Easily one of the best moments of John Adams, the HBO miniseries with Paul Giamatti, is the scene in which he turns down the sought approval of the painter of the Signing of the Declaration of Independence. Adams enters, old and beat from his previous years of politics and presidency and refuses to acknowledge the picture. The true genius of the scene is what we take with us: that in fact, history, is lived by those in it and our repetitions of the subject do little to its authenticity. The key word is authenticity, and with that word brings a heated debate amongst historians and fans alike about how we should approach those that lived through incredible moments.
I no doubt thought of this as I gazed with my eyes for the first time The Alamo Friday morning, and got a self tour throughout the remainder of the complex Saturday morning. It was heavy with tourists, of all designs and shapes. Regardless of origin, everyone was beat red, obliterated by a continuous heat that burned the early morning clouds rather quickly. The long barracks wall and the Alamo complex followed by some back area was all that was left. That Saturday after a light breakfast, I took as many pictures as I could before being told to put away my father's digital camera. It was all I could do to prevent myself from taking more stealthily. At first, I was awe inspired. In total, I must have spent over 24 hours of my life learning about the Texas Revolution and the Alamo specifically. There's messages everywhere: storyboards outside the north side of the Alamo tracking the event with writing and print. The Sun rises and strikes the storyboards and glow for the benches closer to the complex. There's a gift shop out back where you can pay for William B. Travis's letter, all bent and scrabbled just like...old paper. There's a model inside that glorifies the scene with incredible detail. Thousands of soldiers, frozen forever, are still cascading over that north wall. The defenders in gray and brownish undistinguished uniforms fight the good fight. Buoy may already be dead.
There's even a memorial made in stone given from a Japanese gentlemen who honored the Alamo with his time and effort. It sits in the shade at the far north end. And in absolute hilarity, you can pay three dollars to go across the street and see another diorama that's fifteen feet. Above it there's stage lighting that's synchronized to the dictation of a recording by Phil Collins, yes Phil Collins himself. Those who know his enthusiasm with The Alamo and Texas History will not be surprised by this. Our family went and listened to the whole fifteen minute presentation. It was eloquently told, except for the constant drumming that was sound-byted in by God only knows. It was constant, and completely unnecessary. Even before this we had heard an older, more credible historian give the exact same details and more with before and after tails of Gonzales and Goliad and San Jacinto.
But the more I listened, the more the rejection of the Declaration of the Signing of the Independence crept into my thought. Across the street, families can enjoy the wonders of Ripley's Believe it Or Not, Haunted Mansion, a wax museum, a gift shop, a t-shirt shop, and the Guiness World Record Museum. It's only 20 dollars per person. And while it's not Field of Dreams and it's not offering reincarnated baseball players, the families are in the moment. It's the Alamo, and it's the weekend. The Sun is hot outside, and it's this or going back through history.
Needless to say, they make a lot of money.
Outside of this ring is the Riverwalk: full of astounding tourist friendly history like moving hotels on giant rollers, hotels pieced together from separate parts of America, Cypress trees, a never flooding water system, restaurants that will murder a wallet, and other festive moments. Near it is the River Center Mall, which after its loss of a bookstore fell from grace in my eye. And outside this is the market square, where one can indulge in sizzling fajitas, spend more money on debatable merchandise or beautiful John Wayne paintings.
And outside of that is the rest of the city, but it all seems to revolve around the historical monument that is The Alamo. It is a confusing and wondrous thought, because in the end what was it? It was a bunch of po-dunk fighters who bunkered in and hoped to God hope would arrive. They all died, yes even Crockett, and never thought they would be remembered. Surprisingly they have. The wife leaver and gambler William B. Travis has streets named after him and is on the memorial. Crockett, the failed politician but renowned hunter went for the next big thing. He thought he could hit it big, and the truth was he did, but not in the way he thought. Everyone else died so fast they hardly understood what happened. Shot by their own cannons, massacred by Santa Anna, and left without a proper burial until Juan Seguin was the only one with enough balls to go back and do the job.
Why not Bunker Hill? Lexington and Concord? Why not the Battle of Eylau fought by Napolean? Custard made his last stand, and not many give him the credit. In the end, Santa Anna continued forth toward Louisiana, pushing the runaway scrape. History may always be bigger than necessary, but when does it become unbearable? Is it unbearable? Is it just me trying to cope with a life long question? Why are they remembered? Dying for the cause? There are literally thousands of moments like this, but yet the Alamo defense with 189 men ended up being one of the most important international history tales ever.
That about sums up my thoughts on such a historical landmark, and my visit of it. I of course always respect historical learning, but to see what it was all leading to, was something I had to question. If someone had survived, maybe they could've pulled a John Adams and told everyone to calm the hell down.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Monday, May 9, 2011
For Those That Hug Crybabies
The problem with dating in junior high is people think everyone is waiting and watching for what they’ll do next. It’s a movie, and the couple is with other friends, but it’s never about watching the movie. It’s someone else’s home, but the parents are mysteriously not present, and the feeling of eyes still glaring is unforgivable. Should the man reach for a hand? Embrace the first step of many in their quest for something they hardly know? Arm around the shoulder then, if they have the guts. The man (child) decides, and throws the arm, but only because a friend of a friend said that she has a crush on him and that he should make some move. This is the first step in the realization of miscommunication. At school the next day, the girl blatantly says that she has no interest in him, but would like to remain friends, or something like that. The boy has a hard time hearing those last words as his fingers feel like water hoses are pushing from inside. Sweat from his armpits are racing down his chest, and his only hope for survival is to be as cordial and understanding as possible. If he doesn’t, the one thing that could happen is him tackling her and shouting while deflecting pathetic arm grabs, “Your friend is a liar!”
The true response comes from the boy that night after school. When a mother enters the room and asks, “How did the date go?” Moms know these things because the biological timeline of their child is never forgotten, especially from a mother who cares. In any case, it’s all it took for the boy to crumple like stacks of newspaper and sprawl out on the shaggy gray carpet and huff and puff. The tragedy that he’ll never blow the house down is never realized in the wheezing, and he keeps crying. All the mother can hear are things like, “It’s not fair” and “I’m never getting married.” Fortunately for the boy, the mother is some form of magician, and can soothe those ruffled feathers. All it takes is soaking up his tears in her t-shirt. All it takes is quiet whispers of reassurance that someday there will be someone who will be just the one for the boy. The boy sleeps like it never happened.
And in the end this story is lighter than others. It turns out the girl telling the boy early on about her feelings was the best thing a woman can do. And she learned it in junior high. But then we can conclude that there must have been worst stories, terrible ones. They weren’t all bad, but they weren’t all bad because there are traces of kinship in the human imagination and in literature that are so nurturing as to bring us to tears, and then there are our real mothers. And the ones in fantasy don’t nearly come close to the ones that have lived to tell their own tales.
In those heated days that never seemed to end, I hated those damn shoulder pads. Think about the most constricting clothing to ever be presented to a man, combine them all and then tell him it’s over one hundred degrees outside, and then tell him he must battle to the death against more of the same. In those heated days all the parents take pictures and barely sit in the fold out chairs. In those heated days, they still must’ve yelled at the officials and argued about the concession stand prices. But one thing is for sure: those parents saw their children raise lightning and throw down hell on those fields. Even if it was some form of absurdity in which parents are screaming “No son, dribble to the other side” or “Get the ball”, they were still titans. At the end of that hot day on the grass as they picked away at ants crawling up their cleats, they must’ve looked like the prize winner of the world. “My son is the future” they must have all agreed as they rubbed their children’s sweaty heads, and then bitter sweetly rubbed their hands on their jeans. And in those days was my mother. I was never a sport God. I never made great plays, or ran for touchdowns, or led in heroic speeches, but my mother did not care. I would eat snow cones and squint tightly as the ice froze my front teeth; my big gapped front teeth. And I drank it up, I drank it all up. All my mother wanted to do was watch. While I was throwing natural curves, all she wanted to do was witness me, like I was some new breed that no one else saw.
Picture a red suburban, the older kind, before SUV’s ruined everything. Picture the paint chipping off at the top, not because it was old, but because it literally could not take the intensity by which my mother and I listened to classic rock. Picture musicals that seem trivial now, but were witnessed five out of five times by a mother who drank it up, not by performing, but by just being there.
“Mom do you have any aspirin?”
“What?”
It’s the night of pop show, my senior year performance. I learned that aspirin helps the voice. I had no idea if that was true, but in those circumstances you’ll try anything.
“Do you have a headache?” she asked.
“No mom, I just need it. Ms. James said it helped the singing.”
We are backstage, and Mom gives me a look that says, “You’ll be fine” as she turns and heads back around to take her place in the audience.
We’re singing For The Longest Time, and it’s my turn at the solo. The crowd loves us, and tilt their heads right and left as we charm anyone and everyone, because that’s what seniors do I suppose. I get to the high notes, and when I do the most horrible crack occurs. My voice shatters in volume and in hindsight friends watch videos of it and laugh for hours, blowing it off. I know this because it’s mine, and while people always say they forget those things, I never believe them. Because how could they ever forget? It’s the worst thing in choral history. Watching the video footage, my other choral comrades literally could not snap together because they were physically disabled at the wretched sound. It sounded like a walrus couldn’t make it out of the swimming pool and just “arfs” his fat slob body on the side of the pool.
I head backstage and everyone looks at me for a reaction. By this stage of my life they still do not know how I react to these things. They obviously didn’t know the story of placing the arm around the girl. While I did nothing at school, the aftershock and reality always hits hours later, when I’m safe, alone. Always act cordially, because people will respect you for it, or something. But mother knows. She is there and when I walk up to her, she’s already got the aspirin in her left and a bottle of water in the right. She smiles a little, and I’m horribly stoic.
Singing Beyond the Sea later in that concert was the most important moment in my life because it taught me two things: one is to always get back up when you fall and the crowd will love you for it. The second is there will never ever be music that is so fun to sing as the jazz I sing now. It was young, it was confident, and it the beginning of something. Beyond the Sea was the story of a man who was a boy. He wept when he realized that he killed any hope of a future with one woman, but somehow on the other side there would be someone. Beyond the Sea, in a sense, was my mother.
I sang in college, but stopped. I played sports until high school, then stopped. I dated until graduation, then stopped. All my loves, all my desires, are becoming less and less relevant. But only to a certain degree, because no matter how many less and less people hear or see what I have to offer, there will always be one person who knows damn well what I can do, and loves me all the more even when I don’t do them. In her mind, I’m always throwing lightning, climbing some mountain that seems to be a mere geographic hindrance.
What I hate most about the Giving Tree, is the fact that this tree gets literally torn apart and all that’s left is a stump. And when the child returns as an old man, the stump is glad to have one last usefulness. It’s the most horrific moment in which the old man almost expects there to be someway out of the moment by using the tree, almost as if he expects it. And the tree gives in. It’s a horrible tale of lack of responsibility. And also it’s self hatred. Because I picture myself as this boy, and I picture my parents as the tree. “Don’t worry,” they say, “We want to do this.” Well that’s great and all but it doesn’t really fit well with me. Because where was I when they got dumped on dates and where was I when they cracked their voices or lost a game?
So this is all I’ve got. This is my building of a paper boat in a hurricane. This is me swinging at 98 mile per hour fast balls. This is me singing Beyond the Sea while falling 15 stories. Because it’s all I’ve got now, and I don’t ever want to keep writing without attempting to say happy mother’s day because my mother gave me everything I have today. And even at 21, I’m still just a boy who is still crying on shaggy carpet, and my mother is always there to dry them in a t-shirt.
The true response comes from the boy that night after school. When a mother enters the room and asks, “How did the date go?” Moms know these things because the biological timeline of their child is never forgotten, especially from a mother who cares. In any case, it’s all it took for the boy to crumple like stacks of newspaper and sprawl out on the shaggy gray carpet and huff and puff. The tragedy that he’ll never blow the house down is never realized in the wheezing, and he keeps crying. All the mother can hear are things like, “It’s not fair” and “I’m never getting married.” Fortunately for the boy, the mother is some form of magician, and can soothe those ruffled feathers. All it takes is soaking up his tears in her t-shirt. All it takes is quiet whispers of reassurance that someday there will be someone who will be just the one for the boy. The boy sleeps like it never happened.
And in the end this story is lighter than others. It turns out the girl telling the boy early on about her feelings was the best thing a woman can do. And she learned it in junior high. But then we can conclude that there must have been worst stories, terrible ones. They weren’t all bad, but they weren’t all bad because there are traces of kinship in the human imagination and in literature that are so nurturing as to bring us to tears, and then there are our real mothers. And the ones in fantasy don’t nearly come close to the ones that have lived to tell their own tales.
In those heated days that never seemed to end, I hated those damn shoulder pads. Think about the most constricting clothing to ever be presented to a man, combine them all and then tell him it’s over one hundred degrees outside, and then tell him he must battle to the death against more of the same. In those heated days all the parents take pictures and barely sit in the fold out chairs. In those heated days, they still must’ve yelled at the officials and argued about the concession stand prices. But one thing is for sure: those parents saw their children raise lightning and throw down hell on those fields. Even if it was some form of absurdity in which parents are screaming “No son, dribble to the other side” or “Get the ball”, they were still titans. At the end of that hot day on the grass as they picked away at ants crawling up their cleats, they must’ve looked like the prize winner of the world. “My son is the future” they must have all agreed as they rubbed their children’s sweaty heads, and then bitter sweetly rubbed their hands on their jeans. And in those days was my mother. I was never a sport God. I never made great plays, or ran for touchdowns, or led in heroic speeches, but my mother did not care. I would eat snow cones and squint tightly as the ice froze my front teeth; my big gapped front teeth. And I drank it up, I drank it all up. All my mother wanted to do was watch. While I was throwing natural curves, all she wanted to do was witness me, like I was some new breed that no one else saw.
Picture a red suburban, the older kind, before SUV’s ruined everything. Picture the paint chipping off at the top, not because it was old, but because it literally could not take the intensity by which my mother and I listened to classic rock. Picture musicals that seem trivial now, but were witnessed five out of five times by a mother who drank it up, not by performing, but by just being there.
“Mom do you have any aspirin?”
“What?”
It’s the night of pop show, my senior year performance. I learned that aspirin helps the voice. I had no idea if that was true, but in those circumstances you’ll try anything.
“Do you have a headache?” she asked.
“No mom, I just need it. Ms. James said it helped the singing.”
We are backstage, and Mom gives me a look that says, “You’ll be fine” as she turns and heads back around to take her place in the audience.
We’re singing For The Longest Time, and it’s my turn at the solo. The crowd loves us, and tilt their heads right and left as we charm anyone and everyone, because that’s what seniors do I suppose. I get to the high notes, and when I do the most horrible crack occurs. My voice shatters in volume and in hindsight friends watch videos of it and laugh for hours, blowing it off. I know this because it’s mine, and while people always say they forget those things, I never believe them. Because how could they ever forget? It’s the worst thing in choral history. Watching the video footage, my other choral comrades literally could not snap together because they were physically disabled at the wretched sound. It sounded like a walrus couldn’t make it out of the swimming pool and just “arfs” his fat slob body on the side of the pool.
I head backstage and everyone looks at me for a reaction. By this stage of my life they still do not know how I react to these things. They obviously didn’t know the story of placing the arm around the girl. While I did nothing at school, the aftershock and reality always hits hours later, when I’m safe, alone. Always act cordially, because people will respect you for it, or something. But mother knows. She is there and when I walk up to her, she’s already got the aspirin in her left and a bottle of water in the right. She smiles a little, and I’m horribly stoic.
Singing Beyond the Sea later in that concert was the most important moment in my life because it taught me two things: one is to always get back up when you fall and the crowd will love you for it. The second is there will never ever be music that is so fun to sing as the jazz I sing now. It was young, it was confident, and it the beginning of something. Beyond the Sea was the story of a man who was a boy. He wept when he realized that he killed any hope of a future with one woman, but somehow on the other side there would be someone. Beyond the Sea, in a sense, was my mother.
I sang in college, but stopped. I played sports until high school, then stopped. I dated until graduation, then stopped. All my loves, all my desires, are becoming less and less relevant. But only to a certain degree, because no matter how many less and less people hear or see what I have to offer, there will always be one person who knows damn well what I can do, and loves me all the more even when I don’t do them. In her mind, I’m always throwing lightning, climbing some mountain that seems to be a mere geographic hindrance.
What I hate most about the Giving Tree, is the fact that this tree gets literally torn apart and all that’s left is a stump. And when the child returns as an old man, the stump is glad to have one last usefulness. It’s the most horrific moment in which the old man almost expects there to be someway out of the moment by using the tree, almost as if he expects it. And the tree gives in. It’s a horrible tale of lack of responsibility. And also it’s self hatred. Because I picture myself as this boy, and I picture my parents as the tree. “Don’t worry,” they say, “We want to do this.” Well that’s great and all but it doesn’t really fit well with me. Because where was I when they got dumped on dates and where was I when they cracked their voices or lost a game?
