When we heard the diagnosis, I remember thinking “well, that’s what you get when you’ve smoked for fifty years,” a viewpoint that was unfortunately and, somewhat horrifically, echoed by my father. Theirs was a strained relationship, so while Dad was dealing with the understanding that a significant part of his life was in great peril, I was dealing with the all-knowing adolescence within me. Or perhaps it was merely a front, a way to push the loss away. Though, having seen my grandfather maybe one week out of every year, I can’t say I felt much anyway.
I do remember things, now and again. Most often through those items of his that are now in my possession. I remember playing games. Cribbage, which he taught my brother and I. Rummy. Trouble. The game doesn’t matter so terribly much. What does matter, what strikes me during these moments of reflection, is the steady breathing with which my grandfather attended his every move, his every play. In one of the creation stories from Genesis, God breathed life into the lifeless clay and formed Adam and Eve. That was the breath of my grandfather. I sometimes wonder if it was the cancer breathing or if it was just him, but his ghostly yet comfortably even breath chilled me. I would revel in his respiration. The mental gears working, the coming to conclusion, the acting out of a maneuver—all of these were revealed in that steady breath. Seeing and hearing the unspoken genius of my bloodline at work, I marveled at it.
It is interesting to me that the two things I remember most of my grandfather are those so diametrically opposed to one another—the breathing to the maintenance of life, and the cancer to its detriment. When my grandfather died we flew down for the funeral. He was placed in the veteran’s memorial. I don’t remember where it is. But I do remember the ten gun salute, the roses we laid on the casket, and my uncle breaking down in tears.
A year later, when my grandmother had finished going through his possessions, we returned via station wagon to collect those items which were “up for grabs,” so to speak. I vaguely remember some of the things I took, or was given—two white shirts, one with a bald eagle reading “Freedom is not Free.” Another with a western landscape, and “Running Strong for American Indian Youth.” (Wrapped in their original plastic, they were little more than freebies, even to him, but I took them anyway). A machete with “1945 U.S.” stamped into the blade. A metal wall cross. Some old tools. A red handkerchief. Most importantly though, to my fourteen year old self as well as to me now: a short sleeved army relief, with a “LUND” name patch above the right breast pocket.
Given my age at the time and my compatibility with the typical action-starved-teenager role, this jacket was the ultimate method of breaking through to that alternative action world. I wanted to wear it everywhere—at home, at school, on the bus. Without regard to my grandfather, I aimed to use the jacket as a means to an experience.
My parents had other plans—I could hang it up in my closet, and be content just knowing it was there. The reasoning was sound, if a little outdated. My mom thought that the crazies might take a shot at me, out of some misguided anti-Americanism. My grandmother thought it would be disrespectful, to the point that she invoked my grandfather’s will as well. My father didn’t say anything, but I could see that he agreed. My father doesn’t stay silent if he disagrees.
---
As time has gone on, I’ve realized that the jacket and the LUND patch on it represent more of a shared history than a personal one. In its time of use, it referred specifically to Andrew Christoffer Lund, military Seargeant in Vietnam and Korea. As a relief, it was used in the time of peace between conflicts, or for times away from combat in the military camps. I can’t be certain of its exact origins, but that I can be fairly sure of.
Now, in my possession, it does not have the immediacy of military context. That takes a backseat to the familial connections it allows. Certainly, my grandfather was doing great things while in the possession of the jacket. And I can’t help but try and take up that mantle, to be my very best if for nothing else than for my ancestry, to whom I owe my existence.
---
I didn’t know my grandfather long enough or well enough to know what he thought of me. Did he harbor expectations? Resentments? Which if any of my pursuits would he approve?
I approach these questions with a social curiosity expected of my generation. We swim through the waters of our world always asking, always probing—what does she think of me? What about him? In my case it is almost universally a search for approval. Acknowledgment. Maybe even acceptance. We exist in the eyes of others.
But in the case of my grandfather, who I never knew, the question leaves a different taste in my mouth. A funny one. So when my family told me, unanimously no less, to hang it away, the hole I felt inside was more than the superficial action-seeker undercut by paternal reason. It had more to do with the fact that I had finally found a way to share a space with my grandfather. To get inside his skin, or carry him with me, or whatever. Regardless, the relief jacket was and is my closest link to him.
Genetically, I am 25% Andrew Christoffer Lund, and 50% Andrew Christoffer Lund Jr. The same is true of my brother, Andrew Christoffer Lund III. I mention this because, aside from being the second child, the younger brother, I am also the one who does not bear my grandfather’s name. But I believe that he is watching me with, at the least, some curiosity. I believe that other ancestors, even more distant, are lining up to get a seat.
So at night when I go to bed, regardless of their characters, I give a wave and a bow to the multitude of my past that is forever cheering me on. It’s a give and take: I keep them alive—they keep me honest.
And in my darker times I put it on, the jacket, and let my military history well up within me. It is a history of power: the power of my grandfather, the power, though often questionable, of the US government. It is the power of breath, the weight of death, and the promise of life rolled into one.
Friday, December 25, 2009
As for Why I Use an Ekans
I think I owe the Waichowsky brothers a good deal of money for their movie Speed Racer. Not that I pirated it or anything—just that I never saw it in theatres and, well, I’ve watched the DVD more times than a DVD probably should be watched. I like to keep some sort of track of how often I’ve seen my favorite films. For the shock value, I guess, when I tell my friends. It’s not as if I sit around all day and watch movies though. It’s just that I, instead of going to theatres, renting other movies, or buying new ones, am often quite content to see the same four or five films over and over again.
I’ve seen Serenity over twenty times (my estimate is twenty-one), Batman Begins around fifteen, and Speed Racer, well, I must be nearing fifteen with that film as well.
There’s a common theme here. Take Serenity: space cowboy Malcolm Reynolds, while harboring fugitives from the oppressive Alliance, stumbles on a truth so earthshattering that it threatens to topple the entire regime. He—although a bandit, smuggler, and thief by day—risks life, limb, and crew in the service of broadcasting this revelation. At any time he could have sold out Simon and River, the two fugitives, but he does not. In the face of all that feels right, he does instead what is right. (Not to moralize the film for you. The film does that for itself.) Batman Begins is the story of vigilante justice, as is Speed Racer to some degree. They’re all about overcoming. Perseverance. Integrity.
Lofty words that operate on a much smaller scale here in the real world.
---
Me: you know, I've still never been to a college party
I’ve seen Serenity over twenty times (my estimate is twenty-one), Batman Begins around fifteen, and Speed Racer, well, I must be nearing fifteen with that film as well.
There’s a common theme here. Take Serenity: space cowboy Malcolm Reynolds, while harboring fugitives from the oppressive Alliance, stumbles on a truth so earthshattering that it threatens to topple the entire regime. He—although a bandit, smuggler, and thief by day—risks life, limb, and crew in the service of broadcasting this revelation. At any time he could have sold out Simon and River, the two fugitives, but he does not. In the face of all that feels right, he does instead what is right. (Not to moralize the film for you. The film does that for itself.) Batman Begins is the story of vigilante justice, as is Speed Racer to some degree. They’re all about overcoming. Perseverance. Integrity.
Lofty words that operate on a much smaller scale here in the real world.
---
Me: you know, I've still never been to a college party
John: heh, you're gonna haveta fix that someday
it's something one should experience, even if one doesn't enjoy it
it's something one should experience, even if one doesn't enjoy it
Me: wtf are you saying
John: what I mean? (and meaning what I say?)
Me: I don't understand
wait, do poker parties count?
there was on occasion loud music and alcohol
wait, do poker parties count?
there was on occasion loud music and alcohol
John: >_>
Me: what do you want/expect from me?
John: dancing, alcohol, girls
poker is allowed if you have to drink after losing a hand
poker is allowed if you have to drink after losing a hand
Me: but the only drink I like is whisky
and nobody keeps that laying around
and nobody keeps that laying around
John: haha, you're like an old english gentleman
don't get me wrong, beer sucks ass. Don't think I'll ever enjoy that drink.
don't get me wrong, beer sucks ass. Don't think I'll ever enjoy that drink.
Me: anyway, I'm in no position to even be invited to parties
I have no community through which I might access such things
I have no community through which I might access such things
John: you'd be surprised
Me: and all this before the consideration of whether or not I'd want to
John: yup
simply acknowledging the possibility
simply acknowledging the possibility
Me: I find possibility to be irrelevant of late
John: of late?
Me: yeah
I am here
stuff is there:
irrelevant
I am here
stuff is there:
irrelevant
John: huh?
Me: I have enough to worry about without chasing the shadows of ghosts of constructs that I’m not interested in to start with
John: ghosts? Constructs? Dude, I know you're a creative writing major but seriously?
Me: I'm speaking about the relativity of existence
---
At its heart, Speed Racer is a movie about three things; doing what you love, doing what’s right, and never giving up. Bright colors, quirky editing, and dramatic lighting, in defiance of convention, come standard.
---
When I was younger, I wanted to be a computer programmer. To my child’s mind, it sounded like the ultimate job—computers were at that time already integral components of pretty much everything, so the job market would be easy to slide into. Plus, I was pretty sure that programming computers paid well.
I wrote an exploratory paper about the work of a programmer in a paper for my eighth grade English paper. I discovered why computer programmers are paid so well. Their job is boring and tedious, and I would never make it.
Mr. Jones introduced me, effectively, to the world of science. Seemingly more amenable than computer programming, it held my interest until the first quarter of college, where a difficult calculus class showed me that I would never be happy there either.
---
John: I'm still a bit confused as to your reasons. You want to experience college, yeah?
Me: beats me
what's college?
John: good question
only one way to find out though
and it's not second hand
Me: that's a fallacy
x exists
let's experience x, it must be fun
John: yeah, I know, I know
how about this then, writers draw from experience
Me: but not specific experience
John: nope
Me: if that were the case, all writing would be the same
would you like me to write a vampire novel too?
John: YES!
Me: why would I write about something I have nothing to say about?
John: oh, vampires are simply an embellishment of many human things
lust, sin, using people
...bats
all of which can be found at any good party =P
Me: but they are not the only embellishment of human things
they are only one
John: but you're avoiding my main point
Me: you're discarding my retort
John: I mean, if you honestly don't want the experience, far be it from me to say you should have it
Me: what is the experience? I'm not trying to be existential
i mean, let's define what I'm passing up on
John: why, the quintessential college party!
Me: what is it?
beyond names
beyond categories
what am I missing out on?
John: hard to say in words
---
Sometimes when I fantasize about having children, I wonder if it’s not just because I want to be around people who understand me.
---
In biblical times, the transformation from boy to man took place quickly, culminating in five quick social steps that facilitated the transformation. In modern times, capitalist media has encouraged if not created a stage of life in between—we call this stage adolescence. In it, we have been convinced that we are defined (passive voice) by what we consume as opposed to what we produce. I consume the heroes of movies and produce none of my own heroics.
But at the same time, I consume food and produce something decidedly less than foodlike.
---
Me: dude, fuck zubat, seriously
John: fuckin' zubat.
can't do shit
Me: tell that to my ekans
he's the one getting destroyed by a zubat less than half his level
Christ
John: why would you use an ekans?
Me: for fun
John: even arbok isn't so good
Me: you'd never guess it but using unconvential pokemon makes the game much more interesting
John: I see
---
At its heart, Speed Racer is a movie about three things; doing what you love, doing what’s right, and never giving up. Bright colors, quirky editing, and dramatic lighting, in defiance of convention, come standard.
---
When I was younger, I wanted to be a computer programmer. To my child’s mind, it sounded like the ultimate job—computers were at that time already integral components of pretty much everything, so the job market would be easy to slide into. Plus, I was pretty sure that programming computers paid well.
I wrote an exploratory paper about the work of a programmer in a paper for my eighth grade English paper. I discovered why computer programmers are paid so well. Their job is boring and tedious, and I would never make it.
Mr. Jones introduced me, effectively, to the world of science. Seemingly more amenable than computer programming, it held my interest until the first quarter of college, where a difficult calculus class showed me that I would never be happy there either.
---
John: I'm still a bit confused as to your reasons. You want to experience college, yeah?
Me: beats me
what's college?
John: good question
only one way to find out though
and it's not second hand
Me: that's a fallacy
x exists
let's experience x, it must be fun
John: yeah, I know, I know
how about this then, writers draw from experience
Me: but not specific experience
John: nope
Me: if that were the case, all writing would be the same
would you like me to write a vampire novel too?
John: YES!
Me: why would I write about something I have nothing to say about?
John: oh, vampires are simply an embellishment of many human things
lust, sin, using people
...bats
all of which can be found at any good party =P
Me: but they are not the only embellishment of human things
they are only one
John: but you're avoiding my main point
Me: you're discarding my retort
John: I mean, if you honestly don't want the experience, far be it from me to say you should have it
Me: what is the experience? I'm not trying to be existential
i mean, let's define what I'm passing up on
John: why, the quintessential college party!
Me: what is it?
beyond names
beyond categories
what am I missing out on?
John: hard to say in words
---
Sometimes when I fantasize about having children, I wonder if it’s not just because I want to be around people who understand me.
---
In biblical times, the transformation from boy to man took place quickly, culminating in five quick social steps that facilitated the transformation. In modern times, capitalist media has encouraged if not created a stage of life in between—we call this stage adolescence. In it, we have been convinced that we are defined (passive voice) by what we consume as opposed to what we produce. I consume the heroes of movies and produce none of my own heroics.
But at the same time, I consume food and produce something decidedly less than foodlike.
---
Me: dude, fuck zubat, seriously
John: fuckin' zubat.
can't do shit
Me: tell that to my ekans
he's the one getting destroyed by a zubat less than half his level
Christ
John: why would you use an ekans?
Me: for fun
John: even arbok isn't so good
Me: you'd never guess it but using unconvential pokemon makes the game much more interesting
John: I see
...If My Brother Goes Before Me
As I write this, my brother is quite well. It is 10:45 in the morning, so he’s almost certainly at his work desk, drafting some building details. Maybe he’d rather be home, working on the flooring in the living room, or cutting back the excess fireplace stone, or setting up the kitchen.
Yes, my brother is well. He has, at the age of 23, secured a steady (and well paying) job, he has (in concert with my father) purchased his first home, and he has established the beginnings of a family.
Never more than a week ago, when he told me that back home, my cat was dying. Or sick, or something. They weren’t sure what was happening. Maybe it was just age, or maybe that growth on his back had been less than benign. In either case, he had stopped eating, and his balance was off. I took the news pretty well, I think, texting my roommate immediately. He had lost a family dog a few years earlier, so he could sympathize. In any case, I needed someone else to know. And when that wasn’t enough, I texted my ex-girlfriend, thinking that maybe she would have something valuable to say. I guess in the face of death, I needed to feel alive, something I do best in communion with others.
I had to stop for a while, to really consider what my pet actually meant to me. He was an integral part of my young life. That’s the way of pets and children, I suppose. But if I let this get to me, if I let the death of a pet bring me to the bigger questions, would I be considered overreacting? If I didn’t, would I be considered cold? In essence, I felt what I did and it doesn’t matter what I would be considered as.
He called again a few days ago, from my parents’ house to let me know that my cat was eating—still a little off balance, but eating. I hope this means that he was merely sick, is now better, and will be around for a few years yet. Granted, his age in concert with the average lifespan of a cat makes this less than likely. And at this point in my life, the death of my cat, though small and insignificant to some, would in fact be the death closest to home. That’s the double-edged sword of living apart from extended family. Little or no experience with death means little if any sorrow at the passing of family.
But if death is inevitable, then this is not a protective shield—it is a delay. And if my brother is my closest family member, how strongly will I feel his loss when it comes? If my brother goes before me, I intend to have a good deal to say about his effects in my life—of what he has taught me, and how he has loved. Two sides of the same coin, cut from the same stone. Because in the end, we’re a little bit of every cliché.
-To the memory of my brother, should I outlive him.
Yes, my brother is well. He has, at the age of 23, secured a steady (and well paying) job, he has (in concert with my father) purchased his first home, and he has established the beginnings of a family.
