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29 July 2005
14 July 2005
13 July 2005
Subjective Time
Feel like the day is passing you by? DON'T move your EYES! More here.
For all you lovers of Drew Kurtis, FARK party at the SD ComiCon Saturday 7/16/2005 at the Rock Bottom.
see you there. X
For all you lovers of Drew Kurtis, FARK party at the SD ComiCon Saturday 7/16/2005 at the Rock Bottom.
see you there. X
12 July 2005
Summer; a dangerous transfer; transformation; NYC adventure
Memories of the past summer were still fresh in her mind. Sulking down the boardwalk, her mother turning, hands on her hips, to look pleadingly at her husband, seeking his consent, his approval as she caught her breath from her tirade. Seemingly oblivious, the man puffed on his cigar, laughing with the newly met neighbor, a welder from Arizona, down with his family, one fence over. Their daughter had snuck out the night before, and she had tracked her down for two hours, creeping along in the family’s car, listening for her daughter’s laugh, asking passers-by if they had seen her. Nothing. Then ... in an alleyway, she had found her. Pressing some smaller boy up against a stucco wall, seemingly oblivious.
The girl, Sally, was mad that they had waited until dark to let her out of the house. They had kept her in one of the rooms all day, where she had tended after her cousin who had come down with the flu. It hadn’t been so bad, not at first. She had always liked her cousin, and got along with her great, but had been longing for sun sand and boys for weeks in school. Now, with the sun setting over the Pacific, she herded her younger siblings around a slender puddle, hugging the wall to allow a rapidly approaching figure pass. Tall, might be, ok verified cute, but no, I have to babysit these four, this sucks, maybe he’ll ... oh my god. Nice eyes, was he smiling? A tiny smile, so small, but a flash of understanding in his eyes, playfulness, and compassion for me in this my terrible fate. Now, let’s not get too dramatic. How can I get out of this next year?
He didn’t even feel the data transfer. Wasn’t supposed to, especially not walking past the Lincoln memorial in broad daylight. Oh wait, there it was, a scratching, in his lungs, like an oncoming, bad cough. Hacking, he began to make himself invisible. Not in the literal sense, but to the degree that anyone who knew him, who would be looking for him, heck who was probably already looking for him now, would have a very hard time recognizing him. After walking east, randomly, for about two miles, the man had thrown himself down a flight of stairs, badly spraining an ankle in the process, ripped his shirt, and purposefully fallen into in a stagnant brown puddle out behind a $Dollar$ Chinese restaurant. He had traded his jacket and five bucks for a tattered parka an old street bum had been sitting on. Limping, smelling of rotting cooking oil and rat shit, long hair disheveled, clothing torn and tattered, he forced back a smile. A handful of dirt caked his otherwise clean, healthy teeth, and pen ink would have to do until he got into New York City to make the transfer.
The man had a small time window before the courier, an older, nondescript Hispanic man, who had looked at him with eyes screwed against a sudden gust of cool wind, sold his description and whereabouts to the D.C. criminal underworld. In the meantime, a virus that contained strands of DNA was at the moment writing those strands onto the vast uncoded portions of his 18th chromosome, sinking them like shipwrecks into a sea of “COPY ME” viruses. Not only was the specific location of the information, now part of his DNA, known to only three people on the planet, but a special RNA protein compound was needed to extract the information, and only a handful of labs were capable of even attempting to manufacture it.
If you wanted to transfer data, across town or the globe, without virtually anyone being able to locate, track or extract it, this method was ne plus ultra. The only problem was that it was ridiculously expensive.
The price was worth it, considering the value of the data contained. As soon as the inhaled virus hit, it had imbedded critical segments of the DNA one hundred world leaders into the “COPY-ME” wasteland on chromosome 18. Data in hand, a competent and ruthless group of people could engineer diseases that would kill these people more or less quickly. Ransoms monies, blackmail, the whole deal.