So this is all I’ve got. This is my building of a paper boat in a hurricane. This is me swinging at 98 mile per hour fast balls. This is me singing Beyond the Sea while falling 15 stories. Because it’s all I’ve got now, and I don’t ever want to keep writing without attempting to say happy mother’s day because my mother gave me everything I have today. And even at 21, I’m still just a boy who is still crying on shaggy carpet, and my mother is always there to dry them in a t-shirt.
Friday, May 6, 2011
Three Meetings
My creative writing teacher’s office lies on the fourth floor of the language building. As you exit the stairway and look right, there’s a selection of free books that are on shelves next to the entrance. The books are all unheard of titles representing incomprehensible topics. Most are bogus non-fiction, clinging to what looks like their final home had they not been free. Having visited my teacher several times I can tell you those books are there to stay. To me, it’s some foreshadowing of something horrendous I don’t care to name.
“Hey Colton.” my teacher said as I come in for the final time that semester. “Have a seat.”
I come in and sit down, with ideas in my mind that are not quite fleshed out. “I’m not going to lie, after working on this story for this long I think it’s total crap. I think it’s goofy that this character makes telescopes in such a modern time. I feel the characters I’ve made are so cliché, fake, or something. I don’t know. It’s like I can’t get in touch with anything, and the project feels so impossible to surmount.”
My creative writing teacher instantly smiles and says, “That’s normal.”
We both laugh, and he continues. “It is perfectly fine to feel these things. I sent in a story to be published, and I felt there were errors in it. That’s just the way it works. To be honest, I would be more scared if you felt fine about the story. I would be skeptical if you told me you were comfortable with anything in your story. A writer should always be critical of his own work; not to be pessimistic, but to understand what the flaws are and not respond negatively to outside criticism.”
There are few moments in life that lead to the overwhelming feeling of satisfaction and fulfillment, and while I don’t feel that with the short story, I feel that in his office. There’s wisdom in older people, and sometimes I feel they are there for us. While that’s not necessarily true, it’s almost as if he’s begging for listeners. And I’ve always loved to listen. While his room seems very briefly decorated, his very demeanor spurs on excitement, and passion. There are no pictures, no memorable artifacts. There lies only a desk, essential English books, and his computer. A writer until the end, he is confident living in his own world, but also pulling from others in a focused way. What does it mean to surround oneself in total isolation? In these days, it has become nearly impossible. But for my creative writing teacher it has been realized enough as an early 20th century man.
A week later, I will see a box in front of his door with writing that says, “PLACE SHORT STORIES HERE.” I pull out my 15 page short story and look at it, then look down. It feels so far away, and I look at my revision and how unclean it looks. I know that paper cannot have leprosy, but as I hold it I hear it scream, “outcast, unclean.” Out of anger, fright, and disgust, I drop the paper into the bin. It plops on top of the rest. It is a bittersweet feeling: finishing the class, but realizing that my story is not even closed to being finished.
“I called this meeting because I wanted to talk to you about your post-reflection paper in your teaching presentation. I also wanted to talk about your overall grade in the class…I feel like you do not really understand the theories we’ve discussed in class.”
That’s probably correct.
“You’re right. I don’t understand the theories.”
“The theories are important. Wouldn’t you agree?”
No.
“Yes, absolutely.”
She looks at me and starts talking about the details of each theory. My observation forms of other students in their presentations have been anything but fantastic. Honestly I don’t give a damn. But of course that isn’t the problem. I now realize that I am so resilient in doing things that I do not want to do that it will ruin me if I continue. But I can’t stop. As I looked at my education teacher I realized that despite my opinion of the crap theories that were before me, I became a mirror with which to reflect everything she wants to hear. I suppose in the end that’s all people want us to be is just a mirror for their own view of life.
“You did not fail.” she said as her mask of compassion was placed and she was trying out the look on me. “You could not fail this part. This is a learning experience.”
“I know. But it’s not up to you. My self-esteem has always been…not what it should be. It’s not you fault. That’s just the way I feel.” She looks at me like a failed experiment, but I look at her like she’s making all the difference in the world. I’m trying I really am. She puts on the statistics mask.
“Looking at your grades, you’ll probably walk out with a C in this class. But your teaching philosophy needs to be…well…you’d better show me these theories in there. This paper is as close to a cumulative final as I can get. Think about it like that.”
As I leave, I’m imploding from the inside. It’s a beautiful day, and inside all hell is breaking loose. I wanted to throw myself back into that dressing room and throw her masks all over the room and scream, “Jesus woman, I don’t care.” But I kept walking. We all keep walking I guess. Editing my teaching philosophy paper was for me like taking a well sculpted woman and cutting off the arms. Metaphors aside. I hate butchering what I feel good about. I hate doing things that I don’t want to do. This either makes me a child, a politician, or a man. No one has really told me which one yet.
I’m sitting in front of a man at Chase Bank, and he tells me he wants to review my contact information. His desk is made of straight laced wonder. It contains no pictures, no love letters, no valentine’s day projects from daughters. It contains no interesting pieces of art. It is purely work, and while it looks nice for an Ayn Rand novel, it has me worried more about him than him of me and my contact information. The truth is I want to grab his suit, pull him forward and make him grip with his child soft hands and say, “good God man, don’t you know what you’re missing?” But I can’t. Instead I hold my sunglasses because I have nothing else to hold on to. I’m running away in my mind, but in the physical I’m saying “yes sir” and “no sir.” To be honest I didn’t know why he called the meeting. I suppose it was to prove that I actually existed.
“Well we appreciate you coming down here,” he said, “And you can email me if you have any questions.”
I thought about emailing the man. I thought about saying something like this: “Hello sir. I had one quick thing to ask. I have this problem with my short story, but I think you solved it. You see my main character is a man not tied to anything, kind of like you. He has no real physical ties, but he makes telescopes for a living. He works hard and makes good money, like you, but I’m not so sure about the ending. He’s told to build this telescope for this woman who has emotional weight to her custom telescope request. So I wanted to ask you: ‘Would you build a telescope for a woman who seeks to get over her husband by watching the stars?’ Again I appreciate your time.”
And I’m laughing at the thought of walking in to the same educational teacher’s classroom for summer school. I scoff at authority, and I know it could destroy me. I love the idea, of countering every argument, refuting every theory, and simply slapping her teaching back in her face. While it seems to be a moment of conquest for me, the reality is I will walk in holding a giant mirror in front of me while I text my friends how boring the class is.
And in the fall I will literally cry with joy as I see my creative writing teaching again, this time for non-fiction. He’ll tell me that we think our life is crap and not worth writing and that’s okay, because in the end it’s that feeling that encourages better writing.
“Hey Colton.” my teacher said as I come in for the final time that semester. “Have a seat.”
I come in and sit down, with ideas in my mind that are not quite fleshed out. “I’m not going to lie, after working on this story for this long I think it’s total crap. I think it’s goofy that this character makes telescopes in such a modern time. I feel the characters I’ve made are so cliché, fake, or something. I don’t know. It’s like I can’t get in touch with anything, and the project feels so impossible to surmount.”
My creative writing teacher instantly smiles and says, “That’s normal.”
We both laugh, and he continues. “It is perfectly fine to feel these things. I sent in a story to be published, and I felt there were errors in it. That’s just the way it works. To be honest, I would be more scared if you felt fine about the story. I would be skeptical if you told me you were comfortable with anything in your story. A writer should always be critical of his own work; not to be pessimistic, but to understand what the flaws are and not respond negatively to outside criticism.”
There are few moments in life that lead to the overwhelming feeling of satisfaction and fulfillment, and while I don’t feel that with the short story, I feel that in his office. There’s wisdom in older people, and sometimes I feel they are there for us. While that’s not necessarily true, it’s almost as if he’s begging for listeners. And I’ve always loved to listen. While his room seems very briefly decorated, his very demeanor spurs on excitement, and passion. There are no pictures, no memorable artifacts. There lies only a desk, essential English books, and his computer. A writer until the end, he is confident living in his own world, but also pulling from others in a focused way. What does it mean to surround oneself in total isolation? In these days, it has become nearly impossible. But for my creative writing teacher it has been realized enough as an early 20th century man.
A week later, I will see a box in front of his door with writing that says, “PLACE SHORT STORIES HERE.” I pull out my 15 page short story and look at it, then look down. It feels so far away, and I look at my revision and how unclean it looks. I know that paper cannot have leprosy, but as I hold it I hear it scream, “outcast, unclean.” Out of anger, fright, and disgust, I drop the paper into the bin. It plops on top of the rest. It is a bittersweet feeling: finishing the class, but realizing that my story is not even closed to being finished.
“I called this meeting because I wanted to talk to you about your post-reflection paper in your teaching presentation. I also wanted to talk about your overall grade in the class…I feel like you do not really understand the theories we’ve discussed in class.”
That’s probably correct.
“You’re right. I don’t understand the theories.”
“The theories are important. Wouldn’t you agree?”
No.
“Yes, absolutely.”
She looks at me and starts talking about the details of each theory. My observation forms of other students in their presentations have been anything but fantastic. Honestly I don’t give a damn. But of course that isn’t the problem. I now realize that I am so resilient in doing things that I do not want to do that it will ruin me if I continue. But I can’t stop. As I looked at my education teacher I realized that despite my opinion of the crap theories that were before me, I became a mirror with which to reflect everything she wants to hear. I suppose in the end that’s all people want us to be is just a mirror for their own view of life.
“You did not fail.” she said as her mask of compassion was placed and she was trying out the look on me. “You could not fail this part. This is a learning experience.”
“I know. But it’s not up to you. My self-esteem has always been…not what it should be. It’s not you fault. That’s just the way I feel.” She looks at me like a failed experiment, but I look at her like she’s making all the difference in the world. I’m trying I really am. She puts on the statistics mask.
“Looking at your grades, you’ll probably walk out with a C in this class. But your teaching philosophy needs to be…well…you’d better show me these theories in there. This paper is as close to a cumulative final as I can get. Think about it like that.”
As I leave, I’m imploding from the inside. It’s a beautiful day, and inside all hell is breaking loose. I wanted to throw myself back into that dressing room and throw her masks all over the room and scream, “Jesus woman, I don’t care.” But I kept walking. We all keep walking I guess. Editing my teaching philosophy paper was for me like taking a well sculpted woman and cutting off the arms. Metaphors aside. I hate butchering what I feel good about. I hate doing things that I don’t want to do. This either makes me a child, a politician, or a man. No one has really told me which one yet.
I’m sitting in front of a man at Chase Bank, and he tells me he wants to review my contact information. His desk is made of straight laced wonder. It contains no pictures, no love letters, no valentine’s day projects from daughters. It contains no interesting pieces of art. It is purely work, and while it looks nice for an Ayn Rand novel, it has me worried more about him than him of me and my contact information. The truth is I want to grab his suit, pull him forward and make him grip with his child soft hands and say, “good God man, don’t you know what you’re missing?” But I can’t. Instead I hold my sunglasses because I have nothing else to hold on to. I’m running away in my mind, but in the physical I’m saying “yes sir” and “no sir.” To be honest I didn’t know why he called the meeting. I suppose it was to prove that I actually existed.
“Well we appreciate you coming down here,” he said, “And you can email me if you have any questions.”
I thought about emailing the man. I thought about saying something like this: “Hello sir. I had one quick thing to ask. I have this problem with my short story, but I think you solved it. You see my main character is a man not tied to anything, kind of like you. He has no real physical ties, but he makes telescopes for a living. He works hard and makes good money, like you, but I’m not so sure about the ending. He’s told to build this telescope for this woman who has emotional weight to her custom telescope request. So I wanted to ask you: ‘Would you build a telescope for a woman who seeks to get over her husband by watching the stars?’ Again I appreciate your time.”
And I’m laughing at the thought of walking in to the same educational teacher’s classroom for summer school. I scoff at authority, and I know it could destroy me. I love the idea, of countering every argument, refuting every theory, and simply slapping her teaching back in her face. While it seems to be a moment of conquest for me, the reality is I will walk in holding a giant mirror in front of me while I text my friends how boring the class is.
And in the fall I will literally cry with joy as I see my creative writing teaching again, this time for non-fiction. He’ll tell me that we think our life is crap and not worth writing and that’s okay, because in the end it’s that feeling that encourages better writing.
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Teaching Philosophy
Assignment for May 3rd in which I had two to three pages to explain my teaching philosophy. While I don't think this is what my teacher wants or expects, I am very happy with it.
I threw fire, at least that’s what they told me. In those days of unmitigated youth the only conclusion that can be drawn from baseball and football was that they were superheroes. The kind of superheroes that stood for something, and what it was it could not be named. It’s the feeling when my father stood up and celebrated the winning pitch on television. It was watching the movie “Sandlot” and understanding that part of growing up sometimes was running for my life. To a child, it was the feeling of complete power, and complete freedom. And for that short time as a child or even a teen, we learn we slowly lose that simplistic paradise. In hindsight some conceive that childhood freedom to be ill used. For me, I was a left-handed pitcher.
They told me I threw fire. While this one kid threw faster but put bruises on their chests with wild forced exchanges, and the others were still trying to understand a curve ball, the great part about left-handed throwers is that we have a genetic advantage. When a left-handed pitcher throws a baseball, as long as his body presents a straight line from the mound to the hitter, the ball remains concealed. It’s especially important to keep the body in front until the very end. And to deal the perfect pitch, I held my glove out in front of the batter’s eyes. As long as my line was in between, the batter had a shorter time to react. No. I wasn’t the best, not even close. In fact I was so scared that I was terrible, I didn’t try out for the high school team. This was after playing as a child for eight years.
But while this story seems to end on a note of skills becoming less and less relevant as I got older, the real catch was farther ahead in physics. Numbers to the history man seems to be an unnecessary theoretical assimilation of Egyptian hieroglyphics to plane crashes. Sure the symbols are there, but why calculate if the passengers are already dead? But what a physics teacher taught me in high school was that in the chaos of plane crashes, or pitching, we can come to terms with what makes an airplane pitch, or a baseball roll. My physics teacher explained events and things that occurred everyday, and all I had to do was find out for myself. Though I did not play baseball any longer, I dusted off the old glove, grabbed a couple baseballs, and headed for the backyard. Before I had thrown thousands of them at a wooden strike zone nailed to a tree, but now it seemed more powerful now than ever. The motion started, and as my right foot moved back and prepared for the kick my hands reached up towards the air. With the kick, there was a slight lean back, to balance the weight exchange to prepare for the leap forward in velocity. There was a lunge, and with it every muscle tweaked and cracked and hurled forward in motion as my right foot took the biggest step. The arm, while seeming to be most important, really carried the accuracy and added slight power to the legs. The ball screamed with initial velocity. And in my mind, there was a line that came out of the baseball. Numbers upon numbers calculating gravitational movement, wind resistances, and the final force as the loud “Smack!” fired off from the tree. Numbers singing.
Pitching never felt better. And that’s the role of educators, is it not? It is small and fragile, but present a historical world in which men wore wigs and painful foot binding was considered attractive, and it would be irrelevant unless the rhyme of time would be accounted. But teachers are only a whisper in a lifetime, and in order for that whisper to tickle those small parts of our ears, they must attempt earnestly to present a world in which numbers are seen everyday. We must present a life that is filled with historical revelations, of how it fundamentally allows us to preserve and protect and improve positive ways of life. For history, make them understand that right now, we are all pulling it, and are pulled by it. We are both pitcher and batter, and the what of today, is the why of yesterday. Make a student understand in their very soul that not only is history important, but do so with the events of today, so they may tell their children the why of their lives.
I threw fire, at least that’s what they told me. In those days of unmitigated youth the only conclusion that can be drawn from baseball and football was that they were superheroes. The kind of superheroes that stood for something, and what it was it could not be named. It’s the feeling when my father stood up and celebrated the winning pitch on television. It was watching the movie “Sandlot” and understanding that part of growing up sometimes was running for my life. To a child, it was the feeling of complete power, and complete freedom. And for that short time as a child or even a teen, we learn we slowly lose that simplistic paradise. In hindsight some conceive that childhood freedom to be ill used. For me, I was a left-handed pitcher.
They told me I threw fire. While this one kid threw faster but put bruises on their chests with wild forced exchanges, and the others were still trying to understand a curve ball, the great part about left-handed throwers is that we have a genetic advantage. When a left-handed pitcher throws a baseball, as long as his body presents a straight line from the mound to the hitter, the ball remains concealed. It’s especially important to keep the body in front until the very end. And to deal the perfect pitch, I held my glove out in front of the batter’s eyes. As long as my line was in between, the batter had a shorter time to react. No. I wasn’t the best, not even close. In fact I was so scared that I was terrible, I didn’t try out for the high school team. This was after playing as a child for eight years.