In a church service I attended last night, the pastor mentioned how in ancient times a man went through five quick transitional steps in order to facilitate the transition from boy to man. It’s funny to think of these five steps as they relate to my brother. In a short span of time, he knocked out four out of five of them—move out, finish vocational education, get a stable job, and start a family. The fifth and only step he has yet to take, according to ancient custom, is to have children.
And as I think about his influence in my own life, it is amazing how these responsibilities of his have changed him in my own eyes. I don’t know how I thought of my brother before all of this happened, but I know how I think of him now—one of the strongest and most dependable role models in my life. His every action is an inspiration. He picked up his goals in life and did work, so to speak.
This isn’t to say that he’s perfect by any means. Of the two of us, he is surely the one lacking in the general effectiveness of communication. Growing up with him, and my parents as well, was at times a nightmare. And I was the mediator of these communicational horrors.
We enjoy each other’s company now, my brother and I, something you’d never have believed in seeing us grow up. I remember screaming at the top of my lungs. Get out of my room! I hate you! Why won’t you just leave me alone? But he was as stubborn as I was (if not more) and the rages that I descended into would only fuel the fires of his rebellion. At last, when primal screams were my only remaining channel for expression, bringing the attention of my parents with ambulance speed; was anyone hurt? What was going on? Then, realizing the nature of the dispute (whatever it was) we would be told to get along, that they could hear me screaming from the street.
---
My brother doesn’t call all that often. Even so, he is without a doubt the second most frequent of those on my call list. What he would never admit to, what neither of us would admit to, was that since I had moved out, up to the big world of Seattle, we had missed each other as kindred souls. His wife of a few months will tease him a bit, trying to expose me as his one soft spot. He has the heart to call me anyway, to let simple questions dissolve into conversations and catching up. Most often, he’s calling to invite me to a movie with his friends (which, let’s be honest, are my friends by now too) though I frequently decline due to prior obligations (work, mostly). If for nothing else than to talk for a bit, though, I’ve always appreciated the gesture.
Never more than a week ago, when he told me that back home, my cat was dying. Or sick, or something. They weren’t sure what was happening. Maybe it was just age, or maybe that growth on his back had been less than benign. In either case, he had stopped eating, and his balance was off. I took the news pretty well, I think, texting my roommate immediately. He had lost a family dog a few years earlier, so he could sympathize. In any case, I needed someone else to know. And when that wasn’t enough, I texted my ex-girlfriend, thinking that maybe she would have something valuable to say. I guess in the face of death, I needed to feel alive, something I do best in communion with others.
I had to stop for a while, to really consider what my pet actually meant to me. He was an integral part of my young life. That’s the way of pets and children, I suppose. But if I let this get to me, if I let the death of a pet bring me to the bigger questions, would I be considered overreacting? If I didn’t, would I be considered cold? In essence, I felt what I did and it doesn’t matter what I would be considered as.
He called again a few days ago, from my parents’ house to let me know that my cat was eating—still a little off balance, but eating. I hope this means that he was merely sick, is now better, and will be around for a few years yet. Granted, his age in concert with the average lifespan of a cat makes this less than likely. And at this point in my life, the death of my cat, though small and insignificant to some, would in fact be the death closest to home. That’s the double-edged sword of living apart from extended family. Little or no experience with death means little if any sorrow at the passing of family.
But if death is inevitable, then this is not a protective shield—it is a delay. And if my brother is my closest family member, how strongly will I feel his loss when it comes? If my brother goes before me, I intend to have a good deal to say about his effects in my life—of what he has taught me, and how he has loved. Two sides of the same coin, cut from the same stone. Because in the end, we’re a little bit of every cliché.
-To the memory of my brother, should I outlive him.
Worthy of Prestige
I’m sitting in church (standing, actually), singing along with the music, searching out the harmonies—the tenor line, the bass. I’m not so involved that my eyes are closed, not so emphatic that my hands are waving in the air like so many others, but I am engaged enough, at least with the music, to face the temptation to burst into full out air-guitar. I think most would agree it’s not something you see a lot of people doing. In church. During worship.
I take evasive maneuvers.
Hands are pocketed. Would-be strumming movements are redirected to a shifting of body weight from the left to the right (which is somehow more acceptable). And in an effort to keep from getting too involved, I make my place in the world by bobbing along like everyone else in a subtle form of dance sanctioned in Chalcedon, 451 AD.
If anything, I’m disappointed in myself for my low ambitions; to be unable to express my love of God (or life, or walking down the street in the rain, or anything worth loving) in a form that I enjoy. What that matters in the end is that I’ve sold out. I’ve gone another week with the bobbing and pretending and there’s no going back, it seems.
But if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then air guitar is worship. It’s one of those things that I have a covert passion for—not on the surface, not completely understood, though it’s likely as simple as a reaching out for celebrity.
I feel compelled to strum along whenever I can. 7 7 5 5 4 4 … 6^ 6 4. This song is in drop D tuning, but that’s the other thing about air guitar. It’s always in tune.
I want to reassure you by saying that yes, I do play the guitar. The real guitar. And to tell you that people who play a real guitar are in a somewhat better position to play a less real one. But that rings defensively, even to me, as if I must defend the practice of air guitar, when really I think the merits speak for themselves.
It would be fair to say that if air guitarring has a bad name, it only has itself to blame. Much of this can be attributed to the searching out of “good” air guitarists, through contests and championships and the like. As if air guitarring is A) a measureable skill and B) worthy of prestige.
I take evasive maneuvers.
Hands are pocketed. Would-be strumming movements are redirected to a shifting of body weight from the left to the right (which is somehow more acceptable). And in an effort to keep from getting too involved, I make my place in the world by bobbing along like everyone else in a subtle form of dance sanctioned in Chalcedon, 451 AD.
If anything, I’m disappointed in myself for my low ambitions; to be unable to express my love of God (or life, or walking down the street in the rain, or anything worth loving) in a form that I enjoy. What that matters in the end is that I’ve sold out. I’ve gone another week with the bobbing and pretending and there’s no going back, it seems.
But if imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then air guitar is worship. It’s one of those things that I have a covert passion for—not on the surface, not completely understood, though it’s likely as simple as a reaching out for celebrity.
---
I feel compelled to strum along whenever I can. 7 7 5 5 4 4 … 6^ 6 4. This song is in drop D tuning, but that’s the other thing about air guitar. It’s always in tune.
I want to reassure you by saying that yes, I do play the guitar. The real guitar. And to tell you that people who play a real guitar are in a somewhat better position to play a less real one. But that rings defensively, even to me, as if I must defend the practice of air guitar, when really I think the merits speak for themselves.
By merits I mean the actual enhancement of listening. Proper air guitarring is preceded by a close listening, wherein you hear all the parts you didn’t know were there before. It’s that “whoa” moment, when you realize that the rhythm guitar’s been arpegioing in the background the whole time, and even though you’ve heard the song a million times there’s something new about it.
A complicated rhythm is like a puzzle—where to palm mute? Where to strum? With some experience in guitar, I can echo familiar parts even if I have no idea exactly what notes are being played. It’s “oh, I see, this bit here is not so unlike the verse in ‘My Poor Brain,’” followed by an adaptable riff that is, most importantly, consistent. These points of reference provide valuable context to the eventual—and now more or less accurate—air guitar performance.
---
It would be fair to say that if air guitarring has a bad name, it only has itself to blame. Much of this can be attributed to the searching out of “good” air guitarists, through contests and championships and the like. As if air guitarring is A) a measureable skill and B) worthy of prestige.
Ochi Dainoji, the world champion from Japan, manages to imbue a lot of energy into his performance, and I might be impressed if it wasn’t just that—a performance. He goes through all of the motions of a successful rock and roll superstar, strapping the guitar over his shoulders, doing sound checks for a soundless instrument, talking to air managers off stage. It’s an impressive mime show. He even holds the guitar at the proper angles. But what he doesn’t have is any semblance of emotion for the music. Instead of the song, his performance is his god.
Because of this you see over exaggerations; windmill strumming made famous by Presley used to play a song by The Offspring at ten times a Blues tempo. Anachronism at its finest. And what better way to end an air guitar performance than to smash your air guitar on stage?
Maybe it’s just the bands I follow, or specifically the music I listen to that dictates “realistic” guitar playing, but I haven’t seen a musician seriously jump into the air, legs flying wide, while strumming rapid fire power chords in, well, ever. Kickdowns aside, my musical heroes keep their feet on the ground. But what do I know—I’m neither a rock star or an air guitar world champion.
Now, I’m not one to advocate too strongly that we lay aside our good humor and our search for fun in new and creative ways, but national air guitar tournaments seem a bit contrived. And maybe I don’t get it because I actually play the guitar. Because a lot of the time when I’m air guitarring it’s to a song that I can actually play, so when I move from fret to fret and strum to specific rhythm, it actually looks like I know what I’m doing instead of putting on a show. Maybe that’s why I can do it in public, shamelessly. Or at least, less shamefully. Regardless, even I have to agree that air guitar is not the best way to participate in church music.
The phenomena may be, as I’ve said, a reach for celebrity. A way to identify with our musical heroes. And when you get down to it, when I’m standing at a bus station with my headphones in, strumming away, I’m not doing it so that you’ll give me any attention. I’m not hoping that you’ll toss me a sideways glance and evaluate my technical prowess (if there’s any to be had). I’m doing it because deep down, I know that somewhere out there people are making music. And I want to be out there with them.
The Hand Speaks (adapted from Time and Motion...)
If your hand or your foot causes you to sin, cut it off and throw it away. It is better for you to enter life maimed or crippled than to have two hands or two feet and be thrown into eternal fire.
-Matthew 18:8
I am fascinated by symbols. In a way, each symbol we appropriate goes a certain distance towards unearthing the "who we are" at any given moment and time. Our tangential velocity, so to speak, at any given time t.
Of course this is merely gesture in a world of such mutability and rapid fire change. Not that the world is this way by any characteristics that it possesses itself. More likely, our non-static way of life owes its existence to our conceptions of time.
We’ve all heard the argument that time is a construct, and not something that inherently exists. When we try to quantify time, we are really only approximating locations. It’s not that we show up to the meeting because the meeting is at 7:00, no--the meeting is at 7:00 because that's when everyone--including Johnson--can occupy that space without causing conflict with other obligations.
In the sense of personal development, though, and because of our mortality, the way we view time is a measurement of personal progression, a way of organizing experience, and discovering information through the lens of cause and effect.
An example: in my younger years, I aspired to become a computer programmer. I thought, computers are fun, they’re hip, and I’ll probably make a lot of money working with them. Then I researched what a computer programmer actually does. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that the task is repulsive in any way. I think I was disillusioned with the idea of playing with code in front of a computer all day long, but I couldn’t tell you for sure.
Something happened in this exchange, and it goes deeper than "it didn't sound interesting anymore." There was a reason that it no longer sounded interesting, a cause to partner with the effect of me bailing on one dream and searching out another. There were components of my identity, symbols of what I was, that could not exist in conjunction with the profession of computer programming.
I told my brother my discovery. I told him that all of the things that build up who we are can be reduced to symbols. I told him that even thinking this was a reflection of a symbol.
“These are my symbols.” I said, then thought about the mutability of time. “Were my symbols. Are my symbols. Were my symbols.”
“You see?” I said. He blinked at me.
---
The more I thought about symbols the more I thought about objects, and which came first, and which meant what. How does a handgun symbolize both violence and self-defense? Somewhere along the line somebody created the handgun for one reason or the other. Maybe they had both offense and defense on the mind, though what I know of history i.e. people killing other people suggests that self-defense wasn’t on the mind of the first firearm inventors.
A handgun is only one of these weapons. But the handgun means nothing until it is held. Until it is used, until it is experienced through the ultimate interactive technology known to man: the hand.
We are what we do, what is done by our hands; creators, destroyers, artists and artisans all. All by the same mold, all by the same hands, all different for any reason at all.
The hand is us, and we are the hand.
It is a palm, a touch, a caress, a slap, a giver equally of pleasure and pain, a comforter and a deliverer of offensive commands too shocking to vocalize. The hand is as indeterminate and versatile as is our own person, and as such we are defined by our use of it. Does the hand hold a pen? A guitar? A baseball bat? A knife?
Does your knife cut tomatoes or flesh?
It makes a difference.
---
I cannot type with my mind. Not yet, at least. Everything you see here passed from synapse to nerve ending to Hand to nerve ending to synapse. The telepathy of language facilitated by finger movements on a piece of plastic with differently lettered keys. Can you hear me inside your head? That’s my hand speaking to you through the accumulation of letters. Is that natural?
Wrong question, maybe.
Perhaps we should ask; Is it what’s natural to us that defines us? What feels right as it sits in your palm? The machete from your dead grandfather? The one he probably used in Vietnam? Maybe. What about a tennis racket? Sure.
What these say about me is what they say about anyone else. I exist; I use tools. Without them I am still a man, but maybe not a tennis player. Maybe not a foot soldier. Is the war in my blood?
Is it not in everyone’s?
Curl the fingers inwards, wrap the thumb around, and your instrument of interaction is now a bludgeoning weapon. Or a symbol, yes, symbol of brotherhood, if two fists connect and separate shortly following.
Why is it that a fist feels so natural to me? I, who have never had to use it? Is there a violence somewhere underneath my skin? A self defense? What about my grandfather’s machete? Or his army relief? Both symbols of a militancy that shook out before my time. Both symbols with which I feel an uncanny connection.
In the end we are only what symbols we pick up and pick out; only what we use, and only what the Hand allows.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Time and Motion, Symbols and Semblance
I am fascinated by symbols. In ways, each symbol we appropriate goes a certain distance towards unearthing the "who we are" at any given moment and time. Our tangential velocity, so to speak, at any given time t.
Of course this is merely a gesture in a world of such mutability and rapid fire change. Not that the world is this way by any characteristics that it possesses itself. In totality, our non-static way of life owes its existence to our conceptions of time.
You may have heard the argument for time as a construct, and not something that inherently exists. In some ways this is true--when we try to quantify time we are really only approximating locations. We don't show up to the meeting because the meeting is at 7:00--the meeting is at 7:00 because that's when everyone--including Johnson--can occupy that space without causing conflict with other obligations.
In the sense of personal development, though, and because of our mortality, the way we view time is a measurement of personal progression, a way of organizing experience, and discovering information through the lens of cause and effect. I wanted to be a computer programmer, and then I researched computer programming and was disillusioned. Something happened in this exchange, and it goes deeper than "it didn't sound interesting anymore." There was a reason that it no longer sounded interesting. There were components of my identity that could not exist in conjunction with the profession of computer programming.
These are my symbols. Were my symbols. Are my symbols. Were my symbols. You see?
It's not a chaos equation--there is some degree to which we appropriate and maintain certain symbols over others. There are priorities that we place in our lives.
The meaning is circular when you approach the beginning of one's existence--from where did certain affinities stem? One might be quick to suggest that parents, both biologically and ethnocentrically, create this foundation upon which we build ourselves. But that's just as circular as your own identification within a group, because the evolutionary chain of characteristics that create your parents come from their parents, and so on and so forth. In this then we must at some base level share a resemblance with one another, or if not, a similar base for experience when traced back and back and farther yet back.
Its always of interest to me, though, which symbols I carry with me at any given time. Sometimes I think, and wish, if I could just get it all down once, it would be so easy to maintain as things come and go. It's not like getting a tattoo which is expensive, uncomfortable for a week, and then potentially more expensive and more uncomfortable if you change your mind far too late. It's just a piece of paper, or a word document, or an excel spreadsheet, or... something. Anything.
How hard could it be? Writers constantly pour themselves out on the page, and I've enough material to fill columns and columns.
Is the work too hard? Too involved? Is laziness a symbol I've yet to purge?
Not if I can help it.
Monday, November 16, 2009
A Primer for Stairmasters
Until this point, at the publication of this document, only I have known the extend to which I lack regard for stairs.
In part this is due to my physical height. At 6' 1", I have the adequate leg length to, both while ascending and descending a set of stairs, take them two at a time. This, in concert with the alternative discomfort provided by single stair steps (v.) (it is simultaneously a physical malady and a psychological one), seemingly disallows mediocrative ambulation concerning all types of elevation altering technology. This I call the Rule of Two.
It is also why flying in coach has lost it's luster, an affliction that even a window seat is helpless to remedy.
