized. Said she couldn't tell the difference between respiration and burial. Breathing felt like suffocation. Breathing was burial. That's why she was leaving.
Love doesn't matter. Not really. Other things matter. Hunger, honor, saving lives, creating a just world. Those things matter. Not love.
Wished she had stayed one more day, though.
Had one more bone I wanted to pick with her.
She left. She left again. Walked out. She was always leaving. She WAS her leaving. Her leaving is who she is.
How could he fall in love with someone who wasn't there? It was easy. People do it all the time. They fall in love with people who are absent. They fall in love with people on their way out. It happens every day.
She simply left. Said it was too much to love him. Too intense. Buried alive. Lights on in a small casket. The sound of shovels digging in earth, then the methodical thump of shovelsfull of earth on the casket. The lights on, and the sound of her own breathing. That's what she said. Until the breathing and the methodical thumps of the tossed earth were synchronized. Said she couldn't tell the difference between respiration and burial. Breathing felt like suffocation. Breathing was burial. That's why she was leaving.
Love doesn't matter. Not really. Other things matter. Hunger, honor, saving lives, creating a just world. Those things matter. Not love.
Wished she had stayed one more day, though.
Had one more bone I wanted to pick with her.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Almost Lucky
From the 13th floor window of the Beverly Wilshire hotel, he watched as the late afternoon smog settled over LA, like clay-white concrete; air so thick it was impossible to imagine that it wouldn’t crush the hearts of everyone caught beneath its mass. Why, he wondered, do we learn the most from the things we shouldn’t do?
Turning now, from the window, and surveying the graying room, he could see that she looked so beautiful as she lie there, asleep, her breathing nearly undetectable, skin white and gleaming, delicate porcelain. That tiny scar neatly drawn across her right wrist, like a seam on a doll’s arm, should have been a clue.
How had he managed to find a woman who was as elegantly damaged as she? Throughout his entire life, he'd always been almost lucky.
Turning now, from the window, and surveying the graying room, he could see that she looked so beautiful as she lie there, asleep, her breathing nearly undetectable, skin white and gleaming, delicate porcelain. That tiny scar neatly drawn across her right wrist, like a seam on a doll’s arm, should have been a clue.
How had he managed to find a woman who was as elegantly damaged as she? Throughout his entire life, he'd always been almost lucky.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Identity Earthquake In Time
I am an old guy, right? Yes. I am an old guy. Who would have ever thought that I would get to the point where I would say that I'm and old guy? Not this old old guy. At least not until recently. So, anyway, today I was trying to remember what I was like in high school. (Calvin Trillin once wrote something about we are always the same people we were in high school. What and awful thought Calvin! Cruel and awful.) So there I am today, minding my own business and cogitating, or maybe "contemplating" about who I was, or who I used to be, in high school. But then I thought, I don't have the foggiest idea of who I am now, so how am I going to remember who I was then?' (This identity thing is harder than I had hoped it would be.) Jeez, how am ever going to remember who I was? I went to high school in another century. Yes, another century. Thank God it was a contiguous century with this one, and not a century so far away in time that it isn't even part of the continent of this century. That would be like Hawaii's relationship to the U.S. mainland. If Hawaii was the nineteenth century, it would be an island, and there would be an ocean between it and now--a kind of Pacific Ocean of time. The 20th century. No, the century in which I went to high school is more like California. It's loosely configured, but at least it is attached to the mainland. Loosely attached. I went to school in California at a time that was loosely connected to this century, but only very loosely. It was a long time ago. And there was a fault line running through it.
I remember the earthquake like it was yesterday. Only it wasn't exactly yesterday. It was when I was in high school. Which, I can assure you, wasn't yesterday. The buildings shook and shimmied, and everyone said "Oh oh, this is the BIG ONE." And for all they knew at the time, it WAS the big one. Only it wasn't. It wasn't the BIG ONE. Because I am here to tell you that it wasn't the BIG ONE. But it WAS a long time ago. I went to high school in California. In another century. I wish I could remember who I was then. But I can't. I hope I was brave. I like to think I was. I like to think I wasn't afraid of earthquakes or time. I like to think I was young and fearless. And handsome. Yes, handsome. I like to think that, because it makes me fell better about being old and ummmm, a little less than handsome, now. And no longer brave. Yes, I'm sure back then, I was young and fearless and handsome. Even if it was a long time ago.
I wish I could remember who I was then.
And now.
I remember the earthquake like it was yesterday. Only it wasn't exactly yesterday. It was when I was in high school. Which, I can assure you, wasn't yesterday. The buildings shook and shimmied, and everyone said "Oh oh, this is the BIG ONE." And for all they knew at the time, it WAS the big one. Only it wasn't. It wasn't the BIG ONE. Because I am here to tell you that it wasn't the BIG ONE. But it WAS a long time ago. I went to high school in California. In another century. I wish I could remember who I was then. But I can't. I hope I was brave. I like to think I was. I like to think I wasn't afraid of earthquakes or time. I like to think I was young and fearless. And handsome. Yes, handsome. I like to think that, because it makes me fell better about being old and ummmm, a little less than handsome, now. And no longer brave. Yes, I'm sure back then, I was young and fearless and handsome. Even if it was a long time ago.
I wish I could remember who I was then.
And now.
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