But while this story seems to end on a note of skills becoming less and less relevant as I got older, the real catch was farther ahead in physics. Numbers to the history man seems to be an unnecessary theoretical assimilation of Egyptian hieroglyphics to plane crashes. Sure the symbols are there, but why calculate if the passengers are already dead? But what a physics teacher taught me in high school was that in the chaos of plane crashes, or pitching, we can come to terms with what makes an airplane pitch, or a baseball roll. My physics teacher explained events and things that occurred everyday, and all I had to do was find out for myself. Though I did not play baseball any longer, I dusted off the old glove, grabbed a couple baseballs, and headed for the backyard. Before I had thrown thousands of them at a wooden strike zone nailed to a tree, but now it seemed more powerful now than ever. The motion started, and as my right foot moved back and prepared for the kick my hands reached up towards the air. With the kick, there was a slight lean back, to balance the weight exchange to prepare for the leap forward in velocity. There was a lunge, and with it every muscle tweaked and cracked and hurled forward in motion as my right foot took the biggest step. The arm, while seeming to be most important, really carried the accuracy and added slight power to the legs. The ball screamed with initial velocity. And in my mind, there was a line that came out of the baseball. Numbers upon numbers calculating gravitational movement, wind resistances, and the final force as the loud “Smack!” fired off from the tree. Numbers singing.
Pitching never felt better. And that’s the role of educators, is it not? It is small and fragile, but present a historical world in which men wore wigs and painful foot binding was considered attractive, and it would be irrelevant unless the rhyme of time would be accounted. But teachers are only a whisper in a lifetime, and in order for that whisper to tickle those small parts of our ears, they must attempt earnestly to present a world in which numbers are seen everyday. We must present a life that is filled with historical revelations, of how it fundamentally allows us to preserve and protect and improve positive ways of life. For history, make them understand that right now, we are all pulling it, and are pulled by it. We are both pitcher and batter, and the what of today, is the why of yesterday. Make a student understand in their very soul that not only is history important, but do so with the events of today, so they may tell their children the why of their lives.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Tumblers
Ruth’s Room is located just off of Carroll, and is barely noticeable if our mission wasn’t to reach that very place.
“Collin.”
“Yea?” he said, nine at night the previous morning.
“You wanna go to that place that has the glasses. That was you I was talking to right?”
“Ruth’s Room.”
“What? Ruth’s Room?” I said, “That what it’s called?”
“Yea.”
And that was that. Tumblers look so good in a set of sixteen, but in the very case that life doesn’t come cheap, and my friends don’t add up to sixteen, what was the point? Besides, tumblers usually don’t stack and I had just brought home cups in the dozens from people who wanted them trashed at work. No one feels like wasting anymore.
So I want to look like a man in a suit; isn’t that what we all want? The chance to prove I’m old enough to fill in my shoes is the only thing I’ve wanted. This was just a step in the right direction. So combine the need to rise above something I could not determine and buy something I could scarcely afford and the answer is: a trip to a thrift shop for tumblers. Yes I said it. I imagine it a little more formal, with a stand with a mirror in the apartment room. What drink would I like sir? Of course fan that I am of certain Jon Hamm, I would request Old Fashioned, because by this referential point we are indeed at no return. Besides, they gave me the directions when I bought season four.
Alarm! Alarm! Alarm! Alarm! Off. Off. Off. OFF! 9:30 AM and I’m calling. No answer. Instead of me thinking I would have to think of some charming but elusive way to wake up Collin, he was actually beating me to the punch. Popping off from the shower just as I arrived, we quickly exited the rapidly warming air and drove towards a place I must have passed over a hundred times and never noticed until now. Ruth’s Room is like your grandmother’s attic if you had a price tag on everything and enough shelves to push the vertical limit to six foot. It’s got everything a thrift store needs: mismatched clothing, odd magazines, Christian books that plead, “how can we be bad?” But yet there’s hundreds. Somewhere along the line, soup wasn’t cool for the college soul. The romance/mystery novel actually looked exactly like Kroger’s. All those books by all those same authors, with most having flashy women to make up for a grand mistake within. There are rows of VHS’s in bookshelves that plead to children, “how do you not know of me?”
There are pictures of random actresses with absurd poses. There are random magazines with random dates. The top magazine is the president with a coat in his hand. The magazine? Vanity Fair. I look and he looks back pleading, “how can I be bad?” I look in and laugh at advertisement after advertisement. I just wish the cover would’ve been a little different from the filler.
There are two choices for the tumblers: there are four in a sage green, thicker color at the bottom for cheap, and there are two identical ones with a thick bottom. The second pair are clear heavier glass. The first quad are light, but there are four. Collin chooses the second pair for their feel. I agree.
“Will this be it?” a lady past middle age asks as I carefully place the pair on the platter.
“Yes ma’am.” I said, and look a different direction. There is silence for a short while and then Collin recognizes a book on their table.
“Are you reading that?” Collin asks. “That book right there.”
The second lady wrapping the glasses in newspaper from exactly one week ago answers politely, “Well I tried, honest I did, but I couldn’t get through it.”
“I was just wondering,” Collin said, “because I’ve read it and wanted to know what you thought.”
“Oh I couldn’t really tell you about that.” she said. The first woman has completed my purchase and grabs the book. She turns to the back, reads silently, and laughs.
“Well it’s about a man’s soul. Of course you didn’t finish it.”
The first woman laughs overly hard and replies, “If I would’ve known men had souls I might’ve finished it!” The laughing continues.
“You know it says ‘Wild at Heart’, but I didn’t know they had a heart.”
The laughing continues.
“I wasn’t aware they had a heart to break either.”
The laughing continues. We left politely.
Of course, I thought. Immediately when I put up the tumblers she must’ve thought I was some raging lunatic young up and coming drunkard who would be just like her bad decision and rise someday and smack her face and smear her lipstick and I bet she hangs around in hate men clubs and decrees that a good man is hard to find and after a while I bet she changed the hard to impossible because of the same drink that got her there in the first place but of course she judges me because all I did was buy a product from her store that she didn’t make so that she could eat another day and I bet through all of this she has probably seen Jerry Maguire and agrees with those girls and disagrees with Jerry and somehow through all of this I am the reincarnation of a drunk Tom Cruise who didn’t have a heart to break.
Women my age think that all boys are stupid. What do I have to say for myself? I only wanted to wear a suit, and fill those damn shoes? You think we aren’t going through an identity crisis? The geography is gone. All those tales of the Rough Riders and lion hunting are gone and the only thing that’s left is a business trip to Tampa. The search for unknown lands has been replaced by the search for unknown social triumphs. Pull the friends closer, only to recoil in horror as both gaze at each other for what they are: human.
I look. Up. And see. The rot-at-ing. Fan. That. If you. Look. At. One. Blade. It. A-ppears. Station-ary. In. The. Cons-tant. Cha-os. Of. Spin-ning.
I just wanted to by some tumblers.
“Collin.”
“Yea?” he said, nine at night the previous morning.
“You wanna go to that place that has the glasses. That was you I was talking to right?”
“Ruth’s Room.”
“What? Ruth’s Room?” I said, “That what it’s called?”
“Yea.”
And that was that. Tumblers look so good in a set of sixteen, but in the very case that life doesn’t come cheap, and my friends don’t add up to sixteen, what was the point? Besides, tumblers usually don’t stack and I had just brought home cups in the dozens from people who wanted them trashed at work. No one feels like wasting anymore.
So I want to look like a man in a suit; isn’t that what we all want? The chance to prove I’m old enough to fill in my shoes is the only thing I’ve wanted. This was just a step in the right direction. So combine the need to rise above something I could not determine and buy something I could scarcely afford and the answer is: a trip to a thrift shop for tumblers. Yes I said it. I imagine it a little more formal, with a stand with a mirror in the apartment room. What drink would I like sir? Of course fan that I am of certain Jon Hamm, I would request Old Fashioned, because by this referential point we are indeed at no return. Besides, they gave me the directions when I bought season four.
Alarm! Alarm! Alarm! Alarm! Off. Off. Off. OFF! 9:30 AM and I’m calling. No answer. Instead of me thinking I would have to think of some charming but elusive way to wake up Collin, he was actually beating me to the punch. Popping off from the shower just as I arrived, we quickly exited the rapidly warming air and drove towards a place I must have passed over a hundred times and never noticed until now. Ruth’s Room is like your grandmother’s attic if you had a price tag on everything and enough shelves to push the vertical limit to six foot. It’s got everything a thrift store needs: mismatched clothing, odd magazines, Christian books that plead, “how can we be bad?” But yet there’s hundreds. Somewhere along the line, soup wasn’t cool for the college soul. The romance/mystery novel actually looked exactly like Kroger’s. All those books by all those same authors, with most having flashy women to make up for a grand mistake within. There are rows of VHS’s in bookshelves that plead to children, “how do you not know of me?”
There are pictures of random actresses with absurd poses. There are random magazines with random dates. The top magazine is the president with a coat in his hand. The magazine? Vanity Fair. I look and he looks back pleading, “how can I be bad?” I look in and laugh at advertisement after advertisement. I just wish the cover would’ve been a little different from the filler.
There are two choices for the tumblers: there are four in a sage green, thicker color at the bottom for cheap, and there are two identical ones with a thick bottom. The second pair are clear heavier glass. The first quad are light, but there are four. Collin chooses the second pair for their feel. I agree.
“Will this be it?” a lady past middle age asks as I carefully place the pair on the platter.
“Yes ma’am.” I said, and look a different direction. There is silence for a short while and then Collin recognizes a book on their table.
“Are you reading that?” Collin asks. “That book right there.”
The second lady wrapping the glasses in newspaper from exactly one week ago answers politely, “Well I tried, honest I did, but I couldn’t get through it.”
“I was just wondering,” Collin said, “because I’ve read it and wanted to know what you thought.”
“Oh I couldn’t really tell you about that.” she said. The first woman has completed my purchase and grabs the book. She turns to the back, reads silently, and laughs.
“Well it’s about a man’s soul. Of course you didn’t finish it.”
The first woman laughs overly hard and replies, “If I would’ve known men had souls I might’ve finished it!” The laughing continues.
“You know it says ‘Wild at Heart’, but I didn’t know they had a heart.”
The laughing continues.
“I wasn’t aware they had a heart to break either.”
The laughing continues. We left politely.
Of course, I thought. Immediately when I put up the tumblers she must’ve thought I was some raging lunatic young up and coming drunkard who would be just like her bad decision and rise someday and smack her face and smear her lipstick and I bet she hangs around in hate men clubs and decrees that a good man is hard to find and after a while I bet she changed the hard to impossible because of the same drink that got her there in the first place but of course she judges me because all I did was buy a product from her store that she didn’t make so that she could eat another day and I bet through all of this she has probably seen Jerry Maguire and agrees with those girls and disagrees with Jerry and somehow through all of this I am the reincarnation of a drunk Tom Cruise who didn’t have a heart to break.
Women my age think that all boys are stupid. What do I have to say for myself? I only wanted to wear a suit, and fill those damn shoes? You think we aren’t going through an identity crisis? The geography is gone. All those tales of the Rough Riders and lion hunting are gone and the only thing that’s left is a business trip to Tampa. The search for unknown lands has been replaced by the search for unknown social triumphs. Pull the friends closer, only to recoil in horror as both gaze at each other for what they are: human.
I look. Up. And see. The rot-at-ing. Fan. That. If you. Look. At. One. Blade. It. A-ppears. Station-ary. In. The. Cons-tant. Cha-os. Of. Spin-ning.
I just wanted to by some tumblers.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Manhattan
When I was thirteen years old, I used to mow yards, drink Gatorade, and think of heaven. It started when I was seven; the yards not the utopian dissertations. There were three: grandmother’s who just happened to have a corner lot, ours which was miniscule, and my neighbor who payed 25 bucks for his also pathetic excuse. People back then still cared less for green pastures. I was handed the push lawnmower, yes the push. I don’t know why I was told to be an ant. Pushing something heavier than you through southern Texas grass on a hot summer day was slave labor to a seven year old. It makes men out of boys, in one way or another. It was the payoff, as it always was, that brought the slave back the next time. The Stop n’ Go, at the front of the neighborhood, and inside was the Gatorade. I could have any flavor, but heaven was blue raspberry. We would enter the white truck and as quickly as I could unwrap the plastic seal, I was tilting the bottle up, opening the gates with closed eyes.
Fourteen years later I open them, and the alarm rings, signifying that the expected is never the truth. That taste that’s always advertised as being quenched barely signals. I lumber out of bed, and walk the trail to my bathroom. The rest of the floor is filled with clothes and paper. I examine myself in the mirror. In dry erase marker, it says at the top, “wake me up.” Black slacks, white t-shirt, I’m a ying-yang on its head. Don’t forget the belt, which I so often do at five in the morning. It’s the basic attire for a catering service. Nametag, pen, wallet, phone, and I’m out the apartment door. The pre-sun morning chill is always a surprise even if it was darkest Africa. I throw my hands in my pockets consistently each morning. I have a sister who says I’ve got cold hands.
“I think I’m made of wax”
“You’re not made of wax Colton.” Elena says. “Mario, tell Colton he’s not made of wax.”
Mario looks at me and says, “You’re not made of wax Colton.”
“You don’t get it,” I say, “Every time I look into the mirror it looks like someone keeps carving it.” I pop a grape in my mouth to chew away their confused looks. Turning I keep cleaning what’s left of the tea containers. The high powered jets of the cleaning spray bounce off and land on my ying-yang.
“Do I what?”
“Do. You. Think. About. Heaven?”
She pauses and looks puzzled.
“It’s not a ridiculous question.”
“In college?” She was about to say something after that, but then realized what she had said.
“No.”
“No to it being a ridiculous question?”
“No I mean about heaven.” She takes her tie off and hangs it back on the clothes hanger. I take a bite out of a leftover cookie.
“Vi bhot?”
“What?”
I hold up a finger for two seconds clearing my throat. “Why not?”
She looks at me, not puzzled anymore but tired.
“I’ve got more important things right now.” She motions to the ground. Elena exhales sharply, and after seeing disappointment says, “I’m made of wax too you know.”
I open the doors from the main building and the sun streaks in my face. Have I really been at work that long? I look around for a five and dime, a Stop n’ Go, but there’s none within reach. I walk back to the apartment. Ying-yang comes off and school comes on. What a rush, and within fifteen minutes I’m seven again pushing the lawnmower back to the side yard. The sweat pours so hard I can taste the salty curiosity. My father is weed eating around the trees. Enamored by the skill by which he hugged the line and prevented complete destruction but somehow trimmed perfectly, I would peer around corners. Grandmother’s neighbors had parrots, but they had too many. Instead of scary repetitions by one, it sounded like Congress was in session, and the issue was split. I never saw the parrots, which made it seem like a level of hell, in which the tortured spoke like, well parrots.
The great big city's a wonderous toy just made for a girl and boy. We'll turn Manhattan
into an isle of joy!
There’s nothing Ella Fitzgerald couldn’t fix. As she places my feet on clouds to and from class, I look down. Thirteen dollar shoes invade my privacy, and I think about those damn converse. Seventy dollars and fully customizable converse, including a personal ID tag on the outside, can be mine. I always cut the sides of my jeans so that shoes could fit under them. That was my style, but with converse it was unnecessary. I wasn’t going to touch these jeans, because they were my Manhattan jeans, the kind that lived on for something. The something being the converse I thought about for half a year.
“Why do you read Ayn Rand?”
“Again?” I have these conversations often.
“She’s melodramatic.”
“Did you read that book?” I give him a doubtful look.
“Well no. No one’s crazy enough to read over a thousand pages senior year of high school.”
“So now I’m crazy?” I get up to leave my desk seat; the next class already storming in to sit down one seat away from everybody else. He grabs my arm.
“I’m not reading it.”
I smile and look at him. “Then I’m not telling you.”
Utopia. Thank God people try, no pun intended. Something about trying makes it all worth it. And when I find Ella Fitzgerald on my player, it’s like that blue raspberry drink. Utopia certainly isn’t botching the teaching presentation given on March 22nd, but it was inevitable. It was because it was the first time I taught, and after twenty one years I realize nothing’s quite as simple as repeating it back as a parrot. We’ve been talking, us soon to be teachers. Where are our jobs? Eighty percent of our class majoring in history and where are the jobs? Truck gets towed, Presentation is ruined, graduating in a year with no blue raspberry sealed shut.
Nietzsche says, ‘Out of chaos comes order.’
Blow it out your ass, Howard.
“You know you can be an FBI agent with a major in history?” I say that enough. I say that to everyone. I make sure that any person who is worried about a teacher’s future knows that I am also a born killer, and will sacrifice liberties and kidnap whoever it takes. I am covered. I have a future as an agent.
It’s next Thursday night and I’m cleaning an annual banquet with the caterers. A song plays. I don’t know the song, doesn’t matter. I nearly fell apart. I turned around. Everyone was doing their duty: Sarah had the sugars, Tyler had leftover dessert plates, I had lemon bowls. I fell into a chair. Elena walks up and says, “You alright Colton?”
I look up and ask quietly, “Do you think about heaven?”
She looks up, and pauses for a few seconds. Then she turns around and notices an uneaten cheesecake. She grabs the top solid chocolate triangle decoration, and places it in front of my mouth. And I ate it. She smiles and moves on, working diligently like the rest. The melting triangle is the ride home.
“I read it.”
“Read what?” But I already know. Amazed he did it during a semester, I just wanted to hear him say it.
“Atlas Shrugged. Done.”
“And?” I lean in and the desk digs into my abdomen.
“I still think she’s melodramatic.” He responds, somewhat prideful that he bested the challenge unscathed.