My stairwell behavior varies on the context of those stairs. This is to say that exposed flights (those outside) permit not only the Rule of Two but also an appropriate acceleration, a quickening of pace and a maintained upper limit that tapers only as the landing is reached. This pace is little less than a full-out sprint, which may seem incontextual in the sense that "sprint" is the measurement of speed over commonly flat ground. This troubles me in and of itself, as it implies that stairwell locomotion is to be relegated only to those paces set as acceptable for the whole of mankind. I am light of foot and wholly unconcerned with stairwell safety.
There are times, however, when more appropriate methods are required. When in the company of someone not known too keenly, I must slow and adapt to the pedestrian way, so as not to seem to eager to do anything other than maintain a locked speed. Futhermore, certain buildings and therefore, certain stairwells, operate under differing rules of noise level, that disallows (we are speaking still of ascension) an accelerated pace. These challenges I nonetheless approach with a determined and unapologetic Rule of Two, at a rate of speed that would be common for others to take steps singly.
The proper format for descent matches closely with that of ascension, though it differs by nature of employing the force of gravity as opposed to resisting it. This I say with more than quaint observation. My methods of descent utilize the gravitational constant of acceleration to shocking (and shock-resistant) effect. The Rule of Two, still strong, is modified now by this gravitational acceleration, for to step down two steps at a time with rhythmic consistency would prove uncomfortable as well.
This is due to difference between the distribution of weight on an ascending climb, where the moving leg subtracts from the weight of the stationary leg (by being placed higher vertically, it absorbs this weight in the transfer of motion and pushes upwards against gravitational acceleration), and the distribution of weight on a descent. In a descent, the more vertical leg maintains the weight until it adds that force to the gravitational acceleration. But, the leg in motion does not extend downwards to make up for the vertical distance as it does in an upwards motion, which it can do by virtue of shortening it's overall length with a bend at the knee. Rather, the leg carrying the weight must bend, while the leg in motion stays stiff and receives the weight transfer. The inefficiency goes unnoticed by single steppers, who have only half the distance to travel compared to the Rule of Two. A two stepper would instead feel one great jarring motion after the other, having to stop a greater momentum with each step.
The remedy is to twist the hip ever so slightly so as to allow an almost sideways motion, where the second step careens over the first which has not fully taken the weight of the body. This results in an every-other system of weight distribution, which always falls on the favored leg (right) due to its more frequent use and therefore greater precision. This precision step is critical to avoid stumbles, because it has travelled a full four steps of height as opposed to one, or even two; the anticipation of this vertical distance is paramount to the maneuver. Too short and the weight will careen forward, too long and again, the stepper will fall forwards to catch his footing.
As involved as this descent may sound, it proceeds at a rate equal to or greater than four times the speed of the regular pedestrian, and though it does not share the rhythm of the upwards Rule of Two, it nonetheless has a rhythm of its own. Still, there are areas inappropriate for this method of quickly changing elevations, and I try not to worry myself with the inconvenience of moving like everyone else.
I suppose that to some degrees, I am interested in making up for the lost horizontal distance that elevation change necessitates. Or perhaps I subconsciously perceive stairs as locales of transformation, and prefer the change that they offer. But really, it is quite simply that I have places to go and cannot afford to trifle with locomotive hurtles.
And so I take the big steps, and I make the big changes exactly when and where I deem appropriate.
In part this is due to my physical height. At 6' 1", I have the adequate leg length to, both while ascending and descending a set of stairs, take them two at a time. This, in concert with the alternative discomfort provided by single stair steps (v.) (it is simultaneously a physical malady and a psychological one), seemingly disallows mediocrative ambulation concerning all types of elevation altering technology. This I call the Rule of Two.
It is also why flying in coach has lost it's luster, an affliction that even a window seat is helpless to remedy.
My stairwell behavior varies on the context of those stairs. This is to say that exposed flights (those outside) permit not only the Rule of Two but also an appropriate acceleration, a quickening of pace and a maintained upper limit that tapers only as the landing is reached. This pace is little less than a full-out sprint, which may seem incontextual in the sense that "sprint" is the measurement of speed over commonly flat ground. This troubles me in and of itself, as it implies that stairwell locomotion is to be relegated only to those paces set as acceptable for the whole of mankind. I am light of foot and wholly unconcerned with stairwell safety.
There are times, however, when more appropriate methods are required. When in the company of someone not known too keenly, I must slow and adapt to the pedestrian way, so as not to seem to eager to do anything other than maintain a locked speed. Futhermore, certain buildings and therefore, certain stairwells, operate under differing rules of noise level, that disallows (we are speaking still of ascension) an accelerated pace. These challenges I nonetheless approach with a determined and unapologetic Rule of Two, at a rate of speed that would be common for others to take steps singly.
The proper format for descent matches closely with that of ascension, though it differs by nature of employing the force of gravity as opposed to resisting it. This I say with more than quaint observation. My methods of descent utilize the gravitational constant of acceleration to shocking (and shock-resistant) effect. The Rule of Two, still strong, is modified now by this gravitational acceleration, for to step down two steps at a time with rhythmic consistency would prove uncomfortable as well.
This is due to difference between the distribution of weight on an ascending climb, where the moving leg subtracts from the weight of the stationary leg (by being placed higher vertically, it absorbs this weight in the transfer of motion and pushes upwards against gravitational acceleration), and the distribution of weight on a descent. In a descent, the more vertical leg maintains the weight until it adds that force to the gravitational acceleration. But, the leg in motion does not extend downwards to make up for the vertical distance as it does in an upwards motion, which it can do by virtue of shortening it's overall length with a bend at the knee. Rather, the leg carrying the weight must bend, while the leg in motion stays stiff and receives the weight transfer. The inefficiency goes unnoticed by single steppers, who have only half the distance to travel compared to the Rule of Two. A two stepper would instead feel one great jarring motion after the other, having to stop a greater momentum with each step.
The remedy is to twist the hip ever so slightly so as to allow an almost sideways motion, where the second step careens over the first which has not fully taken the weight of the body. This results in an every-other system of weight distribution, which always falls on the favored leg (right) due to its more frequent use and therefore greater precision. This precision step is critical to avoid stumbles, because it has travelled a full four steps of height as opposed to one, or even two; the anticipation of this vertical distance is paramount to the maneuver. Too short and the weight will careen forward, too long and again, the stepper will fall forwards to catch his footing.
As involved as this descent may sound, it proceeds at a rate equal to or greater than four times the speed of the regular pedestrian, and though it does not share the rhythm of the upwards Rule of Two, it nonetheless has a rhythm of its own. Still, there are areas inappropriate for this method of quickly changing elevations, and I try not to worry myself with the inconvenience of moving like everyone else.
I suppose that to some degrees, I am interested in making up for the lost horizontal distance that elevation change necessitates. Or perhaps I subconsciously perceive stairs as locales of transformation, and prefer the change that they offer. But really, it is quite simply that I have places to go and cannot afford to trifle with locomotive hurtles.
And so I take the big steps, and I make the big changes exactly when and where I deem appropriate.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Hurricane
If society’s a hurricane,
then I live in the eye.
And through that lens I see the slump
of every earthly sigh.
I watch as bonds that lovers share
are torn apart by rage,
uprooted by those fearsome winds
that even I can’t gauge,
And as I watch the sky in dance
the sun sets in the west,
a sole survivor of the trials
abandoning the rest.
Delivering the final punch,
the nightfall comes to stay.
It brings the end of life and death
to those with sense to pray.
then I live in the eye.
And through that lens I see the slump
of every earthly sigh.
I watch as bonds that lovers share
are torn apart by rage,
uprooted by those fearsome winds
that even I can’t gauge,
And as I watch the sky in dance
the sun sets in the west,
a sole survivor of the trials
abandoning the rest.
Delivering the final punch,
the nightfall comes to stay.
It brings the end of life and death
to those with sense to pray.
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Swell
From seed and sprout as the clouds passed by they grew,
higher and wider, like a spreading out of balloons let go.
We climbed them then, in days of youth and summer,
let their altitudinous forms lift us up to a brighter day.
When the clouds rolled in and days grew dark
we'd sit on the porch and watch the trees deflate.
Color burned away, volume bought the farm,
and the strands strained against the pull of gravity,
reaching, reaching, waiting for a gust of air,
a maiden's tear, a burst of life,
anything to inflate those balloons again.
And we would swell up with them,
Expand until we rose to the stratosphere,
and finally, burst into multicolored debris.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Extraction
As a single guy, I carry within me an aversion to those items which may excite in me some semblance of happiness. I speak more specifically what might be more commonly known as “Hollywood Happiness,” that good feeling that is relentlessly served us on a silver platter. My aversion, of course, owes its existence to the comparative degrees that such happiness leaves behind. The aftertaste, so to speak, when the lights come back up and I realize with crushing finality that I am an entity quite divisible from the winning hero on his unlikely yet deserved wedding day. Whereas the watching of the film encourages the idea that his victories are my victories, that his hopes are my hopes, the reality of my plight is that when all is said and done, the character has nothing to do with me, and furthermore has not the ability to return the sympathy which I so freely lavish upon him. And the lights do go up. I suppose if we could entertain the idea of a never-ending movie reel, stretching on into the future as far as the “eye” can see, we might enjoy an endless fantasy from which we would never wake. But it is a ghostly filmstrip for ghostly prospects. In order for this fantasy world to exist, it would necessitate our compliance with the script—and though it might on occasion give us cause to feel, it could never offer us the cause to be. We would be nothing more than stifled animals, forced (by our own choice, no less) to relinquish what it is that makes us human and adopt a cookie-cutter cavalcade of a recipe for happiness, eradicating any claim to individuality, and thus any claim to a rightful existence. This, I am sure you can see, will not do. Thus, the aversion mentioned at my first timid scribbles.
The medium is not flawed in such a way that it affects all people the same—far from it. It is only the man who is in danger of succumbing to this fantasy, who vividly perceives it as real and good, who endangers himself. He who looks on mindlessly looks on with less a mind. As a single guy with a mind worn ever thinner, mindlessness becomes all too familiar, and it causes me to stumble.
I’m tired, exhausted, and frustrated with the world because it won’t do and be the things I want it to, and only rarely calling myself out for not doing anything about it.
We’re good people, aren’t we?
The medium is not flawed in such a way that it affects all people the same—far from it. It is only the man who is in danger of succumbing to this fantasy, who vividly perceives it as real and good, who endangers himself. He who looks on mindlessly looks on with less a mind. As a single guy with a mind worn ever thinner, mindlessness becomes all too familiar, and it causes me to stumble.
I’m tired, exhausted, and frustrated with the world because it won’t do and be the things I want it to, and only rarely calling myself out for not doing anything about it.
We’re good people, aren’t we?
Thursday, August 20, 2009
In Branches and Leaves
In Branches and Leaves
“You know, when I was your age, I made the greatest tree fort known to man. Mmhm. I’m sure you hear all sorts of folk talking that way, but when I tell you I did it, by God did I do it.” My grandpa was going off on a tangent. Again. I paid as little mind as possible while maintaining the illusion of attentiveness. My parents were, after all, paying me to spend [i]quality[/i] time with Grandpa - not to play with my Game Boy (Which they still believed was hidden in the back of the pots and pans drawer. Come on, really? I was going into middle school the very next year, not kindergarten.).
“Nursing homes are a scary place for old people,” my dad would say. “Especially someone with memory problems like Grandpa. How would you like to end up all alone in a strange place? Strangers at breakfast, strangers at lunch, and strangers changing your bedsheets?” So every Saturday from noon to five I would grab my Game Boy, hop in the van, and ride off to Sunset Valley Nursing Homes to meet Grandpa. My parents usually went out for dinner or dancing - what did I care really? It was like being baby-sat, except I got paid instead of Grandpa. He got what he wanted and I got what I wanted. Of course, it all depended on his on his testimony as to the evening’s events. Usually the reports came back well.
“Tommy’s such a nice young man,” he would say when they came to pick me up. The fact that he knew my name at all times sparked a lot of chatter by itself. I mentioned that Grandpa had memory problems, right? Well I was told that he didn’t remember anyone that well any more, but he sure had a handle on me. It got my dad absolutely beaming, like that look a dog gets when you pat him on the head, you know? And every week it was the same reaction, the same shock and surprise, like somehow they thought he was getting better and next week it would be “Hi Mark and Marilyn Kensey. How are things at the Post Office Marilyn? Did you enjoy that card I sent last week?” And maybe the next week he’d get out of his wheelchair and do a dance! Completely unrealistic, of course. The name he remembered was mine, and mine alone. I suppose I should have been glad of it, maybe even proud of the fact that amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces, mine was the beacon of light that guided him home, but honestly? I just want my money. At the time there was this nice red sports car in the used papers, and my dad said that if I could save up for half of it... well, you know. Five more weeks of [i]quality[/i] time with Grandpa and that ride was mine.
“This was no ordinary tree fort, I can guarantee.” Grandpa may have had memory problems, but he could stick to a story like gum to a school desk. This was unfortunate for me of course, because this week’s story was unusually lame. I grew up in the [i]city[/i], get it? Not only had I never made a tree fort, but I was completely content never to do so. Our backyard (if it could be called that) consisted of 20 square feet and a single poplar tree. Not the best for fort making. Anyway, I had no problem letting Grandpa run his course. He might ask a question every now and then, but other than that I could just shut down, relax, and dream about that sports car... just five weeks until I had it for myself, and a mere four years until I was taking it through hairpin turns, catching air off of giant city hills, just like in the movies, and then bursting through a ring of-
“Have you ever built a tree fort Tommy?” I hated it when he snapped me out of daydreams like that. It was such a delicate operation, and no matter how hard I tried I felt that car sputter and die before it faded away, waiting for the next dream.
“No sir, I haven’t.” I answered. Simple answers were the best. They let me get off without saying much and opened a world of possibilities for him to keep the conversation moving.
“A damn shame,” he said in response. I chuckled and shook my head. Of all the things to miss in the world, tree forts?
“Well anyway, this tree fort was special. The first thing you’ve gotta know about tree forts is what constitutes a good tree, and then you check the branches, see, and you’ve gotta do that step, it’s the most important one...” And I was driving through the countryside, wheat grass waving in the wind… And what better to complete the picture than a dazzling blonde in the passenger seat? She asked me where we were going but I wouldn’t tell her. ‘Just a bit farther,’ I’d say, and she’d get that mysterious smile on her face...
Grandpa was still rambling on. I nodded every now and then, making sure he saw that I was paying attention (I did feel bad from time to time), and after a few more minutes dismissed myself to the bathroom. At least, that’s where I told him I was going every week. I usually waited in the hall and pulled out my Game Boy for a solid half hour. Race Rock 3 - Expert mode. It was hard, but what made it even harder was the fact that no matter which car was best for the track, I always took the red sports car... and there was my dream girl, waving the flag at the finish...
This week was different. No sooner had the words come out of my mouth than Grandpa decided to come with me. Horrified, I stammered for a response. You know that feeling you get when you’ve been building something up, something you’ve been waiting on for so long, and then you realize that you won’t be able to do it?
“I can go by myself,” I told him calmly. But I could see he wasn’t going to back down.
“Nonsense. I’ve only gotten to the best part.” I sighed inwardly and agreed. Inside of the bathroom I waited two or three minutes, then ran the water pretending to wash my hands. Then, thinking about the nursing home I washed them anyway. Another week without Race Rock 3... What was Grandpa so excited about that he would follow me to the bathroom to talk for all of the 30 seconds it took to get there?
When I came out of the bathroom, he was down the hall, looking out the back window. Across the patio and the lawn was a small forest, the same one which bordered the river. It wrapped itself along 4th and Sprague and died out near Town Hall. I lived across the river to the North, where city streets and sidewalks left only those trees which served an aesthetic purpose. And Grandpa just sat there at that window, looking out. I remember that something felt different, almost foreign about him when I approached him.
“There.” He pointed, making me squint. His voice was softer than usual. Soft but strong.
“There what?” I asked
“There he is. Trent.” He brought his shaking hand up to cover his mouth and a small sob escaped his lips. It escaped me then, but looking back I should have been more surprised. Whereas his delicate memory sensors could only previously recall “Tommy,” there had been another name in there, another name waiting to come out.