“I see. You know what your problem is?” I say.
“What?” He’s eager.
“You don’t have Manhattan jeans.” I walk away, leaving another clue for people like him to solve.
The city's glamour can never spoil. The dreams of a boy and goil. We'll turn Manhattan
into an isle of joy!
It’s 2001 and I’m rounding the corners in the backyard of grandmother’s house. There’s a big hole that my father said he dug when he was little. All of us want to go to China someday apparently; it’s a timeless tradition. Expertly weaving the push lawnmower around the edges, its audible sound changes as it goes over the reverberating gap. The parrots respond. That day I had other plans, and told father about how unfair it was to mow the yards every week. Two hours later I was loading the machine into the back of his truck and with a lunge he raises the back end with a loud metal noise. He turns and pats my shoulder, saying, “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” We turn into the Stop n’ Go, and inside is something waiting for me. We went back to the truck, and as we climb inside the blue raspberry Gatorade is already opened. And my thirst is quenched.
Fourteen years later I open them, and the alarm rings, signifying that the expected is never the truth. That taste that’s always advertised as being quenched barely signals. I lumber out of bed, and walk the trail to my bathroom. The rest of the floor is filled with clothes and paper. I examine myself in the mirror. In dry erase marker, it says at the top, “wake me up.” Black slacks, white t-shirt, I’m a ying-yang on its head. Don’t forget the belt, which I so often do at five in the morning. It’s the basic attire for a catering service. Nametag, pen, wallet, phone, and I’m out the apartment door. The pre-sun morning chill is always a surprise even if it was darkest Africa. I throw my hands in my pockets consistently each morning. I have a sister who says I’ve got cold hands.
“I think I’m made of wax”
“You’re not made of wax Colton.” Elena says. “Mario, tell Colton he’s not made of wax.”
Mario looks at me and says, “You’re not made of wax Colton.”
“You don’t get it,” I say, “Every time I look into the mirror it looks like someone keeps carving it.” I pop a grape in my mouth to chew away their confused looks. Turning I keep cleaning what’s left of the tea containers. The high powered jets of the cleaning spray bounce off and land on my ying-yang.
“Do I what?”
“Do. You. Think. About. Heaven?”
She pauses and looks puzzled.
“It’s not a ridiculous question.”
“In college?” She was about to say something after that, but then realized what she had said.
“No.”
“No to it being a ridiculous question?”
“No I mean about heaven.” She takes her tie off and hangs it back on the clothes hanger. I take a bite out of a leftover cookie.
“Vi bhot?”
“What?”
I hold up a finger for two seconds clearing my throat. “Why not?”
She looks at me, not puzzled anymore but tired.
“I’ve got more important things right now.” She motions to the ground. Elena exhales sharply, and after seeing disappointment says, “I’m made of wax too you know.”
I open the doors from the main building and the sun streaks in my face. Have I really been at work that long? I look around for a five and dime, a Stop n’ Go, but there’s none within reach. I walk back to the apartment. Ying-yang comes off and school comes on. What a rush, and within fifteen minutes I’m seven again pushing the lawnmower back to the side yard. The sweat pours so hard I can taste the salty curiosity. My father is weed eating around the trees. Enamored by the skill by which he hugged the line and prevented complete destruction but somehow trimmed perfectly, I would peer around corners. Grandmother’s neighbors had parrots, but they had too many. Instead of scary repetitions by one, it sounded like Congress was in session, and the issue was split. I never saw the parrots, which made it seem like a level of hell, in which the tortured spoke like, well parrots.
The great big city's a wonderous toy just made for a girl and boy. We'll turn Manhattan
into an isle of joy!
There’s nothing Ella Fitzgerald couldn’t fix. As she places my feet on clouds to and from class, I look down. Thirteen dollar shoes invade my privacy, and I think about those damn converse. Seventy dollars and fully customizable converse, including a personal ID tag on the outside, can be mine. I always cut the sides of my jeans so that shoes could fit under them. That was my style, but with converse it was unnecessary. I wasn’t going to touch these jeans, because they were my Manhattan jeans, the kind that lived on for something. The something being the converse I thought about for half a year.
“Why do you read Ayn Rand?”
“Again?” I have these conversations often.
“She’s melodramatic.”
“Did you read that book?” I give him a doubtful look.
“Well no. No one’s crazy enough to read over a thousand pages senior year of high school.”
“So now I’m crazy?” I get up to leave my desk seat; the next class already storming in to sit down one seat away from everybody else. He grabs my arm.
“I’m not reading it.”
I smile and look at him. “Then I’m not telling you.”
Utopia. Thank God people try, no pun intended. Something about trying makes it all worth it. And when I find Ella Fitzgerald on my player, it’s like that blue raspberry drink. Utopia certainly isn’t botching the teaching presentation given on March 22nd, but it was inevitable. It was because it was the first time I taught, and after twenty one years I realize nothing’s quite as simple as repeating it back as a parrot. We’ve been talking, us soon to be teachers. Where are our jobs? Eighty percent of our class majoring in history and where are the jobs? Truck gets towed, Presentation is ruined, graduating in a year with no blue raspberry sealed shut.
Nietzsche says, ‘Out of chaos comes order.’
Blow it out your ass, Howard.
“You know you can be an FBI agent with a major in history?” I say that enough. I say that to everyone. I make sure that any person who is worried about a teacher’s future knows that I am also a born killer, and will sacrifice liberties and kidnap whoever it takes. I am covered. I have a future as an agent.
It’s next Thursday night and I’m cleaning an annual banquet with the caterers. A song plays. I don’t know the song, doesn’t matter. I nearly fell apart. I turned around. Everyone was doing their duty: Sarah had the sugars, Tyler had leftover dessert plates, I had lemon bowls. I fell into a chair. Elena walks up and says, “You alright Colton?”
I look up and ask quietly, “Do you think about heaven?”
She looks up, and pauses for a few seconds. Then she turns around and notices an uneaten cheesecake. She grabs the top solid chocolate triangle decoration, and places it in front of my mouth. And I ate it. She smiles and moves on, working diligently like the rest. The melting triangle is the ride home.
“I read it.”
“Read what?” But I already know. Amazed he did it during a semester, I just wanted to hear him say it.
“Atlas Shrugged. Done.”
“And?” I lean in and the desk digs into my abdomen.
“I still think she’s melodramatic.” He responds, somewhat prideful that he bested the challenge unscathed.
“I see. You know what your problem is?” I say.
“What?” He’s eager.
“You don’t have Manhattan jeans.” I walk away, leaving another clue for people like him to solve.
The city's glamour can never spoil. The dreams of a boy and goil. We'll turn Manhattan
into an isle of joy!
It’s 2001 and I’m rounding the corners in the backyard of grandmother’s house. There’s a big hole that my father said he dug when he was little. All of us want to go to China someday apparently; it’s a timeless tradition. Expertly weaving the push lawnmower around the edges, its audible sound changes as it goes over the reverberating gap. The parrots respond. That day I had other plans, and told father about how unfair it was to mow the yards every week. Two hours later I was loading the machine into the back of his truck and with a lunge he raises the back end with a loud metal noise. He turns and pats my shoulder, saying, “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” We turn into the Stop n’ Go, and inside is something waiting for me. We went back to the truck, and as we climb inside the blue raspberry Gatorade is already opened. And my thirst is quenched.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Florence
My truck sounds like a creaking tanker when I get in. I can't quite put a finger on the origin of the sound but something tells me it's between the bed and the front end, or at least where they meet. The suitcases are packed with my laundry, dirty and otherwise. The drive home is raging with traffic, it's a five hour drive. The Forever War on audiobook is in my CD player, but I didn't prepare enough material, and soon it turns into early Ella Fitzgerald in some Great Depression sing-a-long. Eventually it's back to Radiohead, with The Separator chiming in just as I enter Friendswood. Two months and although I expect something to be different, the town is right where I left it. "Spring Forward Saturday" is posted on the Friendswood Hardware sign.
My house has no cement driveway, it's a combination of shell and rock. The close edges to the house are starting to grow green and as long as we stay parked far enough, it's likely to keep growing green. It's dark by the time I pull in, and a deep amber glow fills the street. None of that bright white post modern crap. The old standard amber, that made dates all the better because people looked more tan in the muggy midnight. I turn and look at the window where the computer is, and there's Jamie. Her hand is prying open the window blinds, trying to get a look. With a jolt and five seconds she's left through the garage and hugged her long lost brother, the shipwreck that is always college. She takes my bags, most of them actually, as I relish in the laziness of being the big man on campus. My mother and father are watching television. The black couches that were bought years ago show more signs of wear and tear. The house is even more cluttered with coupons and books and CDs and time and time and time. Exhausted from some unseen force I fall asleep.
The time is eight thirty, and I haven't woken that early since my last shift on campus. The light in the guest room is blaring in my face, and for a man who blankets his window for complete darkness, there is a change. First stop is half-price, where I buy books I'm not even sure I'll read this summer. The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler: the story of a private investigator in 1930s Los Angeles dealing with a murder. That's probably all I'll ever hear of it. Rabbit Run, by John Updike: the beginning novel of a series about a man growing up in middle America. My salivation for Mad Men related anything is unquenchable. Half Price at home is a disappointment. It's not the super store in Dallas and it's no comparison to Recycled on the square, but it gets the job done. Best Buy, a place where I would buy everything if I had the opportunity actually does not have what my mother wants. Taco Bell, the famous seven layer burrito is waiting for us.
Mad Men. I cannot help but convince my mother to watch it. I can't tell if she enjoys it, or just wants me to think she is enjoying it. Either way, my lack of creativity stops Saturday to a halt. It's not that I don't enjoy doing things, it's the cost. So we decide to buy me some new clothes which no one would deny. We hit up Walmart and do what I do best: making really cheap clothing work. I buy some flannel shirts: one which match my eyes and another in neutrals which I love. I buy some jeans. Blah, blah, blah.
There's something about revisiting a place that is big as a kid and small as an adult, and on Sunday after church it's Mr. Gatti's, well known as "a poor man's Chuck-E Cheese." I love pizza buffets. We all win some tickets and we pool together our resources and prizes come out and you wonder why didn't you just cut the middle man and buy the prizes wholesale back at Walmart? Doesn't matter. Maybe it feels more like you earned it.
It's been wanting to rain all week but it only did it Monday, quickly and in a fit of anger. Unlike many other places in the world, the weather here just gets worse, with the muggy Mondays seeping into your sweaty socks and penetrating the new flannel shirts. Battle Los Angeles in the theater was seizure inducing mayhem, but it was fun if you like that sort of thing. The actors all played their cut-outs well and I couldn't see anything of the action because the camera was held by a drug addict who had obviously not taken the drug. Then came Never Let me Go with Zane and his sister Lacie. The movie that will kill your soul with a knife and then twist the blade. It's a movie that is so sad, they probably invented the word melancholy.
The other moments of the week are kept as a secret, but I'll share a little piece that interested me. My grandparents needed yardwork, which was overly paid as usual. I couldn't help but notice as I was about to be fed corn beef, there were little porcelain figures in the back behind the glass. They were perfectly still, and they were old. "Flappers forever" is what I thought as they were dressed in progressive style clothing. They looked youthful and happy, and they were absolutely beautiful. I don't know if they were real but I look down and notice that they say, "Florence" on them. I have no idea what it means but what is true is that those figurines will be young and delicate forever. I don't know what to make of it, but I think of them now, the hat hiding her dark hair. The young women in a "provocative" dress that shows enough to keep your interest. Smooth porcelain on everything.
I'm leaving tomorrow, and as usual I cannot imagine where the eight days went. I suspect that with time I'll understand visits home a little more, but in this transitional period I have no words to explain it. Does it mean anything? Is there a purpose? I had a dream last night where I visited what I thought was New York, but it was some spectacular city with a massive tower overlooking the coast. I told someone that I wanted to see that while I was here. I did not know why I was there, or what the tower was, but maybe it does not matter. This deal of finding purpose in things may be supremely overrated.
My house has no cement driveway, it's a combination of shell and rock. The close edges to the house are starting to grow green and as long as we stay parked far enough, it's likely to keep growing green. It's dark by the time I pull in, and a deep amber glow fills the street. None of that bright white post modern crap. The old standard amber, that made dates all the better because people looked more tan in the muggy midnight. I turn and look at the window where the computer is, and there's Jamie. Her hand is prying open the window blinds, trying to get a look. With a jolt and five seconds she's left through the garage and hugged her long lost brother, the shipwreck that is always college. She takes my bags, most of them actually, as I relish in the laziness of being the big man on campus. My mother and father are watching television. The black couches that were bought years ago show more signs of wear and tear. The house is even more cluttered with coupons and books and CDs and time and time and time. Exhausted from some unseen force I fall asleep.
The time is eight thirty, and I haven't woken that early since my last shift on campus. The light in the guest room is blaring in my face, and for a man who blankets his window for complete darkness, there is a change. First stop is half-price, where I buy books I'm not even sure I'll read this summer. The Big Sleep, by Raymond Chandler: the story of a private investigator in 1930s Los Angeles dealing with a murder. That's probably all I'll ever hear of it. Rabbit Run, by John Updike: the beginning novel of a series about a man growing up in middle America. My salivation for Mad Men related anything is unquenchable. Half Price at home is a disappointment. It's not the super store in Dallas and it's no comparison to Recycled on the square, but it gets the job done. Best Buy, a place where I would buy everything if I had the opportunity actually does not have what my mother wants. Taco Bell, the famous seven layer burrito is waiting for us.
Mad Men. I cannot help but convince my mother to watch it. I can't tell if she enjoys it, or just wants me to think she is enjoying it. Either way, my lack of creativity stops Saturday to a halt. It's not that I don't enjoy doing things, it's the cost. So we decide to buy me some new clothes which no one would deny. We hit up Walmart and do what I do best: making really cheap clothing work. I buy some flannel shirts: one which match my eyes and another in neutrals which I love. I buy some jeans. Blah, blah, blah.
There's something about revisiting a place that is big as a kid and small as an adult, and on Sunday after church it's Mr. Gatti's, well known as "a poor man's Chuck-E Cheese." I love pizza buffets. We all win some tickets and we pool together our resources and prizes come out and you wonder why didn't you just cut the middle man and buy the prizes wholesale back at Walmart? Doesn't matter. Maybe it feels more like you earned it.
It's been wanting to rain all week but it only did it Monday, quickly and in a fit of anger. Unlike many other places in the world, the weather here just gets worse, with the muggy Mondays seeping into your sweaty socks and penetrating the new flannel shirts. Battle Los Angeles in the theater was seizure inducing mayhem, but it was fun if you like that sort of thing. The actors all played their cut-outs well and I couldn't see anything of the action because the camera was held by a drug addict who had obviously not taken the drug. Then came Never Let me Go with Zane and his sister Lacie. The movie that will kill your soul with a knife and then twist the blade. It's a movie that is so sad, they probably invented the word melancholy.
The other moments of the week are kept as a secret, but I'll share a little piece that interested me. My grandparents needed yardwork, which was overly paid as usual. I couldn't help but notice as I was about to be fed corn beef, there were little porcelain figures in the back behind the glass. They were perfectly still, and they were old. "Flappers forever" is what I thought as they were dressed in progressive style clothing. They looked youthful and happy, and they were absolutely beautiful. I don't know if they were real but I look down and notice that they say, "Florence" on them. I have no idea what it means but what is true is that those figurines will be young and delicate forever. I don't know what to make of it, but I think of them now, the hat hiding her dark hair. The young women in a "provocative" dress that shows enough to keep your interest. Smooth porcelain on everything.
I'm leaving tomorrow, and as usual I cannot imagine where the eight days went. I suspect that with time I'll understand visits home a little more, but in this transitional period I have no words to explain it. Does it mean anything? Is there a purpose? I had a dream last night where I visited what I thought was New York, but it was some spectacular city with a massive tower overlooking the coast. I told someone that I wanted to see that while I was here. I did not know why I was there, or what the tower was, but maybe it does not matter. This deal of finding purpose in things may be supremely overrated.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
The Distant Gazer
“I came to see about buying a telescope,” she said as she turned to gaze at Timothy Forsythe. She had walked in earlier that day with a double breasted coat. It was beige, except at the bottom which was growing grey from the constant dragging on the occasional step or to the entrance of her 1940s wartime wolseley. Her black hair was partially covered by a hat with a feather, but it could not stop anyone from becoming aware of her mature femininity. Black hair, so black it reflected, fell cascading down the back of the coat. Her entrance was indicated by the small bell chime; however the owner of The Distant Gazer was nowhere to be seen, at least not at the front desk. She slowly walked through the room and squinted at each wall. Blueprints of telescopes lay stretched and overstretched, tearing occasionally revealed even more paper details underneath. News reports of astronomical discoveries were posted on and over constellations. She continued to make her way through the center. It wasn’t until a piece of parchment caught her eye from the ceiling that she turned up and saw what was up there. It started from the center ceiling fan out: a massive constellation chart. Each radial mark, like a clock, represented a date. The entire chart was a year long progression of what could be seen from the northern hemisphere, and in this case Colorado. She looked through the constellations and found Orion. She stood transfixed, unable to recognize how long she’d been standing there. Orion the hunter, rested softly in the heavens neither moving nor acknowledging her constant stare.