“Trent?” I asked again, not seeing anyone among the trees.
“My best friend. The tree.” And tears rolled from his eyes. “We haven’t talked since I was 13. And I promised him and he remembered.” His sobs grew louder and I remember I was afraid. I thought maybe something was happening to him, or even worse, that a nurse would come by and think that I had done something wrong.
“Do you think we could... do you think we could go out and see him? One last time?” It occurred to me that he wasn’t asking. He was begging.
“Grandpa, I don’t understand.” I whispered close. “Who is Trent?” And I’ll never forget the look he gave me, completely defeated but at the same time valiant. All he said was please.
So I got a nurse and we made our way out the back onto the trails, into the forested area. Grandpa surveyed the area from his wheelchair like a king over his loving subjects. We’d gone maybe fifteen feet when he asked her to stop.
“Tommy,” he said. “That one right there.” He pointed with a shaky hand. “Could you roll me up next to it?” I looked at the nurse and she nodded.
It was difficult placing the wheels among the roots, but I did it well enough so that Grandpa could reach out and touch the bark with his hand.
“Trent...” he said softly. “Trent, I’m back.” The nurse gave Grandpa an odd look. “Remember, I promised and I came back.” He gave a small laugh. “Here’s us at the end then, huh old buddy?” He patted the trunk and looked around. “We were always getting into trouble, weren’t we? Staying up late, skipping dinner.” And then he smiled a deep smile and looked at me.
“Did you hear him?” He asked me. His eyes seemed to look [i]through[/i] me, and I didn’t know what to do. The nurse looked at the sky and saw clouds gathering.
“Mr. Kensey, it looks like it’s going to start raining soon. We should go back inside.” Grandpa ignored her. He went on muttering to the tree and the nurse looked around helplessly.
“Mr. Kensey, we need to go back inside.” She said again, a bit louder.
“No...” Grandpa answered softly. “No...”
“Mr. Kensey, I must insist. It is getting far too cold out here and I will not have it be the death of you, now come along.” She moved forward as to grab the wheelchair.
“NO!” Grandpa shouted. “Tell her Tommy, tell her! You can hear him, can’t you Tommy? You can hear him, listen to him speak!”
“Now Mr. Kensey, this really is too much.” She grabbed the wheelchair and made as to pull it back onto the path, but grabbing the bark my Grandpa lurched forward and fell at the foot of the tree.
“Mr. Kensey!” The nurse yelled in shock.
“Tommy.” Grandpa said softly, beckoning me forward while hugging the tree as a sailor would hold onto a mainmast on a stormy night. “Tommy, can you hear him? He says I’m going to live forever Tommy. He says I’m going to live in him. I’m going to grow in him and... and I’ll be in his branches, and his leaves and...” his voice dropped lower. “And I’ll never be alone again.” He reached out with his right hand and grabbed mine, and I knew that it was the end.
His eyes closed and he saw no more.
The nurse rushed him back into the home but nothing could be done. I cried that day, for the first time in a long while. My parents had never seen me so depressed. The funeral came and went, and that next year I entered middle school. I was afraid and anxious (not to mention five weeks short of my sports car) so I was really put off of the whole idea of school. Grandpa talked me through it though. I talk to him a lot now, as often as I can spare time to sit under the tree in my backyard. And every time I look up at the branches and the leaves I whisper “I’m sorry. I should have listened more.”
“Forget about it,” he says. “Let’s talk about getting you that sports car...”
“You know, when I was your age, I made the greatest tree fort known to man. Mmhm. I’m sure you hear all sorts of folk talking that way, but when I tell you I did it, by God did I do it.” My grandpa was going off on a tangent. Again. I paid as little mind as possible while maintaining the illusion of attentiveness. My parents were, after all, paying me to spend [i]quality[/i] time with Grandpa - not to play with my Game Boy (Which they still believed was hidden in the back of the pots and pans drawer. Come on, really? I was going into middle school the very next year, not kindergarten.).
“Nursing homes are a scary place for old people,” my dad would say. “Especially someone with memory problems like Grandpa. How would you like to end up all alone in a strange place? Strangers at breakfast, strangers at lunch, and strangers changing your bedsheets?” So every Saturday from noon to five I would grab my Game Boy, hop in the van, and ride off to Sunset Valley Nursing Homes to meet Grandpa. My parents usually went out for dinner or dancing - what did I care really? It was like being baby-sat, except I got paid instead of Grandpa. He got what he wanted and I got what I wanted. Of course, it all depended on his on his testimony as to the evening’s events. Usually the reports came back well.
“Tommy’s such a nice young man,” he would say when they came to pick me up. The fact that he knew my name at all times sparked a lot of chatter by itself. I mentioned that Grandpa had memory problems, right? Well I was told that he didn’t remember anyone that well any more, but he sure had a handle on me. It got my dad absolutely beaming, like that look a dog gets when you pat him on the head, you know? And every week it was the same reaction, the same shock and surprise, like somehow they thought he was getting better and next week it would be “Hi Mark and Marilyn Kensey. How are things at the Post Office Marilyn? Did you enjoy that card I sent last week?” And maybe the next week he’d get out of his wheelchair and do a dance! Completely unrealistic, of course. The name he remembered was mine, and mine alone. I suppose I should have been glad of it, maybe even proud of the fact that amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces, mine was the beacon of light that guided him home, but honestly? I just want my money. At the time there was this nice red sports car in the used papers, and my dad said that if I could save up for half of it... well, you know. Five more weeks of [i]quality[/i] time with Grandpa and that ride was mine.
“This was no ordinary tree fort, I can guarantee.” Grandpa may have had memory problems, but he could stick to a story like gum to a school desk. This was unfortunate for me of course, because this week’s story was unusually lame. I grew up in the [i]city[/i], get it? Not only had I never made a tree fort, but I was completely content never to do so. Our backyard (if it could be called that) consisted of 20 square feet and a single poplar tree. Not the best for fort making. Anyway, I had no problem letting Grandpa run his course. He might ask a question every now and then, but other than that I could just shut down, relax, and dream about that sports car... just five weeks until I had it for myself, and a mere four years until I was taking it through hairpin turns, catching air off of giant city hills, just like in the movies, and then bursting through a ring of-
“Have you ever built a tree fort Tommy?” I hated it when he snapped me out of daydreams like that. It was such a delicate operation, and no matter how hard I tried I felt that car sputter and die before it faded away, waiting for the next dream.
“No sir, I haven’t.” I answered. Simple answers were the best. They let me get off without saying much and opened a world of possibilities for him to keep the conversation moving.
“A damn shame,” he said in response. I chuckled and shook my head. Of all the things to miss in the world, tree forts?
“Well anyway, this tree fort was special. The first thing you’ve gotta know about tree forts is what constitutes a good tree, and then you check the branches, see, and you’ve gotta do that step, it’s the most important one...” And I was driving through the countryside, wheat grass waving in the wind… And what better to complete the picture than a dazzling blonde in the passenger seat? She asked me where we were going but I wouldn’t tell her. ‘Just a bit farther,’ I’d say, and she’d get that mysterious smile on her face...
Grandpa was still rambling on. I nodded every now and then, making sure he saw that I was paying attention (I did feel bad from time to time), and after a few more minutes dismissed myself to the bathroom. At least, that’s where I told him I was going every week. I usually waited in the hall and pulled out my Game Boy for a solid half hour. Race Rock 3 - Expert mode. It was hard, but what made it even harder was the fact that no matter which car was best for the track, I always took the red sports car... and there was my dream girl, waving the flag at the finish...
This week was different. No sooner had the words come out of my mouth than Grandpa decided to come with me. Horrified, I stammered for a response. You know that feeling you get when you’ve been building something up, something you’ve been waiting on for so long, and then you realize that you won’t be able to do it?
“I can go by myself,” I told him calmly. But I could see he wasn’t going to back down.
“Nonsense. I’ve only gotten to the best part.” I sighed inwardly and agreed. Inside of the bathroom I waited two or three minutes, then ran the water pretending to wash my hands. Then, thinking about the nursing home I washed them anyway. Another week without Race Rock 3... What was Grandpa so excited about that he would follow me to the bathroom to talk for all of the 30 seconds it took to get there?
When I came out of the bathroom, he was down the hall, looking out the back window. Across the patio and the lawn was a small forest, the same one which bordered the river. It wrapped itself along 4th and Sprague and died out near Town Hall. I lived across the river to the North, where city streets and sidewalks left only those trees which served an aesthetic purpose. And Grandpa just sat there at that window, looking out. I remember that something felt different, almost foreign about him when I approached him.
“There.” He pointed, making me squint. His voice was softer than usual. Soft but strong.
“There what?” I asked
“There he is. Trent.” He brought his shaking hand up to cover his mouth and a small sob escaped his lips. It escaped me then, but looking back I should have been more surprised. Whereas his delicate memory sensors could only previously recall “Tommy,” there had been another name in there, another name waiting to come out.
“Trent?” I asked again, not seeing anyone among the trees.
“My best friend. The tree.” And tears rolled from his eyes. “We haven’t talked since I was 13. And I promised him and he remembered.” His sobs grew louder and I remember I was afraid. I thought maybe something was happening to him, or even worse, that a nurse would come by and think that I had done something wrong.
“Do you think we could... do you think we could go out and see him? One last time?” It occurred to me that he wasn’t asking. He was begging.
“Grandpa, I don’t understand.” I whispered close. “Who is Trent?” And I’ll never forget the look he gave me, completely defeated but at the same time valiant. All he said was please.
So I got a nurse and we made our way out the back onto the trails, into the forested area. Grandpa surveyed the area from his wheelchair like a king over his loving subjects. We’d gone maybe fifteen feet when he asked her to stop.
“Tommy,” he said. “That one right there.” He pointed with a shaky hand. “Could you roll me up next to it?” I looked at the nurse and she nodded.
It was difficult placing the wheels among the roots, but I did it well enough so that Grandpa could reach out and touch the bark with his hand.
“Trent...” he said softly. “Trent, I’m back.” The nurse gave Grandpa an odd look. “Remember, I promised and I came back.” He gave a small laugh. “Here’s us at the end then, huh old buddy?” He patted the trunk and looked around. “We were always getting into trouble, weren’t we? Staying up late, skipping dinner.” And then he smiled a deep smile and looked at me.
“Did you hear him?” He asked me. His eyes seemed to look [i]through[/i] me, and I didn’t know what to do. The nurse looked at the sky and saw clouds gathering.
“Mr. Kensey, it looks like it’s going to start raining soon. We should go back inside.” Grandpa ignored her. He went on muttering to the tree and the nurse looked around helplessly.
“Mr. Kensey, we need to go back inside.” She said again, a bit louder.
“No...” Grandpa answered softly. “No...”
“Mr. Kensey, I must insist. It is getting far too cold out here and I will not have it be the death of you, now come along.” She moved forward as to grab the wheelchair.
“NO!” Grandpa shouted. “Tell her Tommy, tell her! You can hear him, can’t you Tommy? You can hear him, listen to him speak!”
“Now Mr. Kensey, this really is too much.” She grabbed the wheelchair and made as to pull it back onto the path, but grabbing the bark my Grandpa lurched forward and fell at the foot of the tree.
“Mr. Kensey!” The nurse yelled in shock.
“Tommy.” Grandpa said softly, beckoning me forward while hugging the tree as a sailor would hold onto a mainmast on a stormy night. “Tommy, can you hear him? He says I’m going to live forever Tommy. He says I’m going to live in him. I’m going to grow in him and... and I’ll be in his branches, and his leaves and...” his voice dropped lower. “And I’ll never be alone again.” He reached out with his right hand and grabbed mine, and I knew that it was the end.
His eyes closed and he saw no more.
The nurse rushed him back into the home but nothing could be done. I cried that day, for the first time in a long while. My parents had never seen me so depressed. The funeral came and went, and that next year I entered middle school. I was afraid and anxious (not to mention five weeks short of my sports car) so I was really put off of the whole idea of school. Grandpa talked me through it though. I talk to him a lot now, as often as I can spare time to sit under the tree in my backyard. And every time I look up at the branches and the leaves I whisper “I’m sorry. I should have listened more.”
“Forget about it,” he says. “Let’s talk about getting you that sports car...”
Meltdown Imminent
Zale walked to the lab every day. He would take the scenic routes along the bay, and through the city. Sometimes he would stop to rest at a cafe, or maybe stay a while with a homeless man. His path always came in from the north, past the old nuclear power plant which was connected to the lab where he worked.
He had to wake early, of course, but it didn’t bother him. He always arrived on time, and he never tired of the exercise. There was transportation available, of course, but he never took it. People speculated that he wanted the exercise. Others said that he had a profound love for all things in life, and didn’t want to pass them by. Beyond that, his coworkers jokingly suggested that Zale was in fact a robot, and that the magnetic rails underneath the trolley would interfere with his internal systems.
They were right.
One would expect that some sort of story detailing the creation and maintenance of such an android would follow, but this story cannot be told, because there is no man living who knows it. Questions of where Zale came from, and indeed [i]why[/i] remain a mystery to this day.
The lab where Zale worked was connected to a nuclear power plant that was thought to have been shut down for years. Had it not been for this plant, nobody would even know that Zale was any different from anyone else.
It was a day like any other. Zale arrived at the lab, perfectly conditioned and without any wear from his three-mile hike. His co-workers snickered behind his back, feeding their insecurities as they called him a loner and a freak. Zale paid them no mind as he walked into his personal lab and locked the door. While there, Zale talked to nobody and nobody talked to him. The only exception was his first day of work, when he tried to make friends with Jonah Cayle in the zygology offices.
Jonah, like Zale, was something of an outcast. He was always looked down on as an engineer in the place of “real scientists,” as they called themselves. “A waste of funding,” he had heard as well, along with other names not pleasant to repeat. Jonah didn’t know what to think about that. At first he had dismissed the reluctance of his coworkers as simple ignorance, a case for the proof of the human condition. Everybody, Jonah felt, needed someone to pick on, someone to feel better than. And in the world of science, where there was no distinction between better or worse, how could he as a simple engineer stand up? [i]Don’t let it bother you,[/i] he always said, but it still got to him. They were right, to a degree. At any given moment, Jonah knew that there were hundreds of “real scientists” out there making a difference in the world: saving lives, finding resources, inventing new ways to simplify life. He made connections.
“Nuts, bolts, screws, rivets, hinges, you name it,” Jonah had said when Zale inquired as to his profession. “We find new ways every day to keep stuff together. Better ways. Next thing you know, we’ll have a world of metal, through and through. Nothing to break, nothing to fix.” That was Jonah’s dream. Zale took a long look around the office and the workrooms, taking in every sight (which he did quite literally) before turning to leave.
“Don’t forget the flowers,” Zale said in a mournful voice.
“What’s that?” Jonah had asked.
“In your world of metal,” Zale said, “don’t forget the flowers.” Everyone was right when they said that Zale had a deep appreciation for the arts. In his private lab there were paintings of flowing rivers and majestic landscapes, sculptures of animals and people, and flowers as well. Some in the corners, in amongst his machines - anywhere and everywhere one could find some small facet of art or expression.
There were, of course, his work materials. Machines, tools, capsules, electronics. Nobody knew what happened in that office, and nobody really cared to find out. They were so engrossed in their own tasks that they gave no heed to the workings of Zale. They did notice, however, that there was an unusual silence in his workspace that day. Whereas before there had been poundings of metal and the hiss of welding equipment, now there was only an eerie silence, the kind which raises hairs and makes skin crawl.
Zale had been there for an hour, no more, when he left again, abruptly. This was another oddity, and more workers began to take notice. Jonah, feeling some connection to Zale from day one, decided to forsake his lunch break and follow him out of the building.
Zale went straight for the power plant. Jonah didn’t know why anyone would go there, and his curiosity deepened when Zale passed the security doors without missing a beat. The plant had been locked down for years, and Jonah knew that it shouldn’t be intruded upon so easily. Thinking that something dangerous was going on, he rushed back into the lab, grabbed a Geiger counter, and was back in front of the plant inside of five minutes.