When Timothy Forsythe came downstairs forty five seconds late to answer the call, Morna was staring straight in the air. The line of her back was the reason for a pale exposed neck that was clean, smooth. Tim’s stare was little more than vague approval for a customer.
“Can I help you?” he said after a throat clearing which made Morna nearly jump as she realized the odd position of her body. Turning ninety degrees right, she quietly requested her order.
In 1955, there was only one custom telescope maker in Colorado. Tim had gained the necessary money saving the liberties he received from the war to buy a piece of property across the street from his company comrade Dick, who owned a bar. It was the realization of a dream that occurred between the two of them in Holland in 1944.
That night after Morna’s purchase of a custom Schmidt-Cassegrain telescope, Tim made his way to Dick’s bar. Despite the twenty five yards distance, Tim rarely visited and each night Dick did not take it lightly. Upon entering, Tim would never notice the details, never make a motion right or left. The usual customers were scarce, but consistent. The amber lighting that reflected slightly from the dark wood bar, and the smoke from the occasional cigarette was a vision that Dick had since before 1941. He would hear a whistle from his only employee, signifying Tim’s arrival. By the time Tim sat down across from him a draft of beer was already out, and desperate. Often times it sat there, never touched.
“A woman came in for an order,” Tim said without making eye contact as he peered at the bubbles that fizzed to the top of his drink. His head was placed on his hands, which were placed on the bar.
“For a telescope?” Dick replied as he slowly filled the glass he held with a damp rag.
“Yes. It’s odd.”
“Was she a looker?”
“No.” Tim quickly said, making sure to not over indulge in the volume or tone. “Well yes, but it’s not like that. When was the last time you saw a woman, and just a woman enter the store? No kids. No husband.”
Dick agreed to some extent that it was irregular, but said nothing as he placed the glass back to its home on the rack. After a minute or so of staring at his drink and not daring a sip, Dick asked, “What is her name?”
Tim looked up quickly, his eyebrows leading before quickly settling back as he replied, “Morna Late.” Dick recognized the name from Lakewood, but Tim seemed unaware to catch it.
“You know that name is familiar.” Dick continued. Tim said nothing.
“How’s the leg?” Dick said. Afterward he wished he had not spoken of it. The limp, although prominent in Tim’s step was something he had intended to forget.
“It’s fine.” Tim said, and forgetting or wishing to forget why he had visited, Tim slowly straddled off the stool seat. Dick, who knew him well did not bother with a goodbye the same as he had not bothered with hello. To Dick, Tim was drifting farther out of orbit.
Over the course of the week, Tim worked tirelessly on the Schmidt-Cassegrain. One of the newest models available, the telescope would allow a compact body while preserving the magnification. Tim always started with the most expensive aspect: the lens grinding. He worked alone, in the workshop behind the front desk. He lived upstairs in a small cupboard of a room dedicated to his nights. During the end of the 1940s, he bought and read from cover to cover several books describing the structure and layout of telescopes, their functions and designs, and how to replicate them. After fighting, Tim felt his evenings stretched forever outward, like some universe. It was the thought of wasted time that gave him the determination to push forward with an idea that began from what seemed like an event so close to him. During those evenings, after cleaning Dick’s successful Lakewood, Colorado bar, he would read about reflecting and refracting telescopes. He would inspect certain spotting scopes and learn about creating an accurate focus. Tim’s first telescopes were mundane and seemed cheaply made based on the materials. Dick would comment using clever words like wholesome, and lightweight.
Dick could hear him working, and as he passed behind the front desk to round the corner to the workshop, he silently watched his friend who did not notice the bell chime. Tim, who was miniscule compared to Dick’s six foot two inch height, appeared little more intimidating than a mouse. Tim was short, skinny, and frail looking. Although his clothes fit him alright, he seemed like a miniature body formed to scale. Dick noticed the precision and diligence with which Tim worked. Seeing Tim fully in his element gave Dick some relief, but also apprehension. Instead of something drastic like residing in a space ship, Dick felt like his work and the capsule were related. It was somehow horrifying to see how efficient he became. The lenses were placed, and he was concentrating at the moment on the body itself. When Tim finally turned to see him, Dick had been there for nearly a minute.
“I did not hear you come in,” Tim said, quickly resuming his work.
“I’m sorry, I just wanted to ask you something.” Dick said, looking down at the worn wood paneling.
“Is it about this woman? I told you it wasn’t like that.” Tim said.
“Actually it’s about another woman.”
Tim stopped and turned quietly as Dick was looking down. He took a silent deep breath and began.
“I’m having a night picnic tonight. The moon is full and Jamie and I are going to eat a late dinner farther up into the mountains. There’s another girl named Trudy that could really use some company. I can convince her to come along if you would like to join us.”
Tim remained quiet. It wasn’t necessarily the act of going to a picnic at night, but he returned to his work in order to break eye contact.
“You can see Jupiter really well tonight. I was planning on looking at it.”
Dick tried to look inside him. He watched Tim turning the screwdriver. He turned to go, walked several steps, then turned around. Tim’s shadow from the work light revealed him before the corner. The light was close to him, the edges of his shadow were sharp, like an eclipse.
It was late in the evening on Tuesday as Dick unfolded a large blanket on the grassy hills overlooking Lakewood. The night air was just chilly enough for a coat, and Jamie was wearing one of Dick’s as she sat neatly on the blanket, watching him place the meal. They ate and laughed as Dick nearly spilled the wine after setting it. The setting was planned by Dick to be as scenic as possible. The town of Lakewood looked like little stars that spotted the hills. The moon, in its full brightness gave blue hue that soaked the wind responding grass. After an hour Dick had handed her a slice of his poorly made cheesecake. Jamie laughed because of the look of the cheesecake, but Dick assumed it was a laugh of surprise. Jamie turned to him, and accepted the plate.
“It’s a shame your friend couldn’t make it. Trudy thought he was rather handsome.” Dick had shown her a picture of the two while they were in Austria. Dick was smiling pleasantly and Tim was rather stoic, merely staring into the camera’s face.
There would be no cheesecake for Tim. Tim was alone. He exited the truck, and unloaded his reflecting telescope. It was a large and heavy piece that was almost too much for him. He dragged it along the ground four feet. He could look up and see Jupiter, shining brightly in the fall air. Close to it would be the moons, the constant bodies that revolved and made no sound. He leaned down to stand the telescope up, then continued to pull out the tripod and balanced it on the uneven crest of the hill. As he bent down, the sting of pain from his leg crawled through his spine and stuck inside his brain. He grabbed his leg as if to tear it apart, to relinquish himself of command over a defective past.
“I thought Trudy would sway him,” Dick said. He poured another glass of wine and handed it to Jamie. “Tim’s a wonder like that.”
“He’s a big timer around here.” Jamie said as she accepted the drink. “Everyone wants one of his telescopes. I’m a little impressed really.” She looked out towards the lights and said, “All that’s here in Lakewood is a couple of drug stores.”
He was looking through the finder’s scope; properly acquiring a relative location before investigating it with the eyepiece. It was there he saw Jupiter in full form. And to the right were three dimmer dots: Jupiter’s visible moons, circling and circling, and never touching. Tim knew how far they were. Bodies so close were thousands of miles away from each other. Clockwork, Tim thought, absolute clockwork. It was a rewarding thing: finding what was sought after. Mercury’s eighty eight days to Pluto’s two hundred and forty eight years, and everything in between. Like here. Finding what was sought after, he thought.
“Finding what was sought after.” he said it out loud. In the silence, Tim remembered his pipe and turned toward his truck.
“I heard they were even coming in from Boulder.” Dick said, pulling out the occasional blades of grass as he laid down on the blanket. “There‘s an observatory there and people get the idea to buy one for themselves.”
“Well,” Jamie said, “it doesn‘t sound nearly as romantic as this.” Her hand was motioning at the ground. She turned and smiled at him, a silent recognition that Dick had succeeded.
“And Tim’s looking at the stars.” Dick said, and he kissed her.
Tim lit his pipe and gazed down at Lakewood below. Scattered buildings, progressively dropping their lights, were drifting out of focus. He flicked out the match with a rapid wave of his arm. He leaned against his truck and looked upwards, the way he had done so many times before. The stars, constant in their presence, were there as well. The stars were there in France; they were there in Holland. Sometimes they were hard to see because of the gunfire, because of the smoke. It was quiet, so quiet the wind in the trees sounded like crackling wrapper in a dinner banquet speech. It was quiet there in the foxhole as well, and Dick was there too. Night had fallen like it does so often, only in the foxhole Tim had simultaneously feared and welcomed its darkening presence.
“What are you staring at?” Dick said, seated next to him awkwardly, legs hunched because of the lack of room.
“Scorpio is above us.” Tim said, rifle between his legs. Dick paused for a minute, attempting to follow his stare as he looked upward.
“I can’t see it.” Dick said. “How do you know it’s there?”
“See the string of stars, right there?” he pointed upward, his arm poking over the foxhole by a foot. “That’s his tail.”
“Oh.” Dick lied, “I see it now.” Dick looked and Tim, neither convinced nor offended, merely stared back at his rifle.
“Do you know why Scorpio is up there?” Tim said, not focusing away from his rifle.
“No I sure don’t.”
“It was Orion.” Tim said, shifting himself for comfort. “Orion’s pride as a hunter killed him. And they sent Scorpio after him.”
“They?”
“Earth. Earth raised up a being he couldn’t kill. Orion died from the poisonous sting.”
Tim looked back up as Dick was falling asleep. Soon Scorpio would leave, but would always return the next day. It was beautiful, Tim thought. Even though the sky was filled with little asteroids and comets and loss of orbits, the stars would still be there.
Tim recognized the wartime wolseley at Ryenne’s drug store when he moved a chair out from inside the shop to start the morning. The partial clouds left dizzying effects as he tried to focus down the street. The shadows left fluttering and breezy effects on the contrasting street. Soon after the car had his full attention, the woman was seen leaving. Her legs, profound in their step at such distance, made her look like a giraffe from afar. She had placed the groceries in the passenger side when she turned and looked at Tim. Tim, embarrassed at being caught, attempted to rearrange the chair again despite the fact it was in the correct location. But before he fully acted out the process, he instead looked up and met her gaze. She looked back, and after a while placed her hand out in the air, as if sticking her hand out in the middle of gunfire. Tim responded with a short lift of his right hand, not as profound in its height, but still recognizable. When he had lowered his hand she was already on the driver side, getting in. Tim remained motionless as the car slowly rolled in front of his shop. She got out, her body more in focus, elaborate features tranquilized.
“Good morning Mr. Forsythe”, she said as she reached out to shake his hand. In her heels, she was slightly taller than him.
“Good morning Ms. Late”, he said, answering the handshake. It felt sturdy, but still a woman’s touch.
“I trust my telescope is coming around?”
“Yes ma’am, should have it finished by the end of next week.” Tim said. A breeze was moving through the town valley. As the rocking chair shuddered, Morna was perfectly balanced, her body refusing to rotate or respond to the wind.
“Do you feel the project is meeting your standards?” Morna said, breaking his awkward pause. Tim was drifting away, and he reattached quickly.
“Surpassing them. The new Schmidt Cassegrain models at first were rather difficult, the interior mirrors that is.” The jargon had thrown Morna off guard. Tim responded with a quick, “I think it will be as well built as I can manage.”
“Excellent.” Morna concluded. “I’ll check up on it the next week then.”
The wartime Wolseley, Tim thought, she helped the cause. It was obvious in the car she drove, the clothes she wore, and the spirit she held down. She left a trail: pieces flying and sputtering in parallel but slowly diminishing from the host. Cold and small, but part of the main structure nonetheless. The decades spill on to other decades, Tim concluded. As she drove away, the exhaust fumes were gathering and swirling behind. The atmosphere was close, and the way it burned so many others could be the same for her. The heat becomes immediately apparent, but after so many years in the darkened void there is something warm about returning. Tim looked down at the rocking chair. Gusts of wind would automate its movement without the need of a body to propel it. The bell chime that signaled his entrance was the only sound in the dark dead of The Distant Gazer. Wood floors occasionally let out a yelp, but it was only a whisper in Tim’s mind. He looked up, and there were pieces of the roof constellation slipping down, edges that were untamed. Grabbing the bench and the stapler, he repaired what remained of his ceiling stars.
“I found out why Morna’s name was so familiar.” Dick said as he handed him a draft. Tim did not take it, but he looked into its brass coloring. It was the following evening.
“What makes her name so familiar?”
“It’s actually her husband”, Dick said. “He died in the war.”
“Holland?”
“Italy. His name was in the paper with a tally of Colorado men who had died. I remember reading it. They married right before he left. Sad really.” Dick was taking out a cigarette, more as a defense. Tim did not speak for some time. While he looked at the drink, Dick tried to smoke casually.
“What was her husband’s name?” Tim finally said after some time had passed.
“Rigel.”
“What?” Tim for the first time that night looked up, his face in a questioning and pointed stare. Dick dropped the cigarette. As he picked it up, he blew hard on it and looked back at him bewildered.
“Rigel Late. Served in Italy, shot through the abdomen, and di-”
Before Dick had the chance to finish, Tim had leapt from his seat and proceeded to leave the bar and run, nearly sprinted across the street to his shop. By the time the door chimed he was already halfway into the room, and soon he had worked his way around his front desk and into his workshop. His light flickered on as he swiped the switch, and worked throughout the night. He vigorously installed what was left for the main body. He calibrated and double checked the mirrors, and their reflection to the focus. She was trying to return, he thought as the sweat started to gather around his face and under his arms. The tripod that stood in the corner was now ready to become attached to the double weight system that would allow balanced movement. Whatever the cost he would make this telescope the best he had ever made. The reasoning like a camera was staring him right in the face.
“Forsythe’s been hit!” someone had screamed that night; who he did not remember. It was dark, and he was running in the beginning. The fields were constant, the trees disappearing behind him. The farm that was in the briefing was ahead by four hundred yards. Their dog tags were removed; placed in their boots to stop the rattling. The dark shoe polish hid their faces, making their eyes all the more bright and violent. Running, and then a distant yell, and then noise. His mind was in full panic, but his feet dared not stop. To stop would be to die in the open. Tim had nearly tripped over a dead man, he did not remember who, when suddenly his leg felt heat, profound heat. It was not a feeling of glad warmth, it was the turmoil of pleading to be sent out into space, into cold. He was thrust forward as his legs refused to continue. The scream of his name echoed and there was the man with the red cross. His mind was scattered as the medic thrust him on his backside. The streaks of bullets went by in a twinkling blur. Yells felt distant, like a far away football game. He fully lost sound when the morphine was shot into his body. When he regained some form of sense he was looking up, and the stars were out. He was observing the heavens and there was the creature. There was Scorpio. He was moving but the sky remained still, docile. Dragged by the medic, his feet were kicking up grass and dirt as they slid. He looked down and saw the machine gun fire from the barn’s second story. A bazooka flared from the ground in front and tore the opening of the barn to pieces. The action stopped. Tim gazed up and saw the lights that gave him a consolation. Something was always above him. It was there, reassuring him that nothing out there noticed. He was calm, the jeep that carried him away would be unrecognizable by Pluto’s icy surface.
“My God, it’s amazing.” Morna said the next day at high noon. Tim had called her up in early morning to let her know it was complete. He knew she would arrive as soon as possible, because he knew what she was after. She was orbiting the telescope, observing its satin black siding on the body, touching the weights that held the system in balance. Occasionally stopping to peer at details, the retrograde motion was oddly hallucinating. Nevertheless Tim held his stance firm. After a minute or two he finally prepared himself.
“You can look at Orion now.” Tim said. She had stopped abruptly. She was not making eye contact, but it was keenly aware to him that Morna was shaken. The stance that he had seen her take was there now. There would be little wind to sail her away. In an anchoring certainty, this was a storm she would withstand and fight out.
“I’m sorry?” she said, trying to remain calm as she turned around to look at him.
“Orion. The hunter. He will be out tonight a little after nine o‘clock.” You’ll be able to see him fine.”
“Which ‘him’ are we talking about?” Morna said, her eyes narrowing and focusing on Tim, but he would not give. One of them was going to reenter the atmosphere, was going to leave in the escape pod from the derelict hell of what they experienced.
“This is the best telescope I’ve made. I’m sorry about what happened to your husband, but we feel the same thing.”
“You do not know what I fe-”
“I do.” Tim said interrupting. “I do know because I own this shop and because you came in requesting for the same thing.” Morna’s eyes became more and more reflective as she eventually turned away. The tears falling through, but merely glanced off the surface before bouncing back. There was a long pause as Morna looked at the telescope.
“What do we do then?” she said.
“This is free of charge.” Tim said, and before she could object he said, “Take it now.”