By then, he saw no sign of Zale. He passed the outer and inner gates and stood with bated breath outside of the heavy doors. [i]Why not just turn back?[/i] he remembered thinking. A million things could be awaiting him inside - a druglord hideout, a murder suicide, a contamination... But then, [i]No. I’ll show them.[/i]. He was, of course, referring to the scientists back at the lab, to whom Jonah thought he had something to prove.
He slowly edged the door outward and was met by a wave of heat, so intense that he stumbled backwards. The Geiger counter began to tick wildly and Jonah knew that something was wrong. He forced the door shut with all of his might and ran back to call for help.
The radiation levels in the power plant were off of the charts. It seemed that there was a section of the facility which had not been properly shut down all those years ago, and a small leak there had allowed a buildup, to dangerous levels.
They found Zale’s body next to one of the generators. His skin had melted away, revealing the wire frame and frayed circuitry inside. On the floor next to him had been scrawled the words “Meltdown imminent. I’m sorry.” Jonah identified him and asked for a proper burial, but they left his body there. His entire workings emitted radiation, and even the workers in the suits could stay in the building for no longer than ten minutes. That meant that even a scientific study of the android would be impossible until the area cooled down, which caused a minor uproar amongst the robotics scientist community.
Everyone stood outside watching the commotion and trying to find their way onto local news, but inside of the laboratory one body still stirred. It opened the capsule wherein it had rested until Zale’s signal had terminated. Outside it found a note and a flower. The note read, quite simply,
[i]Dear Zale2,
They were mean to us, but I saved them.
Don’t give them our secrets.
Tell Jonah.
Zale1[/i]
Zale2 left a note for Jonah and left the building, never to be seen or heard from again.
He had to wake early, of course, but it didn’t bother him. He always arrived on time, and he never tired of the exercise. There was transportation available, of course, but he never took it. People speculated that he wanted the exercise. Others said that he had a profound love for all things in life, and didn’t want to pass them by. Beyond that, his coworkers jokingly suggested that Zale was in fact a robot, and that the magnetic rails underneath the trolley would interfere with his internal systems.
They were right.
One would expect that some sort of story detailing the creation and maintenance of such an android would follow, but this story cannot be told, because there is no man living who knows it. Questions of where Zale came from, and indeed [i]why[/i] remain a mystery to this day.
The lab where Zale worked was connected to a nuclear power plant that was thought to have been shut down for years. Had it not been for this plant, nobody would even know that Zale was any different from anyone else.
It was a day like any other. Zale arrived at the lab, perfectly conditioned and without any wear from his three-mile hike. His co-workers snickered behind his back, feeding their insecurities as they called him a loner and a freak. Zale paid them no mind as he walked into his personal lab and locked the door. While there, Zale talked to nobody and nobody talked to him. The only exception was his first day of work, when he tried to make friends with Jonah Cayle in the zygology offices.
Jonah, like Zale, was something of an outcast. He was always looked down on as an engineer in the place of “real scientists,” as they called themselves. “A waste of funding,” he had heard as well, along with other names not pleasant to repeat. Jonah didn’t know what to think about that. At first he had dismissed the reluctance of his coworkers as simple ignorance, a case for the proof of the human condition. Everybody, Jonah felt, needed someone to pick on, someone to feel better than. And in the world of science, where there was no distinction between better or worse, how could he as a simple engineer stand up? [i]Don’t let it bother you,[/i] he always said, but it still got to him. They were right, to a degree. At any given moment, Jonah knew that there were hundreds of “real scientists” out there making a difference in the world: saving lives, finding resources, inventing new ways to simplify life. He made connections.
“Nuts, bolts, screws, rivets, hinges, you name it,” Jonah had said when Zale inquired as to his profession. “We find new ways every day to keep stuff together. Better ways. Next thing you know, we’ll have a world of metal, through and through. Nothing to break, nothing to fix.” That was Jonah’s dream. Zale took a long look around the office and the workrooms, taking in every sight (which he did quite literally) before turning to leave.
“Don’t forget the flowers,” Zale said in a mournful voice.
“What’s that?” Jonah had asked.
“In your world of metal,” Zale said, “don’t forget the flowers.” Everyone was right when they said that Zale had a deep appreciation for the arts. In his private lab there were paintings of flowing rivers and majestic landscapes, sculptures of animals and people, and flowers as well. Some in the corners, in amongst his machines - anywhere and everywhere one could find some small facet of art or expression.
There were, of course, his work materials. Machines, tools, capsules, electronics. Nobody knew what happened in that office, and nobody really cared to find out. They were so engrossed in their own tasks that they gave no heed to the workings of Zale. They did notice, however, that there was an unusual silence in his workspace that day. Whereas before there had been poundings of metal and the hiss of welding equipment, now there was only an eerie silence, the kind which raises hairs and makes skin crawl.
Zale had been there for an hour, no more, when he left again, abruptly. This was another oddity, and more workers began to take notice. Jonah, feeling some connection to Zale from day one, decided to forsake his lunch break and follow him out of the building.
Zale went straight for the power plant. Jonah didn’t know why anyone would go there, and his curiosity deepened when Zale passed the security doors without missing a beat. The plant had been locked down for years, and Jonah knew that it shouldn’t be intruded upon so easily. Thinking that something dangerous was going on, he rushed back into the lab, grabbed a Geiger counter, and was back in front of the plant inside of five minutes.
By then, he saw no sign of Zale. He passed the outer and inner gates and stood with bated breath outside of the heavy doors. [i]Why not just turn back?[/i] he remembered thinking. A million things could be awaiting him inside - a druglord hideout, a murder suicide, a contamination... But then, [i]No. I’ll show them.[/i]. He was, of course, referring to the scientists back at the lab, to whom Jonah thought he had something to prove.
He slowly edged the door outward and was met by a wave of heat, so intense that he stumbled backwards. The Geiger counter began to tick wildly and Jonah knew that something was wrong. He forced the door shut with all of his might and ran back to call for help.
The radiation levels in the power plant were off of the charts. It seemed that there was a section of the facility which had not been properly shut down all those years ago, and a small leak there had allowed a buildup, to dangerous levels.
They found Zale’s body next to one of the generators. His skin had melted away, revealing the wire frame and frayed circuitry inside. On the floor next to him had been scrawled the words “Meltdown imminent. I’m sorry.” Jonah identified him and asked for a proper burial, but they left his body there. His entire workings emitted radiation, and even the workers in the suits could stay in the building for no longer than ten minutes. That meant that even a scientific study of the android would be impossible until the area cooled down, which caused a minor uproar amongst the robotics scientist community.
Everyone stood outside watching the commotion and trying to find their way onto local news, but inside of the laboratory one body still stirred. It opened the capsule wherein it had rested until Zale’s signal had terminated. Outside it found a note and a flower. The note read, quite simply,
[i]Dear Zale2,
They were mean to us, but I saved them.
Don’t give them our secrets.
Tell Jonah.
Zale1[/i]
Zale2 left a note for Jonah and left the building, never to be seen or heard from again.
For Misha
Captain William Braxford:
My dear friend, if you are reading this letter then I am sure you have killed me. I congratulate you. I don’t know what day it is, but I hope it reads well on my gravestone. You always see those people there who have had the bad luck to die on some odd sounding day of the year, like January 23rd, 2507. Too many syllables. Give me a May 1st any day.
Will, I want you to understand that I never once wished any harm to the Confederacy. Truly, I had no choice in the matter, and I spent every waking moment trying to think of a plan to turn things around. I hope you can see that... I will not say that you would have done the same in my place, but know that I leave you not with regret, not with anger - but with joy. Joy because my threat is no more.
All these years we served under the flag. The brown, blue, and green. The Star and the Key. Did we ever figure out what it meant? What we stood for? What we fought for? I never did. But absence of reason, I’ve found, is no cause to abandon belief. I hope that you find the same.
I say [i]served under the flag[/i], but in your case perhaps I should say [i]will continue to serve[/i]. I pray you will. But nevertheless, you will go your way, and I of course, mine. I’m hoping I’ll see you after this life, but if fate has it that we split ways, I hope that it is you who finds an eternity in the presence of God. I know you never bought into that “religious crap,” but humor a dead man.
I am sure that I owe you my account of the past few months. Rather, you owe it to [i]yourself[/i] to read my explanation.
They came in the early days of the year. Black suits and the whole routine. One of them was tall, dark skinned, short black hair and all that. The other was medium height, but solid as a rock. Well, they wore the badges of the Confederacy and asked if I was alone. I said yes and invited them in. Misha was at that dancing convention - you remember, we went clubbing the night after she left. Stupid idea. Was it mine or yours? My God, I do ramble on. Well, I figured that these men were going to give me some sort of special mission. A chance to move up in the ranks, maybe make Captain. I remember thinking how you would react. The both of us, Captains in the Corps...
So I invited the fellows in, thought maybe I’d bring out some drinks or something. My invitation, it seemed, went completely unheeded. They pushed right by me and started checking the entire place out. They asked me, of all things, if my place was wired. That made me wonder. It’s down in our constitution somewhere that we have the right to record whatever we want in our own homes. I know, I looked into it afterwards. Thought maybe I could find a legal loophole.
‘Standard security system is all,’ I answer. And apparently that’s some sort of indication that they need to close all my shades and shut down my power hub. Well, by now I’m a bit upset as I’m sure you can understand. I’ve never been one to be pushed around by anyone, unless clear reason can be shown, and Misha was supposed to return from dance class at any minute.
‘What’s the meaning of all this?’ I say finally losing my temper. I find myself sprawled out on the floor in response, the mark of the raygun still burning in my side. I don’t remember which one did it, but I wanted the bastard dead. But they throw this file next to my face, even as I writhe there, and ask me to open it. The tall one moves off to inspect the rest of my house, and starts fiddling with the trinkets on my mantelpiece. Then he’s off somewhere else, waving a sensor around like a madman and pushing buttons into its display.
I opened the file, expecting some sort of fabricated criminal evidence against me. Why else would Confederate officers assault their own soldiers? But it wasn’t evidence. It wasn’t a mission briefing either, as I had thought earlier. They were pictures.
You have to understand, Will. They had Misha. The whole time, they had Misha. What was I supposed to do? I tried to think of a way to let HQ know that I was under the thumb, but they put a patch on my system. Anything wired to me was forwarded to them. Anything recorded by me as well. And I couldn’t risk it. My Misha! She had asked me to go with her that week. To the dance thing. But I wanted to party with the guys. I could have protected her, done something...
So they lay it out for me, plain and simple. I give them HQ schematics, they give me Misha. They must have thought me a moron. I bring them the schematics and they let me go? Please.
They ask me if everything’s clear. I lie and say yes. They hit me with the raygun anyway. And that was the last I saw of them. They always sent two new guys, or had me meet at this restaurant, or that diner.
I got the names of a few. Pseudonyms, of course, but I hope they help. I hope you neutralize the bastards.
Jonah, dark skinned, a little over 6 feet tall, slim build, short black hair.
Barry, medium build, maybe 5’8”, short brown curls.
Sean, medium build, maybe 5’10”, short blonde curls.
Hunt, 5’4”, bald
Walsh, 5’8”, large dragon tattoo on right wrist, probably all the way up his arm too.
Charlie, unknown height (I only saw him seated), but a scar on his nose, left side.
I regret to say that you were too late. I already gave them the schematics to HQ. I doctored them up a bit, enough for you to lay a trap in the East wing, but they’re getting a lot of free information with it as is. I’m sorry. If you take a look at the eastern underground access tunnel, it has a checkpoint in it. In the fakes I gave them, I edited it out. That’s where they’ll go, I know it. If you set up a post you should be able at least to detain anyone with the characteristics I mentioned above. Hopefully you get them.
If you find Misha, tell her that I love her and I’m sorry. And if you could, friend, lay a single white rose on my grave so that I’ll know she’s well. Trust me, I’ll know. I doubt I’ll be buried with any honors, but I’m okay with that. You’ll have to try and get me in the Rosewood Cemetery. You know, the one close by, with the poplar trees.
You were always a brother to me, Will. You were a saint. Whatever you do, don’t feel bad for taking my life - it had to be done. Even God can understand that.
Your brother in arms,
Michael
P.S. “I pray you, in your reports, when you shall these unlucky deeds relate, speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak of one that loved not wisely but too well.” It’s Shakespeare. You always did love Shakespeare
My dear friend, if you are reading this letter then I am sure you have killed me. I congratulate you. I don’t know what day it is, but I hope it reads well on my gravestone. You always see those people there who have had the bad luck to die on some odd sounding day of the year, like January 23rd, 2507. Too many syllables. Give me a May 1st any day.
Will, I want you to understand that I never once wished any harm to the Confederacy. Truly, I had no choice in the matter, and I spent every waking moment trying to think of a plan to turn things around. I hope you can see that... I will not say that you would have done the same in my place, but know that I leave you not with regret, not with anger - but with joy. Joy because my threat is no more.
All these years we served under the flag. The brown, blue, and green. The Star and the Key. Did we ever figure out what it meant? What we stood for? What we fought for? I never did. But absence of reason, I’ve found, is no cause to abandon belief. I hope that you find the same.
I say [i]served under the flag[/i], but in your case perhaps I should say [i]will continue to serve[/i]. I pray you will. But nevertheless, you will go your way, and I of course, mine. I’m hoping I’ll see you after this life, but if fate has it that we split ways, I hope that it is you who finds an eternity in the presence of God. I know you never bought into that “religious crap,” but humor a dead man.
I am sure that I owe you my account of the past few months. Rather, you owe it to [i]yourself[/i] to read my explanation.
They came in the early days of the year. Black suits and the whole routine. One of them was tall, dark skinned, short black hair and all that. The other was medium height, but solid as a rock. Well, they wore the badges of the Confederacy and asked if I was alone. I said yes and invited them in. Misha was at that dancing convention - you remember, we went clubbing the night after she left. Stupid idea. Was it mine or yours? My God, I do ramble on. Well, I figured that these men were going to give me some sort of special mission. A chance to move up in the ranks, maybe make Captain. I remember thinking how you would react. The both of us, Captains in the Corps...
So I invited the fellows in, thought maybe I’d bring out some drinks or something. My invitation, it seemed, went completely unheeded. They pushed right by me and started checking the entire place out. They asked me, of all things, if my place was wired. That made me wonder. It’s down in our constitution somewhere that we have the right to record whatever we want in our own homes. I know, I looked into it afterwards. Thought maybe I could find a legal loophole.
‘Standard security system is all,’ I answer. And apparently that’s some sort of indication that they need to close all my shades and shut down my power hub. Well, by now I’m a bit upset as I’m sure you can understand. I’ve never been one to be pushed around by anyone, unless clear reason can be shown, and Misha was supposed to return from dance class at any minute.
‘What’s the meaning of all this?’ I say finally losing my temper. I find myself sprawled out on the floor in response, the mark of the raygun still burning in my side. I don’t remember which one did it, but I wanted the bastard dead. But they throw this file next to my face, even as I writhe there, and ask me to open it. The tall one moves off to inspect the rest of my house, and starts fiddling with the trinkets on my mantelpiece. Then he’s off somewhere else, waving a sensor around like a madman and pushing buttons into its display.
I opened the file, expecting some sort of fabricated criminal evidence against me. Why else would Confederate officers assault their own soldiers? But it wasn’t evidence. It wasn’t a mission briefing either, as I had thought earlier. They were pictures.
You have to understand, Will. They had Misha. The whole time, they had Misha. What was I supposed to do? I tried to think of a way to let HQ know that I was under the thumb, but they put a patch on my system. Anything wired to me was forwarded to them. Anything recorded by me as well. And I couldn’t risk it. My Misha! She had asked me to go with her that week. To the dance thing. But I wanted to party with the guys. I could have protected her, done something...
So they lay it out for me, plain and simple. I give them HQ schematics, they give me Misha. They must have thought me a moron. I bring them the schematics and they let me go? Please.
They ask me if everything’s clear. I lie and say yes. They hit me with the raygun anyway. And that was the last I saw of them. They always sent two new guys, or had me meet at this restaurant, or that diner.
I got the names of a few. Pseudonyms, of course, but I hope they help. I hope you neutralize the bastards.
Jonah, dark skinned, a little over 6 feet tall, slim build, short black hair.
Barry, medium build, maybe 5’8”, short brown curls.
Sean, medium build, maybe 5’10”, short blonde curls.
Hunt, 5’4”, bald
Walsh, 5’8”, large dragon tattoo on right wrist, probably all the way up his arm too.
Charlie, unknown height (I only saw him seated), but a scar on his nose, left side.
I regret to say that you were too late. I already gave them the schematics to HQ. I doctored them up a bit, enough for you to lay a trap in the East wing, but they’re getting a lot of free information with it as is. I’m sorry. If you take a look at the eastern underground access tunnel, it has a checkpoint in it. In the fakes I gave them, I edited it out. That’s where they’ll go, I know it. If you set up a post you should be able at least to detain anyone with the characteristics I mentioned above. Hopefully you get them.
If you find Misha, tell her that I love her and I’m sorry. And if you could, friend, lay a single white rose on my grave so that I’ll know she’s well. Trust me, I’ll know. I doubt I’ll be buried with any honors, but I’m okay with that. You’ll have to try and get me in the Rosewood Cemetery. You know, the one close by, with the poplar trees.
You were always a brother to me, Will. You were a saint. Whatever you do, don’t feel bad for taking my life - it had to be done. Even God can understand that.
Your brother in arms,
Michael
P.S. “I pray you, in your reports, when you shall these unlucky deeds relate, speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate, nor set down aught in malice. Then must you speak of one that loved not wisely but too well.” It’s Shakespeare. You always did love Shakespeare
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
One Last Shot
The rungs of the ladder that I used to climb
fall away as I wonder if going up was right
not that I have the time to think
that I did growing up as a child
it’s all wasted...
and intellect, it lasts as long as love lives on
but not before creation flows,
a fee that’s paid for by your landlord.
Waiting is an invitation to all your vices
shake their hands and roll the dice,
decide your fate in a game of chance
but not before you wave goodbye
and hope that with your one last shot
you clear the way for the future,
not the one you thought you’d choose
but good enough to keep you clean.
fall away as I wonder if going up was right
not that I have the time to think
that I did growing up as a child
it’s all wasted...
and intellect, it lasts as long as love lives on
but not before creation flows,
a fee that’s paid for by your landlord.
Waiting is an invitation to all your vices
shake their hands and roll the dice,
decide your fate in a game of chance
but not before you wave goodbye
and hope that with your one last shot
you clear the way for the future,
not the one you thought you’d choose
but good enough to keep you clean.
Sunday, August 16, 2009
My Worst Trait
As if this pen could fix a thing
This pad, it is nothing but the means to an end
As every opportunity wasted serves to attest
that I, when at my lonliest have nothing
nothing to say--and nothing said, I settle
in my pillowed bed
awaiting a morning no more bright
And though the sun may rise
it sinks as well.
Litturae sends my soul to hell
I look up from below to see
the faces I once knew surpassing me
in life. They flew a little higher,
avoiding situations dire as mine.
Encapsulated by this tomb I scratch these rocks
but it's too late. Indifference.
It's my worst trait.
This pad, it is nothing but the means to an end
As every opportunity wasted serves to attest
that I, when at my lonliest have nothing
nothing to say--and nothing said, I settle
in my pillowed bed
awaiting a morning no more bright
And though the sun may rise
it sinks as well.
Litturae sends my soul to hell
I look up from below to see
the faces I once knew surpassing me
in life. They flew a little higher,
avoiding situations dire as mine.
Encapsulated by this tomb I scratch these rocks
but it's too late. Indifference.
It's my worst trait.
Sunday, July 5, 2009
Awake in the Mourning
To write is to decide that certain words in a certain order hold some sort of meaning, and more, to write is to decide that those words are worth their labor.
Writers put in time, and cash in their rewards (which they sign up for early on--payment plans include but are not limited to self-gratification, recognition of others, preservation of events/thoughts/time, etc.).
As writers, [they're] often asked why [they] do it (if you haven't figured it out, [they're] the ones doing the asking). [The writer] knows [he's/she's] thought about it. [He's/She's] even written about it. [The writer] reasoned that it was something [he/she] enjoyed and left it at that.
Really, though, [the writer] thinks [he/she] just want attention, and this is [his/her] ideal way of getting it. They have a payment option for that? Sign [this writer] up.
Of course, attention or recognition (or, hell, even acknowledgment would do), are contingent upon other people reading what [the writer] has to write.
In lieu of this luxury, [the writer] realizes that [he/she] can compose word combinations mentally just as easily as [he/she] can literally (as the latin root relates to "by the letter"), and ceases to do the latter.
Does the world mourn?
[This writer] does.
Writers put in time, and cash in their rewards (which they sign up for early on--payment plans include but are not limited to self-gratification, recognition of others, preservation of events/thoughts/time, etc.).
As writers, [they're] often asked why [they] do it (if you haven't figured it out, [they're] the ones doing the asking). [The writer] knows [he's/she's] thought about it. [He's/She's] even written about it. [The writer] reasoned that it was something [he/she] enjoyed and left it at that.
Really, though, [the writer] thinks [he/she] just want attention, and this is [his/her] ideal way of getting it. They have a payment option for that? Sign [this writer] up.
Of course, attention or recognition (or, hell, even acknowledgment would do), are contingent upon other people reading what [the writer] has to write.
In lieu of this luxury, [the writer] realizes that [he/she] can compose word combinations mentally just as easily as [he/she] can literally (as the latin root relates to "by the letter"), and ceases to do the latter.
Does the world mourn?
[This writer] does.
Captain (with new version!)
A variation on “Those Winter Sundays” by Robert Hayden
Summers also Captain woke early
And cawed his beak off in the early dawn
Then with soft chirps that soothed
From grogginess in the lazy morning, made
Sleepy eyes open. Mike never thanked him.
Captain would sit and dream of the day opening, unfolding.
When his cage was opened he’d float
And flutter. Mike could cook and clean,
Knowing the resulting freedoms of that schedule,
Calling furiously at Captain
Who had knocked over the vase
And nudged all the picture frames as well
What did Mike know, what did Mike know
Of friendship’s veiled and subtle avenues?
---
In summertime especially, Captain woke early
with a chirp and a wrraawk! that shook the blinds.
Mike would wake, grey sheets over eyes
that refused to give in without a fight.
Morning moans battled beating wings,
but Captain’s wake up call was triumphant.
Mike never thanked him.
When Captain’s cage was opened he’d hop around,
warm up laps for the final show,
then take off in wide circles.
Mike would cook breakfast for them both,
clean the dishes he had left from the night before,
and call furiously at Captain,
who had tipped over the vase
and nudged all the picture frames just so—
especially that picture of Karen
the one with the white dress, from last August—
as if to say “Where did she go?”
And Mike would stop washing the dishes.
He would stop, and considering the magnitude of things,
he would cry.
Summers also Captain woke early
And cawed his beak off in the early dawn
Then with soft chirps that soothed
From grogginess in the lazy morning, made
Sleepy eyes open. Mike never thanked him.
Captain would sit and dream of the day opening, unfolding.
When his cage was opened he’d float
And flutter. Mike could cook and clean,
Knowing the resulting freedoms of that schedule,
Calling furiously at Captain
Who had knocked over the vase
And nudged all the picture frames as well
What did Mike know, what did Mike know
Of friendship’s veiled and subtle avenues?
---
In summertime especially, Captain woke early
with a chirp and a wrraawk! that shook the blinds.
Mike would wake, grey sheets over eyes
that refused to give in without a fight.
Morning moans battled beating wings,
but Captain’s wake up call was triumphant.
Mike never thanked him.
When Captain’s cage was opened he’d hop around,
warm up laps for the final show,
then take off in wide circles.
Mike would cook breakfast for them both,
clean the dishes he had left from the night before,
and call furiously at Captain,
who had tipped over the vase
and nudged all the picture frames just so—
especially that picture of Karen
the one with the white dress, from last August—
as if to say “Where did she go?”
And Mike would stop washing the dishes.
He would stop, and considering the magnitude of things,
he would cry.
Point Being? (with new version!)
Because we all know that sex is the darker side of loneliness, and acoustic guitar is a better balm then most, I think I’ll just head back to my place. Besides, we know no more about each other than ice cream flavors; you’re a chocolate mint and I’m not quite okay with that. I’ll walk you to your car I guess, and I’ll probably offer to call you sometime soon. I don’t think I will. The heatwaves rising off the pavement are interfering with the signal. Anyway, I think of you and me and recoil. You’re sweet, of course, but really, you’re not my type. The heatwaves stop jamming radar and go back to work burning bridges. Did I get off in time? I imagine myself crisp and blackened, like a tortilla left on a stove too long, and duck inside. The trees reflect a living green, livid that I would privilege my whitewash walls and subtle melodies over springtime sanctity. What can I say? What can I say? Quicksand forms beneath my feet (not so much forms as is acknowledged by the author who is, only now, questioning what he should do). Right now I’m thinking “find a girl,” but what’s the point. Right? When I still remember what it’s like to hold her hand, what’s the point?
---
Because we all know that sex is the darker side of loneliness, and acoustic guitar is a better balm than most, I think I’ll just head back to my place. Besides, we know little more about each other than ice cream flavors; you’re a chocolate mint and I’m not quite okay with that. I’ll walk you to your car I guess, and probably offer to call you sometime soon. I don’t think I will. The heatwaves rising off the pavement are interfering with the signal. Before long, though, they’ll go back to burning bridges, while I wave at you from the other side of the bank.
I duck inside my apartment to escape the midday heat and sit immobile from a spell. Outside, the trees leer at me with living green, livid that I would privilege my whitewash walls and subtle melodies over springtime sunshine. I try to explain, but they shake their leaves from side to side. “We cannot understand,” they say, or maybe “No excuses.” What can I say, though? Quicksand forms beneath my feet (not so much forms as is acknowledged by the author who is, only now, questioning what he should do). Right now I’m thinking “find a girl,” but what’s the point? Right? When I still remember what it’s like to hold her hand, what’s the point?
---
Because we all know that sex is the darker side of loneliness, and acoustic guitar is a better balm than most, I think I’ll just head back to my place. Besides, we know little more about each other than ice cream flavors; you’re a chocolate mint and I’m not quite okay with that. I’ll walk you to your car I guess, and probably offer to call you sometime soon. I don’t think I will. The heatwaves rising off the pavement are interfering with the signal. Before long, though, they’ll go back to burning bridges, while I wave at you from the other side of the bank.
I duck inside my apartment to escape the midday heat and sit immobile from a spell. Outside, the trees leer at me with living green, livid that I would privilege my whitewash walls and subtle melodies over springtime sunshine. I try to explain, but they shake their leaves from side to side. “We cannot understand,” they say, or maybe “No excuses.” What can I say, though? Quicksand forms beneath my feet (not so much forms as is acknowledged by the author who is, only now, questioning what he should do). Right now I’m thinking “find a girl,” but what’s the point? Right? When I still remember what it’s like to hold her hand, what’s the point?
Granite-Grinding (with new version!)
We build each other up, you know.
It goes to show what we can do
When we are at the last removed
From granite-grinding dusk to dawn.
Like when I said let’s get some chai
And figured out an alibi for why
My homework wouldn’t be complete
(I’m sick, and that’s the very least).
We walked along the streetlamp road.
I told you that my week was good
But it wasn’t. You seemed to know;
I thought to talk
But when I tried to speak I choked
And all the things I meant to say
Were lost to me, just the same.
Our drinks emptied themselves;
Rings of foam restrained from lips
That thirst for the apocalypse.
You went your way and I went mine
Awaiting what would be the next time.
And even though I hardly know
Which way to go
I often see
You, friend
Beside me.
---
We build each other up, you know.
It goes to show what we can do
when we are at the last removed
from granite-grinding dusk to dawn.
Like when I said let’s get some chai
and figured out an alibi for why
my homework wouldn’t be complete
(I’m sick, and that’s the very least).
We walked along the streetlamp road.
I told you that my week was good.
You nodded in that way you do
when what I say is not quite true.
We sat there while our drinks were brewed
and finally you asked what’s up.
But when I tried to speak I choked,
and all the things I needed to say…
Our drinks emptied themselves;
rings of foam restrained from lips
that thirst for the apocalypse.
You went your way and I went mine.
At times I thought the black of night
would touch me with a darker soul.
But then I saw, and now I see
that you, my friend, are beside me.
It goes to show what we can do
When we are at the last removed
From granite-grinding dusk to dawn.
Like when I said let’s get some chai
And figured out an alibi for why
My homework wouldn’t be complete
(I’m sick, and that’s the very least).
We walked along the streetlamp road.
I told you that my week was good
But it wasn’t. You seemed to know;
I thought to talk
But when I tried to speak I choked
And all the things I meant to say
Were lost to me, just the same.
Our drinks emptied themselves;
Rings of foam restrained from lips
That thirst for the apocalypse.
You went your way and I went mine
Awaiting what would be the next time.
And even though I hardly know
Which way to go
I often see
You, friend
Beside me.
---
We build each other up, you know.
It goes to show what we can do
when we are at the last removed
from granite-grinding dusk to dawn.
Like when I said let’s get some chai
and figured out an alibi for why
my homework wouldn’t be complete
(I’m sick, and that’s the very least).
We walked along the streetlamp road.
I told you that my week was good.
You nodded in that way you do
when what I say is not quite true.
We sat there while our drinks were brewed
and finally you asked what’s up.
But when I tried to speak I choked,
and all the things I needed to say…
Our drinks emptied themselves;
rings of foam restrained from lips
that thirst for the apocalypse.
You went your way and I went mine.
At times I thought the black of night
would touch me with a darker soul.
But then I saw, and now I see
that you, my friend, are beside me.
Monster Truck (with new version!)
(New version following the original)
On Sundays after church we’d cross the street
and head to Albertson’s—but not before
the dollar store, where Mom would front the cash
in order to substantiate our needs.
Cheap plastic was the gold of youth; to Mom
we were but fountains of the stuff. (Which stuff?)
It always worked—content with “new!” we made
no fuss while she was looking for the non-
fat milk and wholegrain bread and pancake mix.
To her loving deception we were blind
We knew no better, but who cared? I had
a monster truck, in red, and Andrew had
a white and blue robot (he said it could
shoot lasers from it’s eyes—I said my truck
could run him down). The time did not last quite
so long as we had feared. Ironically
my truck endured no longer; battle left
it more or less in ruins, plastic bones
across a bone white desert of floor tile.
The burial was improvised—the trash
received the mortal skeletons of joy
and Mother said, before we left, one arm
around my shoulder like a sheet of light,
“We must take care of all the things we love.”
---
Monster Truck
On Sundays after church we’d cross the street and head to Albertson’s,
but not before the dollar store, where Mom would front the cash
in order to fulfill our childhood needs; two active minds
routinely screamed “STIMULATE ME!” If not by running down the aisles,
then being boys (and making noise) would send the message. Mom preferred alternatives;
something not-quite-a-bribe, but close. Cheap plastic was the gold of youth;
to her we were but fountains of the stuff. It always worked—content with “new!”
we made no fuss while she was looking for
the non-fat milk and wholegrain bread and pancake mix.
We thought nothing of her loving deception, and who cared?
I had a monster truck, in red, and Andrew had a white and blue robot.
(He said it could shoot lasers from its eyes—I said my truck could run him down).
The shopping did not last as long as we had feared.
My truck lasted no longer; battle left it more or less in ruins,
plastic bones across a bone white desert of floor tile.
The burial was improvised—the trash received the mortal skeletons of joy,
and Mother said, before we left, one arm around my shoulder like some sheet of light,
“We must take care of all the things we love.”
On Sundays after church we’d cross the street
and head to Albertson’s—but not before
the dollar store, where Mom would front the cash
in order to substantiate our needs.
Cheap plastic was the gold of youth; to Mom
we were but fountains of the stuff. (Which stuff?)
It always worked—content with “new!” we made
no fuss while she was looking for the non-
fat milk and wholegrain bread and pancake mix.
To her loving deception we were blind
We knew no better, but who cared? I had
a monster truck, in red, and Andrew had
a white and blue robot (he said it could
shoot lasers from it’s eyes—I said my truck
could run him down). The time did not last quite
so long as we had feared. Ironically
my truck endured no longer; battle left
it more or less in ruins, plastic bones
across a bone white desert of floor tile.