Tim did not answer the real question. They both knew in the silence the gravity of the situation. That increasing power of Jupiter’s interior was part of them. It was a dastardly dark that intended to wrap them in tyranny if they did not lift themselves from the foxhole. Tim loaded her telescope in the back of her car. She nodded as she entered the driver’s side. The silent thank you became a key given directly to him. Not a key to be used for later on some mysterious moon, but a key destined for Earth. Alpha Centauri feels as distant as the twenty five years it would take at light speed to reach it. Immediately after Morna’s car drives away, he gives it one last glance. The transition to landing was smooth, and he walked, head level toward Dick’s bar. He entered, looking at things he never saw before: the constellation charts that people demanded because of the rising popularity of Tim’s telescopes, the dart boards that had become largely ignored. Dick, the giant in the back was always waiting for moments like this. He saw him, and immediately turned toward a cup that was standalone on the back counter, next to a row of drinks. Dick poured the best, to the top, and placed it on the bar watching intensely his arms folded. Tim sat in his place, back straight. The posture made Dick’s eyebrows raise.
“Did Morna enjoy the telescope?” Dick asked.
“Yes” Tim said, “she did.”
“Did she mention her husband?”
“No, but I brought it out of her.”
“What do you mean?”
Tim looked up at him and then exhaled. His hands were intertwined, thumbs matching together and mismatching as he collided them again and again.
“Dick. Rigel is brightest star in Orion.”
Dick looked at him, then slowly looked down as he pulled the towel from his shoulder and folded it.
“I see.” he said. “She is going to look at her hunter.”
Tim’s craft was then perfectly fitted with a heat-shield. The test runs that had failed so many times before had somehow today proven safe enough to fly. The travels to distant worlds had rendered him homesick, and as he was cleared for reentry he peered behind. The moon was bright, but deadly in the rear view of his ship. It was only then he understood and smiled at the prospect of never returning. The outside of his windows began to flare up orange and yellowish lashes and strikes, but he was protected from the tearing, and given the warmth. The ice shattered and melted and dragged away chills. He entered the atmosphere safe, and he landed successfully in the ocean to the cheers of some unseen mission control. He picked up the beer, and drinking up asked, “You said her name was Trudy?”
When Timothy Forsythe came downstairs forty five seconds late to answer the call, Morna was staring straight in the air. The line of her back was the reason for a pale exposed neck that was clean, smooth. Tim’s stare was little more than vague approval for a customer.
“Can I help you?” he said after a throat clearing which made Morna nearly jump as she realized the odd position of her body. Turning ninety degrees right, she quietly requested her order.
In 1955, there was only one custom telescope maker in Colorado. Tim had gained the necessary money saving the liberties he received from the war to buy a piece of property across the street from his company comrade Dick, who owned a bar. It was the realization of a dream that occurred between the two of them in Holland in 1944.
That night after Morna’s purchase of a custom Schmidt-Cassegrain telescope, Tim made his way to Dick’s bar. Despite the twenty five yards distance, Tim rarely visited and each night Dick did not take it lightly. Upon entering, Tim would never notice the details, never make a motion right or left. The usual customers were scarce, but consistent. The amber lighting that reflected slightly from the dark wood bar, and the smoke from the occasional cigarette was a vision that Dick had since before 1941. He would hear a whistle from his only employee, signifying Tim’s arrival. By the time Tim sat down across from him a draft of beer was already out, and desperate. Often times it sat there, never touched.
“A woman came in for an order,” Tim said without making eye contact as he peered at the bubbles that fizzed to the top of his drink. His head was placed on his hands, which were placed on the bar.
“For a telescope?” Dick replied as he slowly filled the glass he held with a damp rag.
“Yes. It’s odd.”
“Was she a looker?”
“No.” Tim quickly said, making sure to not over indulge in the volume or tone. “Well yes, but it’s not like that. When was the last time you saw a woman, and just a woman enter the store? No kids. No husband.”
Dick agreed to some extent that it was irregular, but said nothing as he placed the glass back to its home on the rack. After a minute or so of staring at his drink and not daring a sip, Dick asked, “What is her name?”
Tim looked up quickly, his eyebrows leading before quickly settling back as he replied, “Morna Late.” Dick recognized the name from Lakewood, but Tim seemed unaware to catch it.
“You know that name is familiar.” Dick continued. Tim said nothing.
“How’s the leg?” Dick said. Afterward he wished he had not spoken of it. The limp, although prominent in Tim’s step was something he had intended to forget.
“It’s fine.” Tim said, and forgetting or wishing to forget why he had visited, Tim slowly straddled off the stool seat. Dick, who knew him well did not bother with a goodbye the same as he had not bothered with hello. To Dick, Tim was drifting farther out of orbit.
Over the course of the week, Tim worked tirelessly on the Schmidt-Cassegrain. One of the newest models available, the telescope would allow a compact body while preserving the magnification. Tim always started with the most expensive aspect: the lens grinding. He worked alone, in the workshop behind the front desk. He lived upstairs in a small cupboard of a room dedicated to his nights. During the end of the 1940s, he bought and read from cover to cover several books describing the structure and layout of telescopes, their functions and designs, and how to replicate them. After fighting, Tim felt his evenings stretched forever outward, like some universe. It was the thought of wasted time that gave him the determination to push forward with an idea that began from what seemed like an event so close to him. During those evenings, after cleaning Dick’s successful Lakewood, Colorado bar, he would read about reflecting and refracting telescopes. He would inspect certain spotting scopes and learn about creating an accurate focus. Tim’s first telescopes were mundane and seemed cheaply made based on the materials. Dick would comment using clever words like wholesome, and lightweight.
Dick could hear him working, and as he passed behind the front desk to round the corner to the workshop, he silently watched his friend who did not notice the bell chime. Tim, who was miniscule compared to Dick’s six foot two inch height, appeared little more intimidating than a mouse. Tim was short, skinny, and frail looking. Although his clothes fit him alright, he seemed like a miniature body formed to scale. Dick noticed the precision and diligence with which Tim worked. Seeing Tim fully in his element gave Dick some relief, but also apprehension. Instead of something drastic like residing in a space ship, Dick felt like his work and the capsule were related. It was somehow horrifying to see how efficient he became. The lenses were placed, and he was concentrating at the moment on the body itself. When Tim finally turned to see him, Dick had been there for nearly a minute.
“I did not hear you come in,” Tim said, quickly resuming his work.
“I’m sorry, I just wanted to ask you something.” Dick said, looking down at the worn wood paneling.
“Is it about this woman? I told you it wasn’t like that.” Tim said.
“Actually it’s about another woman.”
Tim stopped and turned quietly as Dick was looking down. He took a silent deep breath and began.
“I’m having a night picnic tonight. The moon is full and Jamie and I are going to eat a late dinner farther up into the mountains. There’s another girl named Trudy that could really use some company. I can convince her to come along if you would like to join us.”
Tim remained quiet. It wasn’t necessarily the act of going to a picnic at night, but he returned to his work in order to break eye contact.
“You can see Jupiter really well tonight. I was planning on looking at it.”
Dick tried to look inside him. He watched Tim turning the screwdriver. He turned to go, walked several steps, then turned around. Tim’s shadow from the work light revealed him before the corner. The light was close to him, the edges of his shadow were sharp, like an eclipse.
It was late in the evening on Tuesday as Dick unfolded a large blanket on the grassy hills overlooking Lakewood. The night air was just chilly enough for a coat, and Jamie was wearing one of Dick’s as she sat neatly on the blanket, watching him place the meal. They ate and laughed as Dick nearly spilled the wine after setting it. The setting was planned by Dick to be as scenic as possible. The town of Lakewood looked like little stars that spotted the hills. The moon, in its full brightness gave blue hue that soaked the wind responding grass. After an hour Dick had handed her a slice of his poorly made cheesecake. Jamie laughed because of the look of the cheesecake, but Dick assumed it was a laugh of surprise. Jamie turned to him, and accepted the plate.
“It’s a shame your friend couldn’t make it. Trudy thought he was rather handsome.” Dick had shown her a picture of the two while they were in Austria. Dick was smiling pleasantly and Tim was rather stoic, merely staring into the camera’s face.
There would be no cheesecake for Tim. Tim was alone. He exited the truck, and unloaded his reflecting telescope. It was a large and heavy piece that was almost too much for him. He dragged it along the ground four feet. He could look up and see Jupiter, shining brightly in the fall air. Close to it would be the moons, the constant bodies that revolved and made no sound. He leaned down to stand the telescope up, then continued to pull out the tripod and balanced it on the uneven crest of the hill. As he bent down, the sting of pain from his leg crawled through his spine and stuck inside his brain. He grabbed his leg as if to tear it apart, to relinquish himself of command over a defective past.
“I thought Trudy would sway him,” Dick said. He poured another glass of wine and handed it to Jamie. “Tim’s a wonder like that.”
“He’s a big timer around here.” Jamie said as she accepted the drink. “Everyone wants one of his telescopes. I’m a little impressed really.” She looked out towards the lights and said, “All that’s here in Lakewood is a couple of drug stores.”
He was looking through the finder’s scope; properly acquiring a relative location before investigating it with the eyepiece. It was there he saw Jupiter in full form. And to the right were three dimmer dots: Jupiter’s visible moons, circling and circling, and never touching. Tim knew how far they were. Bodies so close were thousands of miles away from each other. Clockwork, Tim thought, absolute clockwork. It was a rewarding thing: finding what was sought after. Mercury’s eighty eight days to Pluto’s two hundred and forty eight years, and everything in between. Like here. Finding what was sought after, he thought.
“Finding what was sought after.” he said it out loud. In the silence, Tim remembered his pipe and turned toward his truck.
“I heard they were even coming in from Boulder.” Dick said, pulling out the occasional blades of grass as he laid down on the blanket. “There‘s an observatory there and people get the idea to buy one for themselves.”
“Well,” Jamie said, “it doesn‘t sound nearly as romantic as this.” Her hand was motioning at the ground. She turned and smiled at him, a silent recognition that Dick had succeeded.
“And Tim’s looking at the stars.” Dick said, and he kissed her.
Tim lit his pipe and gazed down at Lakewood below. Scattered buildings, progressively dropping their lights, were drifting out of focus. He flicked out the match with a rapid wave of his arm. He leaned against his truck and looked upwards, the way he had done so many times before. The stars, constant in their presence, were there as well. The stars were there in France; they were there in Holland. Sometimes they were hard to see because of the gunfire, because of the smoke. It was quiet, so quiet the wind in the trees sounded like crackling wrapper in a dinner banquet speech. It was quiet there in the foxhole as well, and Dick was there too. Night had fallen like it does so often, only in the foxhole Tim had simultaneously feared and welcomed its darkening presence.
“What are you staring at?” Dick said, seated next to him awkwardly, legs hunched because of the lack of room.
“Scorpio is above us.” Tim said, rifle between his legs. Dick paused for a minute, attempting to follow his stare as he looked upward.
“I can’t see it.” Dick said. “How do you know it’s there?”
“See the string of stars, right there?” he pointed upward, his arm poking over the foxhole by a foot. “That’s his tail.”
“Oh.” Dick lied, “I see it now.” Dick looked and Tim, neither convinced nor offended, merely stared back at his rifle.
“Do you know why Scorpio is up there?” Tim said, not focusing away from his rifle.
“No I sure don’t.”
“It was Orion.” Tim said, shifting himself for comfort. “Orion’s pride as a hunter killed him. And they sent Scorpio after him.”
“They?”
“Earth. Earth raised up a being he couldn’t kill. Orion died from the poisonous sting.”
Tim looked back up as Dick was falling asleep. Soon Scorpio would leave, but would always return the next day. It was beautiful, Tim thought. Even though the sky was filled with little asteroids and comets and loss of orbits, the stars would still be there.
Tim recognized the wartime wolseley at Ryenne’s drug store when he moved a chair out from inside the shop to start the morning. The partial clouds left dizzying effects as he tried to focus down the street. The shadows left fluttering and breezy effects on the contrasting street. Soon after the car had his full attention, the woman was seen leaving. Her legs, profound in their step at such distance, made her look like a giraffe from afar. She had placed the groceries in the passenger side when she turned and looked at Tim. Tim, embarrassed at being caught, attempted to rearrange the chair again despite the fact it was in the correct location. But before he fully acted out the process, he instead looked up and met her gaze. She looked back, and after a while placed her hand out in the air, as if sticking her hand out in the middle of gunfire. Tim responded with a short lift of his right hand, not as profound in its height, but still recognizable. When he had lowered his hand she was already on the driver side, getting in. Tim remained motionless as the car slowly rolled in front of his shop. She got out, her body more in focus, elaborate features tranquilized.
“Good morning Mr. Forsythe”, she said as she reached out to shake his hand. In her heels, she was slightly taller than him.
“Good morning Ms. Late”, he said, answering the handshake. It felt sturdy, but still a woman’s touch.
“I trust my telescope is coming around?”
“Yes ma’am, should have it finished by the end of next week.” Tim said. A breeze was moving through the town valley. As the rocking chair shuddered, Morna was perfectly balanced, her body refusing to rotate or respond to the wind.
“Do you feel the project is meeting your standards?” Morna said, breaking his awkward pause. Tim was drifting away, and he reattached quickly.
“Surpassing them. The new Schmidt Cassegrain models at first were rather difficult, the interior mirrors that is.” The jargon had thrown Morna off guard. Tim responded with a quick, “I think it will be as well built as I can manage.”
“Excellent.” Morna concluded. “I’ll check up on it the next week then.”
The wartime Wolseley, Tim thought, she helped the cause. It was obvious in the car she drove, the clothes she wore, and the spirit she held down. She left a trail: pieces flying and sputtering in parallel but slowly diminishing from the host. Cold and small, but part of the main structure nonetheless. The decades spill on to other decades, Tim concluded. As she drove away, the exhaust fumes were gathering and swirling behind. The atmosphere was close, and the way it burned so many others could be the same for her. The heat becomes immediately apparent, but after so many years in the darkened void there is something warm about returning. Tim looked down at the rocking chair. Gusts of wind would automate its movement without the need of a body to propel it. The bell chime that signaled his entrance was the only sound in the dark dead of The Distant Gazer. Wood floors occasionally let out a yelp, but it was only a whisper in Tim’s mind. He looked up, and there were pieces of the roof constellation slipping down, edges that were untamed. Grabbing the bench and the stapler, he repaired what remained of his ceiling stars.
“I found out why Morna’s name was so familiar.” Dick said as he handed him a draft. Tim did not take it, but he looked into its brass coloring. It was the following evening.
“What makes her name so familiar?”
“It’s actually her husband”, Dick said. “He died in the war.”
“Holland?”
“Italy. His name was in the paper with a tally of Colorado men who had died. I remember reading it. They married right before he left. Sad really.” Dick was taking out a cigarette, more as a defense. Tim did not speak for some time. While he looked at the drink, Dick tried to smoke casually.
“What was her husband’s name?” Tim finally said after some time had passed.
“Rigel.”
“What?” Tim for the first time that night looked up, his face in a questioning and pointed stare. Dick dropped the cigarette. As he picked it up, he blew hard on it and looked back at him bewildered.
“Rigel Late. Served in Italy, shot through the abdomen, and di-”
Before Dick had the chance to finish, Tim had leapt from his seat and proceeded to leave the bar and run, nearly sprinted across the street to his shop. By the time the door chimed he was already halfway into the room, and soon he had worked his way around his front desk and into his workshop. His light flickered on as he swiped the switch, and worked throughout the night. He vigorously installed what was left for the main body. He calibrated and double checked the mirrors, and their reflection to the focus. She was trying to return, he thought as the sweat started to gather around his face and under his arms. The tripod that stood in the corner was now ready to become attached to the double weight system that would allow balanced movement. Whatever the cost he would make this telescope the best he had ever made. The reasoning like a camera was staring him right in the face.
“Forsythe’s been hit!” someone had screamed that night; who he did not remember. It was dark, and he was running in the beginning. The fields were constant, the trees disappearing behind him. The farm that was in the briefing was ahead by four hundred yards. Their dog tags were removed; placed in their boots to stop the rattling. The dark shoe polish hid their faces, making their eyes all the more bright and violent. Running, and then a distant yell, and then noise. His mind was in full panic, but his feet dared not stop. To stop would be to die in the open. Tim had nearly tripped over a dead man, he did not remember who, when suddenly his leg felt heat, profound heat. It was not a feeling of glad warmth, it was the turmoil of pleading to be sent out into space, into cold. He was thrust forward as his legs refused to continue. The scream of his name echoed and there was the man with the red cross. His mind was scattered as the medic thrust him on his backside. The streaks of bullets went by in a twinkling blur. Yells felt distant, like a far away football game. He fully lost sound when the morphine was shot into his body. When he regained some form of sense he was looking up, and the stars were out. He was observing the heavens and there was the creature. There was Scorpio. He was moving but the sky remained still, docile. Dragged by the medic, his feet were kicking up grass and dirt as they slid. He looked down and saw the machine gun fire from the barn’s second story. A bazooka flared from the ground in front and tore the opening of the barn to pieces. The action stopped. Tim gazed up and saw the lights that gave him a consolation. Something was always above him. It was there, reassuring him that nothing out there noticed. He was calm, the jeep that carried him away would be unrecognizable by Pluto’s icy surface.
“My God, it’s amazing.” Morna said the next day at high noon. Tim had called her up in early morning to let her know it was complete. He knew she would arrive as soon as possible, because he knew what she was after. She was orbiting the telescope, observing its satin black siding on the body, touching the weights that held the system in balance. Occasionally stopping to peer at details, the retrograde motion was oddly hallucinating. Nevertheless Tim held his stance firm. After a minute or two he finally prepared himself.
“You can look at Orion now.” Tim said. She had stopped abruptly. She was not making eye contact, but it was keenly aware to him that Morna was shaken. The stance that he had seen her take was there now. There would be little wind to sail her away. In an anchoring certainty, this was a storm she would withstand and fight out.
“I’m sorry?” she said, trying to remain calm as she turned around to look at him.
“Orion. The hunter. He will be out tonight a little after nine o‘clock.” You’ll be able to see him fine.”
“Which ‘him’ are we talking about?” Morna said, her eyes narrowing and focusing on Tim, but he would not give. One of them was going to reenter the atmosphere, was going to leave in the escape pod from the derelict hell of what they experienced.
“This is the best telescope I’ve made. I’m sorry about what happened to your husband, but we feel the same thing.”
“You do not know what I fe-”
“I do.” Tim said interrupting. “I do know because I own this shop and because you came in requesting for the same thing.” Morna’s eyes became more and more reflective as she eventually turned away. The tears falling through, but merely glanced off the surface before bouncing back. There was a long pause as Morna looked at the telescope.
“What do we do then?” she said.
“This is free of charge.” Tim said, and before she could object he said, “Take it now.”
Tim did not answer the real question. They both knew in the silence the gravity of the situation. That increasing power of Jupiter’s interior was part of them. It was a dastardly dark that intended to wrap them in tyranny if they did not lift themselves from the foxhole. Tim loaded her telescope in the back of her car. She nodded as she entered the driver’s side. The silent thank you became a key given directly to him. Not a key to be used for later on some mysterious moon, but a key destined for Earth. Alpha Centauri feels as distant as the twenty five years it would take at light speed to reach it. Immediately after Morna’s car drives away, he gives it one last glance. The transition to landing was smooth, and he walked, head level toward Dick’s bar. He entered, looking at things he never saw before: the constellation charts that people demanded because of the rising popularity of Tim’s telescopes, the dart boards that had become largely ignored. Dick, the giant in the back was always waiting for moments like this. He saw him, and immediately turned toward a cup that was standalone on the back counter, next to a row of drinks. Dick poured the best, to the top, and placed it on the bar watching intensely his arms folded. Tim sat in his place, back straight. The posture made Dick’s eyebrows raise.
“Did Morna enjoy the telescope?” Dick asked.
“Yes” Tim said, “she did.”
“Did she mention her husband?”
“No, but I brought it out of her.”
“What do you mean?”
Tim looked up at him and then exhaled. His hands were intertwined, thumbs matching together and mismatching as he collided them again and again.
“Dick. Rigel is brightest star in Orion.”
Dick looked at him, then slowly looked down as he pulled the towel from his shoulder and folded it.
“I see.” he said. “She is going to look at her hunter.”
Tim’s craft was then perfectly fitted with a heat-shield. The test runs that had failed so many times before had somehow today proven safe enough to fly. The travels to distant worlds had rendered him homesick, and as he was cleared for reentry he peered behind. The moon was bright, but deadly in the rear view of his ship. It was only then he understood and smiled at the prospect of never returning. The outside of his windows began to flare up orange and yellowish lashes and strikes, but he was protected from the tearing, and given the warmth. The ice shattered and melted and dragged away chills. He entered the atmosphere safe, and he landed successfully in the ocean to the cheers of some unseen mission control. He picked up the beer, and drinking up asked, “You said her name was Trudy?”
Thursday, February 24, 2011
And Wink for Me
Tom was going to buy Marilyn Monroe.
It was the beauty of the indescribable. The fact that Tom had no idea what Marilyn's life was like or why people loved her, or if she had sex with John F. Kennedy. It was the in the lack of detail that brought mystery. Her stare. Tom never ceased to look at her forgotten face in the bookstore. Behind the semi-reflective double doors, Tom would peer in and see Marilyn. And then after ten seconds he would refocus and see himself. Across the street in miniature formation, students marched whether they cared or not from one place to another. All Marilyn had to see was a university. Tom winked at her, and then continued down the street.
"What are you going to buy?" Robert said forty five minutes later as he pushed his vegetable filled pizza over to Tom. Robert knew Tom never went without picking at other people's food. Tom never considered it unsanitary, and he did not concern himself over the waste and third world countries. Tom merely had some untold fascination with food on the plate. He had not lived during the depression.
"I will probably buy some books," Tom replied. "I'm sure there is some book I need this semester."
Tom looked through the window of the pizza place to the location his feet had been only forty five minutes before. The double doors were a cry for help.
"Did you hear about Stephen?" Robert said. "They had to drag him out he was so drunk; embarrassed Jenny to death."
Tom tried to imagine Jenny forcing her hair back continuously as she was looking down at her other. Stephen, in all his wisdom at the current level of intoxication at the least never felt better.
"I'm sure she was," Tom said. "I wouldn't know."
"No." Robert said, "I guess we wouldn't."
They left silently and walked home. The haze of the spring air made rain imminent, but it never came. The gray dragged and dragged until the sun completed its round. Their home was an apartment a mere walking distance from everything. The pizza, the books, the university, was all a hot trot toward a corner of the complex.
"We really appreciate what you're doing," he heard through the phone. "We know you work hard."
"I know you guys do. I just feel bad sometimes."
"Don't. This is something we've wanted to do since we had you. It isn't your fault, never was."
"I appreciate it," Tom said. "Listen, no offense, but I have a lot of reading to do. If I don't start, I'm gonna keep pushing it back."
"I understand. Keep up the good work, and remember you're in college."
Tom chuckled, "Yea I do."
"Good-bye."
Tom released the phone from his ear like a dysfunctional sea shell, slightly scowling in the lamp light of his messy room as he pressed the red button.
If there was one thing good to be said about suicide, Tom thought, it was that Marilyn lived forever because of it. Of course no one really says that, he continued, but they all think it. Tom knew his "they" was a generalization but in the depths of his mind, Tom knew he was always right. Tom knew he was right because he never asked anybody else. For Tom, that made him one for one. Even if he batted a thousand, it would never compare to the feeling Tom felt when he winked at Marilyn and she stared back at him through the double doors.
Three weeks earlier, as Robert and Tom had set off to register once again for their delightfully close apartment, they were surprised to discover they had received a gift card. Fifty dollars, twenty five for each, lay on top of the contract that was so easy to sign once again for their delightfully close apartment. For three weeks he had thought of what the possibilities were for the money. He looked throughout the bookstore, but every time he exited, he would turn around to see her. For three weeks Robert had asked, "What are you going to buy?"
The night before the purchase Tom received a phone call. It was late, to an odd degree. Tom was reading on his bed, three pillows behind him to support the hours and hours when his nightstand made an aggressive humming noise. He looked at his phone and recognized the caller. He answered the phone.
"Hello?" Tom said.
"Hi." Jenny amused. "What are you doing?"
"I'm reading in my room," Tom said. "What are you doing?"
Jenny paused for a full five seconds before responding pridefully, "I'm being drunk."
Tom could not help but chuckle at the thought, then he asked, "Is Stephen there to take care of you?"
Jenny paused fora full five seconds before responding quietly, "Stephen isn't here."
"Have you tried to call him?"
"No."
"You should. It'd be nice for him to be on the other side."
"What?"
"Nothing." Tom hesitated. "Well I hope you have a good night."
"Oh," Jenny said, "I will."
Tom did not look at his phone at all. The big and blank wall had no advice to give him as he pressed the red button. He tried to imagine the choices and the choices and the choices from here into the next. He tried to picture a tree of actions and reactions that spanned the years ahead and he objectively chose what he felt was the most appropriate response to a pesky, curious late night phone call. His lamp clicked off and his extra pillows fell to the floor as Tom repositioned himself on the bed.
Tom walked in that morning to the bookstore and tried not to look. Marilyn was there, ready for her new life. She was done up and ready to go as always, her pose granting her eternal life. Tom stopped immediately after seeing her to glance at something he could neither feel nor think. Then Tom walked. He passed the art supplies and he passed the spiral notebooks. He passed the t-shirts and the spring jackets. He walked into the textbooks and bought two of them. He bought a history of Sam Houston's life and a history of the Mexican-American War. He passed the card, and the clerk swiped it. Tom walked passed the spring jackets and the t-shirts. Tom passed the spiral notebooks and the art supplies. Finally reaching the front of the store, Tom turned and faced Marilyn directly. He then winked and smiled, but soon the smile vanished as Marilyn's gaze remained unchanged.
"I'm sorry," he said and continued to look for any sign of a listener. Marilyn upon close scrutiny showed dust particles raining down the poster. There were posters behind her and they also had dust collecting upon their brow. Tom opened the glass double doors, and turned once more. As the doors closed slowly, he saw the pizza place with his favorite window. He saw cars move continuously and parallel to the swinging doors, keeping them in view. He saw the quick flashes of the caring and uncaring students alike marching from place to place. And when the doors closed, Tom saw himself with the bag in his hand.
It was the beauty of the indescribable. The fact that Tom had no idea what Marilyn's life was like or why people loved her, or if she had sex with John F. Kennedy. It was the in the lack of detail that brought mystery. Her stare. Tom never ceased to look at her forgotten face in the bookstore. Behind the semi-reflective double doors, Tom would peer in and see Marilyn. And then after ten seconds he would refocus and see himself. Across the street in miniature formation, students marched whether they cared or not from one place to another. All Marilyn had to see was a university. Tom winked at her, and then continued down the street.
"What are you going to buy?" Robert said forty five minutes later as he pushed his vegetable filled pizza over to Tom. Robert knew Tom never went without picking at other people's food. Tom never considered it unsanitary, and he did not concern himself over the waste and third world countries. Tom merely had some untold fascination with food on the plate. He had not lived during the depression.
"I will probably buy some books," Tom replied. "I'm sure there is some book I need this semester."
Tom looked through the window of the pizza place to the location his feet had been only forty five minutes before. The double doors were a cry for help.
"Did you hear about Stephen?" Robert said. "They had to drag him out he was so drunk; embarrassed Jenny to death."
Tom tried to imagine Jenny forcing her hair back continuously as she was looking down at her other. Stephen, in all his wisdom at the current level of intoxication at the least never felt better.
"I'm sure she was," Tom said. "I wouldn't know."
"No." Robert said, "I guess we wouldn't."
They left silently and walked home. The haze of the spring air made rain imminent, but it never came. The gray dragged and dragged until the sun completed its round. Their home was an apartment a mere walking distance from everything. The pizza, the books, the university, was all a hot trot toward a corner of the complex.
"We really appreciate what you're doing," he heard through the phone. "We know you work hard."
"I know you guys do. I just feel bad sometimes."
"Don't. This is something we've wanted to do since we had you. It isn't your fault, never was."
"I appreciate it," Tom said. "Listen, no offense, but I have a lot of reading to do. If I don't start, I'm gonna keep pushing it back."
"I understand. Keep up the good work, and remember you're in college."
Tom chuckled, "Yea I do."
"Good-bye."
Tom released the phone from his ear like a dysfunctional sea shell, slightly scowling in the lamp light of his messy room as he pressed the red button.
If there was one thing good to be said about suicide, Tom thought, it was that Marilyn lived forever because of it. Of course no one really says that, he continued, but they all think it. Tom knew his "they" was a generalization but in the depths of his mind, Tom knew he was always right. Tom knew he was right because he never asked anybody else. For Tom, that made him one for one. Even if he batted a thousand, it would never compare to the feeling Tom felt when he winked at Marilyn and she stared back at him through the double doors.
Three weeks earlier, as Robert and Tom had set off to register once again for their delightfully close apartment, they were surprised to discover they had received a gift card. Fifty dollars, twenty five for each, lay on top of the contract that was so easy to sign once again for their delightfully close apartment. For three weeks he had thought of what the possibilities were for the money. He looked throughout the bookstore, but every time he exited, he would turn around to see her. For three weeks Robert had asked, "What are you going to buy?"
The night before the purchase Tom received a phone call. It was late, to an odd degree. Tom was reading on his bed, three pillows behind him to support the hours and hours when his nightstand made an aggressive humming noise. He looked at his phone and recognized the caller. He answered the phone.
"Hello?" Tom said.
"Hi." Jenny amused. "What are you doing?"
"I'm reading in my room," Tom said. "What are you doing?"
Jenny paused for a full five seconds before responding pridefully, "I'm being drunk."
Tom could not help but chuckle at the thought, then he asked, "Is Stephen there to take care of you?"
Jenny paused fora full five seconds before responding quietly, "Stephen isn't here."
"Have you tried to call him?"
"No."
"You should. It'd be nice for him to be on the other side."
"What?"
"Nothing." Tom hesitated. "Well I hope you have a good night."
"Oh," Jenny said, "I will."
Tom did not look at his phone at all. The big and blank wall had no advice to give him as he pressed the red button. He tried to imagine the choices and the choices and the choices from here into the next. He tried to picture a tree of actions and reactions that spanned the years ahead and he objectively chose what he felt was the most appropriate response to a pesky, curious late night phone call. His lamp clicked off and his extra pillows fell to the floor as Tom repositioned himself on the bed.
Tom walked in that morning to the bookstore and tried not to look. Marilyn was there, ready for her new life. She was done up and ready to go as always, her pose granting her eternal life. Tom stopped immediately after seeing her to glance at something he could neither feel nor think. Then Tom walked. He passed the art supplies and he passed the spiral notebooks. He passed the t-shirts and the spring jackets. He walked into the textbooks and bought two of them. He bought a history of Sam Houston's life and a history of the Mexican-American War. He passed the card, and the clerk swiped it. Tom walked passed the spring jackets and the t-shirts. Tom passed the spiral notebooks and the art supplies. Finally reaching the front of the store, Tom turned and faced Marilyn directly. He then winked and smiled, but soon the smile vanished as Marilyn's gaze remained unchanged.
"I'm sorry," he said and continued to look for any sign of a listener. Marilyn upon close scrutiny showed dust particles raining down the poster. There were posters behind her and they also had dust collecting upon their brow. Tom opened the glass double doors, and turned once more. As the doors closed slowly, he saw the pizza place with his favorite window. He saw cars move continuously and parallel to the swinging doors, keeping them in view. He saw the quick flashes of the caring and uncaring students alike marching from place to place. And when the doors closed, Tom saw himself with the bag in his hand.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
Creative Writing Exercises - Setting
February 22nd
Write about 2 situations that deal with the following objects
a metal framed bed
a box of kleenex
a thin trashcan
a nightstand with a glass of water, a pitcher, and a bowl of fruit
a pastel with cows grazing in the fields and mountains and the sun in the background
1) you are in the hospital with your loved one. Your loved wife has given birth to a son/daughter. the characters are happy, but also afraid like any new parents
2) Write about a loved one and their offspring visiting them in the hospital. It is a sad moment as the older is dying, but he/she is loved by all, especially the one visiting.
I had fifteen minutes
1) When you have a baby in your hands, everything feels dangerous. I tried to make my way around those hard edges of the bed. And slowly, almost in slow motion, I rested myself, one arm supporting our weight, the other holding the newborn. I had no idea that the chair had a sickly green tone. I had no idea Oprah was on. My wife smiled to reassure me that I was doing fine on my own. I looked down at her. She was weightless in my excitement. The fact that all I was at one moment was some little bunch made me almost nauseous. The pastel to the left showed cows: in a pasture before a great mountainside. Doesn't matter the setting, I thought, we are still just cows. I looked again at my wife, and in our gaze was the same thought. We had never raised a cow before.
2) I couldn't help but notice those damn cows. In all those generic hospital rooms, no one pays attention to the paintings until extreme conditions give it a worthy look. Cows. Cattle. Bovine of the beyond it seemed with the setting sun in between mountains. And there was my mother to the right.
"Hello Mother", and I tried to smile.
"Hello son", and she tried not to cry.
I reached over and grabbed a kleenex box as I made my way to the table.
"Men are like kleenex: soft strong and disposable." I recited as I stole one out to hand it to her. She laughed as her frail arms took it.
"From a movie", she said off-hand, "as always".
"Still works here", I said. She knew what came next and I waited for silence before I said, "has he come yet?" She looked away, before firing her nose into the kleenex followed by a well thrown shot into the small trash can. It made no noise but it must've been a bowling ball going in the way I saw it. She had not even eaten her fruit on the nightstand.
Write about 2 situations that deal with the following objects
a metal framed bed
a box of kleenex
a thin trashcan
a nightstand with a glass of water, a pitcher, and a bowl of fruit
a pastel with cows grazing in the fields and mountains and the sun in the background
1) you are in the hospital with your loved one. Your loved wife has given birth to a son/daughter. the characters are happy, but also afraid like any new parents
2) Write about a loved one and their offspring visiting them in the hospital. It is a sad moment as the older is dying, but he/she is loved by all, especially the one visiting.