The burial was improvised—the trash
received the mortal skeletons of joy
and Mother said, before we left, one arm
around my shoulder like a sheet of light,
“We must take care of all the things we love.”
---
Monster Truck
On Sundays after church we’d cross the street and head to Albertson’s,
but not before the dollar store, where Mom would front the cash
in order to fulfill our childhood needs; two active minds
routinely screamed “STIMULATE ME!” If not by running down the aisles,
then being boys (and making noise) would send the message. Mom preferred alternatives;
something not-quite-a-bribe, but close. Cheap plastic was the gold of youth;
to her we were but fountains of the stuff. It always worked—content with “new!”
we made no fuss while she was looking for
the non-fat milk and wholegrain bread and pancake mix.
We thought nothing of her loving deception, and who cared?
I had a monster truck, in red, and Andrew had a white and blue robot.
(He said it could shoot lasers from its eyes—I said my truck could run him down).
The shopping did not last as long as we had feared.
My truck lasted no longer; battle left it more or less in ruins,
plastic bones across a bone white desert of floor tile.
The burial was improvised—the trash received the mortal skeletons of joy,
and Mother said, before we left, one arm around my shoulder like some sheet of light,
“We must take care of all the things we love.”
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Demon Eyes
At night, from a distance, stoplights channel demons.
Eyes glaring red threaten to pierce my soul.
They smolder in the distance, looks of rage
undo my calm, until at last
we drive past.
Eyes glaring red threaten to pierce my soul.
They smolder in the distance, looks of rage
undo my calm, until at last
we drive past.
Night Drive
is the name of a song that a friend of mine wrote
and in it he spoke of the road, and how it helped him forget.
Dark. Empty. Eternal. Unassuming. Unpresumptive.
It swallows all of our darkness, our sadness, our emptiness.
It devours all of our failings, our fallings, our foolishness.
Ingesting shadows, with no contract for return.
We take them back, of course, when the sun rises red,
and the road lights up with a thousand souls.
We have to, really. To be human.
and in it he spoke of the road, and how it helped him forget.
Dark. Empty. Eternal. Unassuming. Unpresumptive.
It swallows all of our darkness, our sadness, our emptiness.
It devours all of our failings, our fallings, our foolishness.
Ingesting shadows, with no contract for return.
We take them back, of course, when the sun rises red,
and the road lights up with a thousand souls.
We have to, really. To be human.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Sun Cycle (Final Edit?)
The sun will set forever
As it falls every night into dusk.
No matter the strength of the weather,
Like clockwork, it falls as it must.
It will sink every night into dusk
Tearing a rift in the sky as it flees.
Like clockwork, it falls as it must,
Tunneling through the horizon with ease.
Tearing a rift in the sky as it flees
It drops behind mountain ridge blades.
It tunnels through the horizon with ease
As the earth’s final bugle is played.
It drops behind mountain ridge blades,
Yet a birthday cake candle burns bright;
And the earth’s final bugle is played
Just before someone blows out the light.
And a birthday cake candle burns bright
As the planet is shaken by weather.
The Son of God blows out the light
On the day that the sun sets forever.
As it falls every night into dusk.
No matter the strength of the weather,
Like clockwork, it falls as it must.
It will sink every night into dusk
Tearing a rift in the sky as it flees.
Like clockwork, it falls as it must,
Tunneling through the horizon with ease.
Tearing a rift in the sky as it flees
It drops behind mountain ridge blades.
It tunnels through the horizon with ease
As the earth’s final bugle is played.
It drops behind mountain ridge blades,
Yet a birthday cake candle burns bright;
And the earth’s final bugle is played
Just before someone blows out the light.
And a birthday cake candle burns bright
As the planet is shaken by weather.
The Son of God blows out the light
On the day that the sun sets forever.
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Table Hockey
Cuts
back and forth.
William Shatner on potassium.
Pity pecker presses
the agendas. She wants apple pie
But
wait a tic
her finger ringed suggests this wedding
is the girls, not unlike
the dresses, flowers, or her hair.
Pie?
Apple pie.
But Mrs. Roberts, I would really
I mean—traditional...
We—Joe and I—would like a cake
back and forth.
William Shatner on potassium.
Pity pecker presses
the agendas. She wants apple pie
But
wait a tic
her finger ringed suggests this wedding
is the girls, not unlike
the dresses, flowers, or her hair.
Pie?
Apple pie.
But Mrs. Roberts, I would really
I mean—traditional...
We—Joe and I—would like a cake
This is a Good Episode
The TV chatters away like some engaging aunt.
Submarines dive to crush depth.
Gunfire erupts
and cools
and erupts
and cools
like some unstable Hawaiian mountain of fire.
This is a good episode.
The TV is actually a computer
in the library
because I can’t afford the
Comcast service package and
even if I could
I’d rather not.
It’s quiet in here.
Students study on the couches.
Students study on the computers next to me.
I’ve gone over the signs thoroughly
to ensure that I’m allowed
to use these facilities to my own ends
and I can.
(I prepare myself for the inevitable,
the part where I explain/lie about how
my current media class requires such and such
It’s a good speech).
Just now, a character breaks down in tears.
Holy shit.
This is a good episode.
Submarines dive to crush depth.
Gunfire erupts
and cools
and erupts
and cools
like some unstable Hawaiian mountain of fire.
This is a good episode.
The TV is actually a computer
in the library
because I can’t afford the
Comcast service package and
even if I could
I’d rather not.
It’s quiet in here.
Students study on the couches.
Students study on the computers next to me.
I’ve gone over the signs thoroughly
to ensure that I’m allowed
to use these facilities to my own ends
and I can.
(I prepare myself for the inevitable,
the part where I explain/lie about how
my current media class requires such and such
It’s a good speech).
Just now, a character breaks down in tears.
Holy shit.
This is a good episode.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Sun Cycle: or, The End of the World (+ New Version)
The sun sets forever
In the mountains it sinks
Through all kinds of weather
It neither sleeps nor thinks
In the mountains it sinks
through the rocks and the trees
It neither sleeps or thinks
In the dark mountain's teeth
Through the rocks and the trees
Through all kinds of weather
In the dark mountain's teeth
When the sun sets forever
NEW VERSION!
Sun Cycle: or, The End of the World
The sun will set forever
At the end of each day it will sink
No matter the strength of the weather
Like clockwork, while gazing eyes blink
At the end of each day it will sink
Through cloud forms and rocks and through seas
Like clockwork, while gazing eyes blink
The sun tears a rift in the breeze
Through cloud forms and rocks and through seas
It drops behind mountain ridge blades
The sun tears a rift in the breeze
Tomorrow’s beginning to fade
It drops behind mountain ridge blades
And a birthday cake candle burns bright
Tomorrow’s beginning to fade
As if someone just blew out the light
And a birthday cake candle burns bright
As my body is slammed by the weather
The Son of God blows out the light
On the day that the sun sets forever
In the mountains it sinks
Through all kinds of weather
It neither sleeps nor thinks
In the mountains it sinks
through the rocks and the trees
It neither sleeps or thinks
In the dark mountain's teeth
Through the rocks and the trees
Through all kinds of weather
In the dark mountain's teeth
When the sun sets forever
NEW VERSION!
Sun Cycle: or, The End of the World
The sun will set forever
At the end of each day it will sink
No matter the strength of the weather
Like clockwork, while gazing eyes blink
At the end of each day it will sink
Through cloud forms and rocks and through seas
Like clockwork, while gazing eyes blink
The sun tears a rift in the breeze
Through cloud forms and rocks and through seas
It drops behind mountain ridge blades
The sun tears a rift in the breeze
Tomorrow’s beginning to fade
It drops behind mountain ridge blades
And a birthday cake candle burns bright
Tomorrow’s beginning to fade
As if someone just blew out the light
And a birthday cake candle burns bright
As my body is slammed by the weather
The Son of God blows out the light
On the day that the sun sets forever
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Against You, Too (with new version!)
"Rage, rage against the dying of the light"
This is the way the words in the book lie.
My thanks, Dylan Thomas, for freeing me. Too
often am I stuck in sap, sickly sweet. I pine
away the last days on an arid steppe
Comforted only by this book's leaves.
The bones of the earth crunch--the sun drops like a bowling ball, leaving
no sign that it ever was. All that remains is the moon's dim light,
and the hope (so small) that when I take the last step
towards salvation, I will not stumble into a lie.
The dying of the light comes to tree, to pine.
It rages against you, too.
---
Against Us, Too
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light”
I consider the way that the words in the book lie,
and wonder how much he knew—Dylan Thomas, I mean—
about the death of light. I wonder if he knew
of the passing from visible to infrared.
Of wavelength, nanometers, amplitude.
An uncanny shift; a bloom to a bud,
a dusk to a dawn. What was he really raging against?
I don’t have the heart in me to summon fire.
I spend instead the world’s final day on an arid steppe
comforted only by the letters here assembled.
No matter how long I read, how strained my thoughts are,
the bones of the Earth crunch—the sun drops like a bowling ball,
leaving no sign that it ever was. I rise by the moon’s aluminum light,
with only the hope (so small) that when I take the last step
towards salvation, I will not stumble into a lie.
The world dips into darkness, but gathering breath,
with book in hand and hand over heart,
I cross the edge between earth and sky
and fall.
The end of the light comes to oak, to pine.
It rages against us, too.
This is the way the words in the book lie.
My thanks, Dylan Thomas, for freeing me. Too
often am I stuck in sap, sickly sweet. I pine
away the last days on an arid steppe
Comforted only by this book's leaves.
The bones of the earth crunch--the sun drops like a bowling ball, leaving
no sign that it ever was. All that remains is the moon's dim light,
and the hope (so small) that when I take the last step
towards salvation, I will not stumble into a lie.
The dying of the light comes to tree, to pine.
It rages against you, too.
---
Against Us, Too
“Rage, rage against the dying of the light”
I consider the way that the words in the book lie,
and wonder how much he knew—Dylan Thomas, I mean—
about the death of light. I wonder if he knew
of the passing from visible to infrared.
Of wavelength, nanometers, amplitude.
An uncanny shift; a bloom to a bud,
a dusk to a dawn. What was he really raging against?
I don’t have the heart in me to summon fire.
I spend instead the world’s final day on an arid steppe
comforted only by the letters here assembled.
No matter how long I read, how strained my thoughts are,
the bones of the Earth crunch—the sun drops like a bowling ball,
leaving no sign that it ever was. I rise by the moon’s aluminum light,
with only the hope (so small) that when I take the last step
towards salvation, I will not stumble into a lie.
The world dips into darkness, but gathering breath,
with book in hand and hand over heart,
I cross the edge between earth and sky
and fall.
The end of the light comes to oak, to pine.
It rages against us, too.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Have a Good Day!
I work in retail, so I hear this a lot. In fact, I hear it about as much as I say it. It's become (well, became a long time ago) a commonplace phrase, used by anyone and everyone to express a generalized sense of good wishes.
Repetition and familiarity of course lends itself to insincerity and non-intimacy. Case in point--have you ever heard the phrase "three little words"? "I love you" is so "commonly thrown around" (see all the quotes?) that we begin to question how genuine these phrases really are when they're spoken. The following question, then, is what do we mean by "have a good day"?
But if you deconstruct the phrase in itself, and think about what it is that you're saying, and think about what it is that you're meaning... you'll probably realize that you actually, genuinely mean it when you say it.
It's certainly not the other way around--I don't wish ill on anyone that I come into contact with. What else is there but to wish for the unification of joy?
Owing it all to nothing more than our similarities, our humanity, we're more in love with each other than we realize.
Repetition and familiarity of course lends itself to insincerity and non-intimacy. Case in point--have you ever heard the phrase "three little words"? "I love you" is so "commonly thrown around" (see all the quotes?) that we begin to question how genuine these phrases really are when they're spoken. The following question, then, is what do we mean by "have a good day"?
But if you deconstruct the phrase in itself, and think about what it is that you're saying, and think about what it is that you're meaning... you'll probably realize that you actually, genuinely mean it when you say it.
It's certainly not the other way around--I don't wish ill on anyone that I come into contact with. What else is there but to wish for the unification of joy?
Owing it all to nothing more than our similarities, our humanity, we're more in love with each other than we realize.
Connections
the connections we share
with others
are so much more important
than any of this
school nonsense
with others
are so much more important
than any of this
school nonsense
Monday, April 20, 2009
The Light at the End
Sick, I
lay in bed past ten
and mourn mortality.
It started Thursday;
so did work,
which I suffered through
like a champ, for four days.
Four days!
The yellow cuffs of
that black OfficeMax polo
crept up my arm,
tickled their way past my collarbone,
whispered terrors in my ear
and dove into my throat
day after day.
And somewhere now a bell is ringing
high above Denny Hall;
feet march off buses, down streets
up stairwells, through rosewood doors.
Class begins
but I’m not there.
I’ve suffered enough
at the hands of responsibility
and await instead the haven
of tonight’s softball game.
lay in bed past ten
and mourn mortality.
It started Thursday;
so did work,
which I suffered through
like a champ, for four days.
Four days!
The yellow cuffs of
that black OfficeMax polo
crept up my arm,
tickled their way past my collarbone,
whispered terrors in my ear
and dove into my throat
day after day.
And somewhere now a bell is ringing
high above Denny Hall;
feet march off buses, down streets
up stairwells, through rosewood doors.
Class begins
but I’m not there.
I’ve suffered enough
at the hands of responsibility
and await instead the haven
of tonight’s softball game.
Monday, April 13, 2009
Tuesday
The sun was out, which,
being rare enough, was complimented by
the scarcity of days-off between Luke and I.
We headed for the beach.
It was, I think, a no-brainer,
considering the weightlessness of the rays,
the weightlessness of the backpacks not on our shoulders,
and of the music playing bright.
The beach was cold as hell,
but a length of rope, hung down from
the ambitious limb of some coastal tree,
provided counterwarmth,
both in times being had
and in the company of Greg,
a tall dark stranger
with dredlocks past his shoulders,
a black shirt and a nose ring.
His niche in the sand held a guitar,
some cheap champagne, whisky, and grass—
And everyone can appreciate a rope swing
and skipping rocks into the ocean
so we did that for a while;
a network of wispy clouds,
brushing against one another over the tide
and passing on to horizons not shared.
So Luke and I left our friend
Left champagne
Left whisky
Left grass
We bought some energy drinks and went on
with our Tuesday.
being rare enough, was complimented by
the scarcity of days-off between Luke and I.
We headed for the beach.
It was, I think, a no-brainer,
considering the weightlessness of the rays,
the weightlessness of the backpacks not on our shoulders,
and of the music playing bright.
The beach was cold as hell,
but a length of rope, hung down from
the ambitious limb of some coastal tree,
provided counterwarmth,
both in times being had
and in the company of Greg,
a tall dark stranger
with dredlocks past his shoulders,
a black shirt and a nose ring.
His niche in the sand held a guitar,
some cheap champagne, whisky, and grass—
And everyone can appreciate a rope swing
and skipping rocks into the ocean
so we did that for a while;
a network of wispy clouds,
brushing against one another over the tide
and passing on to horizons not shared.
So Luke and I left our friend
Left champagne
Left whisky
Left grass
We bought some energy drinks and went on
with our Tuesday.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Sailboat to Nowhere
I'm on a wave tonight
which is not to say that I want to be
(or that I don't).
The moon offers a faint glow,
second-hand rays of light creep across the deck
where they give way to the shadows of the sails.
I'm on a wave tonight
which is not to say that I want to be.
Directional inclinations would be nice
for then I might know which wave
went where
or I could tell...
something.
I don't know.
This stillness is killing me.
How do they expect me to last
these weeks in solitude?
My chains clink in somber answer.
They don't.
which is not to say that I want to be
(or that I don't).
The moon offers a faint glow,
second-hand rays of light creep across the deck
where they give way to the shadows of the sails.
I'm on a wave tonight
which is not to say that I want to be.
Directional inclinations would be nice
for then I might know which wave
went where
or I could tell...
something.
I don't know.
This stillness is killing me.