I had fifteen minutes
1) When you have a baby in your hands, everything feels dangerous. I tried to make my way around those hard edges of the bed. And slowly, almost in slow motion, I rested myself, one arm supporting our weight, the other holding the newborn. I had no idea that the chair had a sickly green tone. I had no idea Oprah was on. My wife smiled to reassure me that I was doing fine on my own. I looked down at her. She was weightless in my excitement. The fact that all I was at one moment was some little bunch made me almost nauseous. The pastel to the left showed cows: in a pasture before a great mountainside. Doesn't matter the setting, I thought, we are still just cows. I looked again at my wife, and in our gaze was the same thought. We had never raised a cow before.
2) I couldn't help but notice those damn cows. In all those generic hospital rooms, no one pays attention to the paintings until extreme conditions give it a worthy look. Cows. Cattle. Bovine of the beyond it seemed with the setting sun in between mountains. And there was my mother to the right.
"Hello Mother", and I tried to smile.
"Hello son", and she tried not to cry.
I reached over and grabbed a kleenex box as I made my way to the table.
"Men are like kleenex: soft strong and disposable." I recited as I stole one out to hand it to her. She laughed as her frail arms took it.
"From a movie", she said off-hand, "as always".
"Still works here", I said. She knew what came next and I waited for silence before I said, "has he come yet?" She looked away, before firing her nose into the kleenex followed by a well thrown shot into the small trash can. It made no noise but it must've been a bowling ball going in the way I saw it. She had not even eaten her fruit on the nightstand.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
The King of Limbs - Album Review
Wake me up. Wake me up. The minute I played the album that was digitally downloaded onto my computer for nine dollars, I was in a dream. For those that love Radiohead, it is a return to normalcy. The continuing tone recalls from In Rainbows, Hail to the Thief, and Amnesiac. I have listened to the album over ten times, and I have found no reason to stop.
Thom Yorke is truly the king of limbs. At first glance I considered this surreal (of course because it's Radiohead), but after the initial shock I realized it was exactly them and exactly what I had wanted. Nine dollars, eight songs, 37 minutes. While it seems a bit short, it does amazing things if you give it a chance. The album starts off with Bloom, a flying sort of abstract march. With what continues the tone of the album seems to start half glad, half sad, with a low point in Codex, a pure piano and Yorke piece and finally seems to pick back up at Separator.
What makes this album so enthralling? I think it would have to be Radiohead's attention once again to minute detail. Each songs has so much to offer in it, and while his lyrics seem to be much less recognizable this time around, he seems hand picked for their style. Continuous talk of water and cleansing makes me feel like this is album's meaning involves a cleansing. With Codex recommending to "jump off the edge into a lake", there's a freeing experience at the end.
Morning Mr Magpie sounds like the most angry song in the album, presenting a melody that has been stolen, and a negative connotation toward the magpie's arrival. Little by Little, although my least favorite song in the album is a perfect lead in to Feral, an almost incoherent flash fiction of music. Don't believe me? Watch this video, and agree with me.
While Feral is fast paced and intense, it's beautiful. One of my favorites is Lotus Flower. Remember when I said that Thom Yorke is the king of limbs? He literally is:
My favorite of the album, Codex, is a brief somber song much like Pyramid Song, Videotape, or Sail to the Moon. Once again, it is something perfect to come up in the vehicle you drive and it's great to listen to as you move through the world. What it does is small, but it enhances your observation, makes them acute. It really is a great song and it's the turn of the album in my opinion. What moves after in Give up the Ghost and Separator is almost a plea to return to what was good. It's a wonder how I listen to this so many times in a row but I've come to the conclusion that the album is very circular, like a death and rebirth. Of course you don't have to agree with my ridiculous defense to playing this album to death.
What else can I say? The King of Limbs impressed me. Then again, I don't think I can give an objective look at Radiohead. They could have released an album full of silence and I would probably be here anyway typing things like, "it's edgy" or "it's like a death and rebirth". Although it's bias, it still goes to their credit that after OK Computer, Kid A, Amnesiac, Hail to the Thief, In Rainbows, Thom Yorke's The Eraser, and finally King of Limbs, I still am able to be enlightened. As usual, it makes getting through the semester that much easier with good, new music at my side.
Thom Yorke is truly the king of limbs. At first glance I considered this surreal (of course because it's Radiohead), but after the initial shock I realized it was exactly them and exactly what I had wanted. Nine dollars, eight songs, 37 minutes. While it seems a bit short, it does amazing things if you give it a chance. The album starts off with Bloom, a flying sort of abstract march. With what continues the tone of the album seems to start half glad, half sad, with a low point in Codex, a pure piano and Yorke piece and finally seems to pick back up at Separator.
What makes this album so enthralling? I think it would have to be Radiohead's attention once again to minute detail. Each songs has so much to offer in it, and while his lyrics seem to be much less recognizable this time around, he seems hand picked for their style. Continuous talk of water and cleansing makes me feel like this is album's meaning involves a cleansing. With Codex recommending to "jump off the edge into a lake", there's a freeing experience at the end.
Morning Mr Magpie sounds like the most angry song in the album, presenting a melody that has been stolen, and a negative connotation toward the magpie's arrival. Little by Little, although my least favorite song in the album is a perfect lead in to Feral, an almost incoherent flash fiction of music. Don't believe me? Watch this video, and agree with me.
While Feral is fast paced and intense, it's beautiful. One of my favorites is Lotus Flower. Remember when I said that Thom Yorke is the king of limbs? He literally is:
My favorite of the album, Codex, is a brief somber song much like Pyramid Song, Videotape, or Sail to the Moon. Once again, it is something perfect to come up in the vehicle you drive and it's great to listen to as you move through the world. What it does is small, but it enhances your observation, makes them acute. It really is a great song and it's the turn of the album in my opinion. What moves after in Give up the Ghost and Separator is almost a plea to return to what was good. It's a wonder how I listen to this so many times in a row but I've come to the conclusion that the album is very circular, like a death and rebirth. Of course you don't have to agree with my ridiculous defense to playing this album to death.
What else can I say? The King of Limbs impressed me. Then again, I don't think I can give an objective look at Radiohead. They could have released an album full of silence and I would probably be here anyway typing things like, "it's edgy" or "it's like a death and rebirth". Although it's bias, it still goes to their credit that after OK Computer, Kid A, Amnesiac, Hail to the Thief, In Rainbows, Thom Yorke's The Eraser, and finally King of Limbs, I still am able to be enlightened. As usual, it makes getting through the semester that much easier with good, new music at my side.
Monday, February 14, 2011
Happy Valentine's Day: The Mirror Holiday
I am not going to tell you why I hate Valentine's Day
I am sitting in my freshly cleaned room, which took a full forty five minutes to clean last Thursday. Classical music from The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is whispering from the same laptop I write and I am taking swigs of cheap wine; Black Swan in fact. To answer your pondering question yes, I am on a date with myself. I have stripped my walls clean of previous pictures. To answer your question yes, I did do some interior decorating. New posters with new paint for a new day for the same man.
I am not going to tell you why I hate Valentine's Day.
The new posters on my wall use florescent paint, courtesy of Walmart, the store that grants us everything except the one key to our hearts, unless we're addicted to McDonald's. I have painted two: a heavily penciled Zippo lighter, much like the one I own. The feature that really pops out is the flame, done completely in paint at the top of the poster. The second is a question mark, but the period at the bottom is the world. Very obvious undertones truly show how little delicacy I have as an artist. To answer your question yes, I have an infatuation with blacklights.
I am not going to tell you why I hate Valentine's Day.
In what may be the most overrated conversation topics in all of American History, we seem to have a profound hatred for something that promotes love. The top two reasons I have heard are:
1) The holiday has become too commercialized
2) It puts expectations on love
A close third reason is the simple "I'm single" which probably hurts the worst at first. The first reason is very simple. Ever since you wanted that LEGO set or Barbie Doll you've sold something to someone lock, stock, and barrel. You and I both know it was to be expected. You can't get through Saint Patrick's Day without someone shoving a clover cookie in your face. Do not think that Valentine's would get through unscathed. In a country and lifestyle that promotes buying happiness do you really think love would be shoved aside? To answer your question yes, my love comes cheap: a $4.50 bottle of Black Swan Merlot.
What was it that Don Draper said? "The reason you haven't felt it is because it doesn't exist. What you call love was invented by guys like me, to sell nylons."
What was it that Chuck Klosterman said? "I will never satisfy a woman. And that's okay, because I know that no woman will ever satisfy me."
What was it that Tom Cruise said in Jerry Maguire? "You...complete...me." (Ellipsis debated)
What was it that Belle said in Beauty and the Beast? "There must be more than this provincial life."
The list goes on and on. It's like a Merry-Go-Round. Constantly swirling back and forth between movies and tv shows and books and articles. People just cannot shut up about their love life. What does it do to Valentine's? It gives it expectations. Remember those days when high schools girls would prance around with their teddy bears? It wasn't so much the actual gift but the symbol. Here I am, being loved by someone. We all want the PDA.
Nobody wants expectations on love. NOBODY. I cannot think of one man or woman who says, "I look forward to thinking up a super cheesy and convoluted scheme of rose petals that lead through the house and finally end to a bouquet of flowers at the dining room followed by chocolates and a freshly cooked dinner." There are those who say we should expect that all the time. Please. There are humans and then there are slaves.
One of my worst fears is a first date. I have been told so many times that it is the one that matters instead I have thrown myself into some decaying jail cell. And as my room clutters up with dirty laundry and empty dinner plates I put my love into writing to complete strangers and I place my feelings on walls. It is some desperate cry for help, that maybe someday someone will save me from myself. It won't come. I know that now. But the fact that I expected it gives me the feeling that many others do about Valentine's Day. It comes and goes, but it never forgets to leave a mark. Not so much a positive or negative connotation, but rather a figurative time line mark on current events. Where do you stand? Are you happy alone/with someone else? Do you feel like you're being treated correctly? Would you give it all away for the opposite status on your facebook? How has your spouse changed physically in a year? Do you appreciate that?
These are many details I consider
Thankfully I am an independent man. I feel safer alone in my hermit present than ruining someone else's life. What have I proven with myself? I love to write. Writing has no expectations: you get what you put into it. It is only commercialized through movies of writers and tv shows of writers, but it says nothing of your personal status. You are only what you desire in writing. And when you spend time with it, it rewards you. And when you're single there's nothing better than a job. People love work like I love writing. For Valentine's Days such as these, I am content writing with Black Swan.
I'm not going to tell you why I hate Valentine's Day. Odds are it's the same reason everyone else has. Sometimes though, we all think about our status. Maybe not in some higher sense, but just in a simple one-dimensional task of "am I loved?" Some would give anything to have that one person be there and hold them up when they come in drunk and crying. Some would give anything to be held and have them tightly gripping your shoulders declare, "I see you. I know you are a human being. I know you have value." They would be patient, listen to your day. They would bring you perfectly timed tissues. They would even have a bag to put them in if it got out of hand. They would tell you that it is okay to feel this way. They would stare directly into your eyes. They would not let you whither like a flower without the sun.
I have torn down my old room decorations. I have put up new ones. I have cleaned my room right. I have started a new semester. I have retained my values. I have changed everything on the outside, but I cannot change who I am. I cannot change my objective self, the one thing I want to change. Because maybe if I change myself I might have a chance at something new with someone new. I have always been told I should never have to change myself, but at 21 I'm starting to believe otherwise. On Valentine's Day, everyone receives an untold gift: an objective glance at who they are as people. I eat like everyone else, I complain like everyone else, I dress...somewhat like everyone else. I have a laptop, I watch movies, and I pay attention to pop-culture. If we want to get straight to the depressing point, I have little to offer other than some blue eyes and a pessimistic outlook, which displays a lack in confidence. That's real. That is me staring myself in the face and then typing it. I think I've just found a close fourth reason as to why people hate Valentine's Day. A true representation of one's self: the mirror holiday.
I am sitting in my freshly cleaned room, which took a full forty five minutes to clean last Thursday. Classical music from The Curious Case of Benjamin Button is whispering from the same laptop I write and I am taking swigs of cheap wine; Black Swan in fact. To answer your pondering question yes, I am on a date with myself. I have stripped my walls clean of previous pictures. To answer your question yes, I did do some interior decorating. New posters with new paint for a new day for the same man.
I am not going to tell you why I hate Valentine's Day.
The new posters on my wall use florescent paint, courtesy of Walmart, the store that grants us everything except the one key to our hearts, unless we're addicted to McDonald's. I have painted two: a heavily penciled Zippo lighter, much like the one I own. The feature that really pops out is the flame, done completely in paint at the top of the poster. The second is a question mark, but the period at the bottom is the world. Very obvious undertones truly show how little delicacy I have as an artist. To answer your question yes, I have an infatuation with blacklights.
I am not going to tell you why I hate Valentine's Day.
In what may be the most overrated conversation topics in all of American History, we seem to have a profound hatred for something that promotes love. The top two reasons I have heard are:
1) The holiday has become too commercialized
2) It puts expectations on love
A close third reason is the simple "I'm single" which probably hurts the worst at first. The first reason is very simple. Ever since you wanted that LEGO set or Barbie Doll you've sold something to someone lock, stock, and barrel. You and I both know it was to be expected. You can't get through Saint Patrick's Day without someone shoving a clover cookie in your face. Do not think that Valentine's would get through unscathed. In a country and lifestyle that promotes buying happiness do you really think love would be shoved aside? To answer your question yes, my love comes cheap: a $4.50 bottle of Black Swan Merlot.
What was it that Don Draper said? "The reason you haven't felt it is because it doesn't exist. What you call love was invented by guys like me, to sell nylons."
What was it that Chuck Klosterman said? "I will never satisfy a woman. And that's okay, because I know that no woman will ever satisfy me."
What was it that Tom Cruise said in Jerry Maguire? "You...complete...me." (Ellipsis debated)
What was it that Belle said in Beauty and the Beast? "There must be more than this provincial life."
The list goes on and on. It's like a Merry-Go-Round. Constantly swirling back and forth between movies and tv shows and books and articles. People just cannot shut up about their love life. What does it do to Valentine's? It gives it expectations. Remember those days when high schools girls would prance around with their teddy bears? It wasn't so much the actual gift but the symbol. Here I am, being loved by someone. We all want the PDA.
Nobody wants expectations on love. NOBODY. I cannot think of one man or woman who says, "I look forward to thinking up a super cheesy and convoluted scheme of rose petals that lead through the house and finally end to a bouquet of flowers at the dining room followed by chocolates and a freshly cooked dinner." There are those who say we should expect that all the time. Please. There are humans and then there are slaves.
One of my worst fears is a first date. I have been told so many times that it is the one that matters instead I have thrown myself into some decaying jail cell. And as my room clutters up with dirty laundry and empty dinner plates I put my love into writing to complete strangers and I place my feelings on walls. It is some desperate cry for help, that maybe someday someone will save me from myself. It won't come. I know that now. But the fact that I expected it gives me the feeling that many others do about Valentine's Day. It comes and goes, but it never forgets to leave a mark. Not so much a positive or negative connotation, but rather a figurative time line mark on current events. Where do you stand? Are you happy alone/with someone else? Do you feel like you're being treated correctly? Would you give it all away for the opposite status on your facebook? How has your spouse changed physically in a year? Do you appreciate that?
These are many details I consider
Thankfully I am an independent man. I feel safer alone in my hermit present than ruining someone else's life. What have I proven with myself? I love to write. Writing has no expectations: you get what you put into it. It is only commercialized through movies of writers and tv shows of writers, but it says nothing of your personal status. You are only what you desire in writing. And when you spend time with it, it rewards you. And when you're single there's nothing better than a job. People love work like I love writing. For Valentine's Days such as these, I am content writing with Black Swan.
I'm not going to tell you why I hate Valentine's Day. Odds are it's the same reason everyone else has. Sometimes though, we all think about our status. Maybe not in some higher sense, but just in a simple one-dimensional task of "am I loved?" Some would give anything to have that one person be there and hold them up when they come in drunk and crying. Some would give anything to be held and have them tightly gripping your shoulders declare, "I see you. I know you are a human being. I know you have value." They would be patient, listen to your day. They would bring you perfectly timed tissues. They would even have a bag to put them in if it got out of hand. They would tell you that it is okay to feel this way. They would stare directly into your eyes. They would not let you whither like a flower without the sun.
I have torn down my old room decorations. I have put up new ones. I have cleaned my room right. I have started a new semester. I have retained my values. I have changed everything on the outside, but I cannot change who I am. I cannot change my objective self, the one thing I want to change. Because maybe if I change myself I might have a chance at something new with someone new. I have always been told I should never have to change myself, but at 21 I'm starting to believe otherwise. On Valentine's Day, everyone receives an untold gift: an objective glance at who they are as people. I eat like everyone else, I complain like everyone else, I dress...somewhat like everyone else. I have a laptop, I watch movies, and I pay attention to pop-culture. If we want to get straight to the depressing point, I have little to offer other than some blue eyes and a pessimistic outlook, which displays a lack in confidence. That's real. That is me staring myself in the face and then typing it. I think I've just found a close fourth reason as to why people hate Valentine's Day. A true representation of one's self: the mirror holiday.
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