How do they expect me to last
these weeks in solitude?
My chains clink in somber answer.
They don't.
Abandon All Fear, Ye Who Enter Here
So I told a friend of mine that I had based a character off of her in one of my posts (not saying which one) and she told me how scared she wast to read it, which I found funny... until I realized that I was just as scared for her to read it. No writer wants a person to be offended by their writing, let alone writing that involves characters directly influenced by that person.
Before I got her feedback, I was a little worried, and thought maybe I had made a mistake in telling her about it at all. But then I was like, wait... that's stupid.
We need to talk to each other. Not my friend and I specifically, but all of us as people. We need to share experiences and emotions and stories and our lives.
As I've said before, "We must, as a society, overcome the fear of addressing strangers in broad daylight." While that's not directly relevant to a friendship, it carries the same spirit.
I'm tired of being afraid of how people will interpret what I say. Why not just say it, and correct them if they're mistaken? The thing is, few as they may be compared to others, I have friends. And yeah, I want to meet new people and make more friends but if for example that doesn't work out it's okay.
In a way it's learning to live more with less, which is a sentiment I can latch on to.
Before I got her feedback, I was a little worried, and thought maybe I had made a mistake in telling her about it at all. But then I was like, wait... that's stupid.
We need to talk to each other. Not my friend and I specifically, but all of us as people. We need to share experiences and emotions and stories and our lives.
As I've said before, "We must, as a society, overcome the fear of addressing strangers in broad daylight." While that's not directly relevant to a friendship, it carries the same spirit.
I'm tired of being afraid of how people will interpret what I say. Why not just say it, and correct them if they're mistaken? The thing is, few as they may be compared to others, I have friends. And yeah, I want to meet new people and make more friends but if for example that doesn't work out it's okay.
In a way it's learning to live more with less, which is a sentiment I can latch on to.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Fake
Darren swung back and forth lethargically. His head was bent, and on the downswings of his arc, his feet would scuttle across the ground, kicking up plumes of dust. In time, his arc would decay, and be set in motion once more by a languid push.
Across the lake, the reddening sun fell to the earth. It pushed against what little air separated it from the horizon, creating a wave of pressure that hit Darren in the form of a warm breeze. He lifted his head and heard a crunching of gravel, characteristic of car tires in a parking lot. Turning his head revealed the white Corsica of Karen Moore. Darren looked back over the water and continued swinging, but now more conscious of his body he fiddled with his hands as she approached.
“I love the swings,” she said, setting down her purse and hopping into the swing next to his. They rocked for a while in silence. “I betcha I can go higher,” she teased.
“I’m not in the mood,” Darren replied, head down again. They swung back and forth a few more times. “It’s just, everybody I know is so fake, you know? Fucking Carl thinks he’s the best actor in the world, but if he’s not going to take notes the whole show’s going to suck. And Karly…”
“Am I fake?” Karen asked, slowing her motion to a stop. Darren stopped and finally looked over at her. She pursed her lips as if modeling for a fashion magazine, and Darren laughed despite himself.
“Now? Yes.”
“What?” Karen said, Her hand flew to her chest in feigned shock.
Darren laughed. His head was up, his eyes were lit, and for the first time since the horrible play practice, he felt like himself again.
“Thanks for coming out here,” he said, after the laughter had subsided. Karen smiled at him, grabbed her purse, and reached out her hand.
“Come on,” she said, as Darren let her pull him out of the swing. “Lets go get some milkshakes.”
As they left the park, the sun completed its setting. The sky grew dark, and a million points of light shone on two cars winding their way towards the nearest Red Robin.
Adapted from Everything, a Muffled Silence
Across the lake, the reddening sun fell to the earth. It pushed against what little air separated it from the horizon, creating a wave of pressure that hit Darren in the form of a warm breeze. He lifted his head and heard a crunching of gravel, characteristic of car tires in a parking lot. Turning his head revealed the white Corsica of Karen Moore. Darren looked back over the water and continued swinging, but now more conscious of his body he fiddled with his hands as she approached.
“I love the swings,” she said, setting down her purse and hopping into the swing next to his. They rocked for a while in silence. “I betcha I can go higher,” she teased.
“I’m not in the mood,” Darren replied, head down again. They swung back and forth a few more times. “It’s just, everybody I know is so fake, you know? Fucking Carl thinks he’s the best actor in the world, but if he’s not going to take notes the whole show’s going to suck. And Karly…”
“Am I fake?” Karen asked, slowing her motion to a stop. Darren stopped and finally looked over at her. She pursed her lips as if modeling for a fashion magazine, and Darren laughed despite himself.
“Now? Yes.”
“What?” Karen said, Her hand flew to her chest in feigned shock.
Darren laughed. His head was up, his eyes were lit, and for the first time since the horrible play practice, he felt like himself again.
“Thanks for coming out here,” he said, after the laughter had subsided. Karen smiled at him, grabbed her purse, and reached out her hand.
“Come on,” she said, as Darren let her pull him out of the swing. “Lets go get some milkshakes.”
As they left the park, the sun completed its setting. The sky grew dark, and a million points of light shone on two cars winding their way towards the nearest Red Robin.
Adapted from Everything, a Muffled Silence
Monday, March 30, 2009
Ascendency
Like a cloud I rose
drifting upwards to kiss the
needle point of an
earthen cliff.
The pack I carried
clanked against my back
and I paused,
slowed,
stopped completely
to hear the voice of my climbing gear
echo against the great walls of stone.
A faint breeze licked the side
of that face of desolation
like a newborn to a mother's breast.
A blackberry bush, growing against convention
swayed gently in that whir
and I knew I was home.
drifting upwards to kiss the
needle point of an
earthen cliff.
The pack I carried
clanked against my back
and I paused,
slowed,
stopped completely
to hear the voice of my climbing gear
echo against the great walls of stone.
A faint breeze licked the side
of that face of desolation
like a newborn to a mother's breast.
A blackberry bush, growing against convention
swayed gently in that whir
and I knew I was home.
Saturday, March 28, 2009
The Notemaker Ballad
Who, I ask (not knowing why,
or what, or how, or when), am I?
I've asked before, and thought I knew
but always am I reduced to
the thought that maybe in the end
a man alone is man's best friend.
It's not a thought I'd like to keep
but if I don't soon make a leap
it's in this frame of mind I'll stay
no matter what I do or say.
God dammit! Why can't I break free
of social norms constricting me?
I speak as freely as I can
but never do I take the chance
that's laid before me plain to see.
In times like these it's time to be
a one man aristocracy;
to claim the right to speak my mind,
remove myself from daily grind,
destroy the chains that bind the heart
and force us all to stay apart.
For if I play by culture's rule,
and slave along as if a tool
I'll only serve to build a wall
dividing us from one for all.
And all for one will be a dream
that flashes on the silver screen
before the nightman takes us out
because our life is not about
the unity of common man
but sticking to a silly plan
of iron covered up with gold
and all our virtues being sold
to money for a killer deal
because we don't know how to feel
anything anymore.
or what, or how, or when), am I?
I've asked before, and thought I knew
but always am I reduced to
the thought that maybe in the end
a man alone is man's best friend.
It's not a thought I'd like to keep
but if I don't soon make a leap
it's in this frame of mind I'll stay
no matter what I do or say.
God dammit! Why can't I break free
of social norms constricting me?
I speak as freely as I can
but never do I take the chance
that's laid before me plain to see.
In times like these it's time to be
a one man aristocracy;
to claim the right to speak my mind,
remove myself from daily grind,
destroy the chains that bind the heart
and force us all to stay apart.
For if I play by culture's rule,
and slave along as if a tool
I'll only serve to build a wall
dividing us from one for all.
And all for one will be a dream
that flashes on the silver screen
before the nightman takes us out
because our life is not about
the unity of common man
but sticking to a silly plan
of iron covered up with gold
and all our virtues being sold
to money for a killer deal
because we don't know how to feel
anything anymore.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Letter 3: What Would it Take?
If you had disabled PMs, we would have never figured it out. Unless I started talking to Will... I wouldn't call that a failure though. It was fun while it lasted and it gave me a very strong sense of pride. Also I was introduced to Megan which is a good thing too. :) (Our everyday readers will have no idea what we're talking about, but that's okay, I've decided--I'm not writing a letter to them now am I?)
Well I know I've told you the story about how I actually met the Notemaker but I think it's something that deserves a re-pondering... so as I was thinking about it, I was wondering who would make the best Notemaker character... I've realized for a while now that the Notemaker's thoughts aren't so different from what makes other cultures more open. The chasms between us as American's are pretty exclusively American. We have to appologize for everything, even bumping into people. And we think, well, it's not that big of a deal, it's not something we should have to appologize for all the time... but when you think about it, anybody bumping into you without appologizing is instantly a jerk, even if you're not bothered by the fact that it happened.
All this to say that the Notemaker should have some sort of international experience. And I thought about a friend of mine who has some international experience, and I thought about his personality and I realized that he's perfect. :)
Finals went well. I'm pretty sure I laid the beatdown on them (not that big of an accomplishment in the sense of traditional finals). I pretty much waited until the last minute for both, and then just... put out good pieces of work. I did a slam poem for my postcolonial literature class that talked about many of the themes of the class, and everybody clapped after I had finished. (They, uh, didn't clap for anyone else >_>). I had planned on posting it separately, but I might as well just post it here, since it's on topic:
What Would it Take?
by Matt Lund
The end of the course
seems to demand
that we ask the tough questions
or the questions at hand
what’s the point?
what do we do?
when our fifteen choices of peanut butter
stare
back
blankly
and ask us again
what do we do?
understanding hunger does not feed the hungry
understanding loss does not console the suffering
and if it did
have I gone to far to suggest that we
understand at all?
Readers might say, with greatest intent,
“I know what they went through”
Please,
you read it in a book
anyone could take a look
at that and come away with your
“understanding”
But fine, let’s see what it is you’ve read
The Inheritance of Loss? Cast Me Out if you Will? The Hamilton Case?
These books scratch the surface of colonial aftermath
“They’re political works,” you will say
and I’ll laugh
Do you think you felt rape in that last paragraph?
Yes, it’s true they’re political
like it or not
but should we deny what aesthetics they’ve brought
to the table? Or is it that all South Asian works are the same
they all deal with poverty, colonialism, or pain?
So the writers adhere to this system, or what?
we have free speech, yes
but when we at last have been put to the test
will we say what we want to if it will not sell?
I’m being facetious
It’s hard not to be when from every angle,
from every sight I see there’s no right way
no wrong way to interpret these things
authenticity
big elephant in the room
how to please both sides closing in like a tomb
while the publisher sees that the market’s gone west
“They’ll eat this book up, without a contest”
and the grandparents feel that they’re being ignored
while the sellouts get rich and the poor
well
the power of language
to create
to destroy
disenfranchisement is part of the ploy
but America’s drunk on the brown millionaire
just jumping to know that they too get a share
never mind that its fiction
it’s enough that we care
but in seconds turn back to our primetime television
is that wrong?
what obligation do we have to do otherwise?
well the documentarians might say we’re
implicated
that their history is ours
and that’s true to some point
when we look at the sky we can see the same stars
so as people, they might say, we have hardly a choice
we must put aside something in support
(that’s not a mandate of course)
But they’re wrong—I don’t owe anything to Nepal
or to India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, or Sri Lanka
and I don’t know the filmmakers,
I don’t know their child
I don’t have breakfast with their families once in a while
Wait, I’m making this sound all wrong
I don’t mean to say that my thanks don’t belong
at least somewhere
But as you can see
I don’t necessarily owe things to the documentary
Look nobody’s outside of power relations
or culture, or pride
what I’m saying is I’m implicated to myself
It’s not that the film has inspired me to help
it’s that when it’s been said through and through
if it touches me and if it touches you
it’s our feelings to which we owe action, if anything
because in those moments of
held back tears
when you see people make a living
by crushing brick…
Well, let’s throw them computers
and hope that will solve
colonialism
I mean, technology can
as they say
open doors
Is that all we’ve learned at the end of this course?
Or course not!
Globalization is just another name
for easy solutions that, in the end,
have great consequences.
Think Partition
That’s all I have to say
What would it take for me to
fill in the blank
What would it take?
Letter 2
Response 2
Well I know I've told you the story about how I actually met the Notemaker but I think it's something that deserves a re-pondering... so as I was thinking about it, I was wondering who would make the best Notemaker character... I've realized for a while now that the Notemaker's thoughts aren't so different from what makes other cultures more open. The chasms between us as American's are pretty exclusively American. We have to appologize for everything, even bumping into people. And we think, well, it's not that big of a deal, it's not something we should have to appologize for all the time... but when you think about it, anybody bumping into you without appologizing is instantly a jerk, even if you're not bothered by the fact that it happened.
All this to say that the Notemaker should have some sort of international experience. And I thought about a friend of mine who has some international experience, and I thought about his personality and I realized that he's perfect. :)
Finals went well. I'm pretty sure I laid the beatdown on them (not that big of an accomplishment in the sense of traditional finals). I pretty much waited until the last minute for both, and then just... put out good pieces of work. I did a slam poem for my postcolonial literature class that talked about many of the themes of the class, and everybody clapped after I had finished. (They, uh, didn't clap for anyone else >_>). I had planned on posting it separately, but I might as well just post it here, since it's on topic:
What Would it Take?
by Matt Lund
The end of the course
seems to demand
that we ask the tough questions
or the questions at hand
what’s the point?
what do we do?
when our fifteen choices of peanut butter
stare
back
blankly
and ask us again
what do we do?
understanding hunger does not feed the hungry
understanding loss does not console the suffering
and if it did
have I gone to far to suggest that we
understand at all?
Readers might say, with greatest intent,
“I know what they went through”
Please,
you read it in a book
anyone could take a look
at that and come away with your
“understanding”
But fine, let’s see what it is you’ve read
The Inheritance of Loss? Cast Me Out if you Will? The Hamilton Case?
These books scratch the surface of colonial aftermath
“They’re political works,” you will say
and I’ll laugh
Do you think you felt rape in that last paragraph?
Yes, it’s true they’re political
like it or not
but should we deny what aesthetics they’ve brought
to the table? Or is it that all South Asian works are the same
they all deal with poverty, colonialism, or pain?
So the writers adhere to this system, or what?
we have free speech, yes
but when we at last have been put to the test
will we say what we want to if it will not sell?
I’m being facetious
It’s hard not to be when from every angle,
from every sight I see there’s no right way
no wrong way to interpret these things
authenticity
big elephant in the room
how to please both sides closing in like a tomb
while the publisher sees that the market’s gone west
“They’ll eat this book up, without a contest”
and the grandparents feel that they’re being ignored
while the sellouts get rich and the poor
well
the power of language
to create
to destroy
disenfranchisement is part of the ploy
but America’s drunk on the brown millionaire
just jumping to know that they too get a share
never mind that its fiction
it’s enough that we care
but in seconds turn back to our primetime television
is that wrong?
what obligation do we have to do otherwise?
well the documentarians might say we’re
implicated
that their history is ours
and that’s true to some point
when we look at the sky we can see the same stars
so as people, they might say, we have hardly a choice
we must put aside something in support
(that’s not a mandate of course)
But they’re wrong—I don’t owe anything to Nepal
or to India, Bangladesh, Pakistan, or Sri Lanka
and I don’t know the filmmakers,
I don’t know their child
I don’t have breakfast with their families once in a while
Wait, I’m making this sound all wrong
I don’t mean to say that my thanks don’t belong
at least somewhere
But as you can see
I don’t necessarily owe things to the documentary
Look nobody’s outside of power relations
or culture, or pride
what I’m saying is I’m implicated to myself
It’s not that the film has inspired me to help
it’s that when it’s been said through and through
if it touches me and if it touches you
it’s our feelings to which we owe action, if anything
because in those moments of
held back tears
when you see people make a living
by crushing brick…
Well, let’s throw them computers
and hope that will solve
colonialism
I mean, technology can
as they say
open doors
Is that all we’ve learned at the end of this course?
Or course not!
Globalization is just another name
for easy solutions that, in the end,
have great consequences.
Think Partition
That’s all I have to say
What would it take for me to
fill in the blank
What would it take?
Letter 2
Response 2
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