But to entrust this information to one person, or even a handful of persons, had seemed foolish and arrogant. That is why they had piggybacked it onto a common cold virus, and a pretty nasty one at that. Let the cold spread, only a few people knew what it truly contained. They would still track the four original
The two men had met halfway up the stairs of a Metro entrance, at exactly the agreed upon time. Javier had asked him for a cigarette in his limited English, accepted the man’s lighter, and handed it back along with a sleek inhaler he had taken from his right jacket pocket. He had immediately returned the hand to his pocket, where his sweaty palm had gripped the cheap red plastic handle of a Chinese knockoff SAS flechette pistol.
There was a single charge in the inhaler, he knew, from what he could tell on the miniature readout display. With empty eyes he watched the man take his hit, and took back the inhaler. Turning, he walked down the stairs, extinguished his cigarette, running to catch an approaching train that would take him to the next station. His man waited there, in a van outside, with a cellphone, a steel box, a vial of phosphorus, and a change of clothes.
Sally had convinced her parents to send her to summer camp, one she had not been to yet. She had also convinced a poor girl she had met at the mall, who shared her build, but not her looks, to go in her stead. The poor girl had agreed at five hundred dollars, which she had withdrawn from checking. Three of her friends had arranged to ditch their parents that week as well, and the four of them were going to visit some seniors they had run into at the mall, who were crashing at one of their brothers’ lofts in the City.
She had gotten separated from her friends, somewhere north of Union Square, on their way back to the loft. Their laughter echoed off the canyon like walls, as her world began to spin. Suddenly on hands and knees, she came to puking expensive alcohol through the heavy grates in the diffuse blackness below. Looking to her right, she realized the pile she thought was garbage was instead a man, very close to her, who was getting ready to sneeze.
The girl, Sally, was mad that they had waited until dark to let her out of the house. They had kept her in one of the rooms all day, where she had tended after her cousin who had come down with the flu. It hadn’t been so bad, not at first. She had always liked her cousin, and got along with her great, but had been longing for sun sand and boys for weeks in school. Now, with the sun setting over the Pacific, she herded her younger siblings around a slender puddle, hugging the wall to allow a rapidly approaching figure pass. Tall, might be, ok verified cute, but no, I have to babysit these four, this sucks, maybe he’ll ... oh my god. Nice eyes, was he smiling? A tiny smile, so small, but a flash of understanding in his eyes, playfulness, and compassion for me in this my terrible fate. Now, let’s not get too dramatic. How can I get out of this next year?
He didn’t even feel the data transfer. Wasn’t supposed to, especially not walking past the Lincoln memorial in broad daylight. Oh wait, there it was, a scratching, in his lungs, like an oncoming, bad cough. Hacking, he began to make himself invisible. Not in the literal sense, but to the degree that anyone who knew him, who would be looking for him, heck who was probably already looking for him now, would have a very hard time recognizing him. After walking east, randomly, for about two miles, the man had thrown himself down a flight of stairs, badly spraining an ankle in the process, ripped his shirt, and purposefully fallen into in a stagnant brown puddle out behind a $Dollar$ Chinese restaurant. He had traded his jacket and five bucks for a tattered parka an old street bum had been sitting on. Limping, smelling of rotting cooking oil and rat shit, long hair disheveled, clothing torn and tattered, he forced back a smile. A handful of dirt caked his otherwise clean, healthy teeth, and pen ink would have to do until he got into New York City to make the transfer.
The man had a small time window before the courier, an older, nondescript Hispanic man, who had looked at him with eyes screwed against a sudden gust of cool wind, sold his description and whereabouts to the D.C. criminal underworld. In the meantime, a virus that contained strands of DNA was at the moment writing those strands onto the vast uncoded portions of his 18th chromosome, sinking them like shipwrecks into a sea of “COPY ME” viruses. Not only was the specific location of the information, now part of his DNA, known to only three people on the planet, but a special RNA protein compound was needed to extract the information, and only a handful of labs were capable of even attempting to manufacture it.
If you wanted to transfer data, across town or the globe, without virtually anyone being able to locate, track or extract it, this method was ne plus ultra. The only problem was that it was ridiculously expensive.
The price was worth it, considering the value of the data contained. As soon as the inhaled virus hit, it had imbedded critical segments of the DNA one hundred world leaders into the “COPY-ME” wasteland on chromosome 18. Data in hand, a competent and ruthless group of people could engineer diseases that would kill these people more or less quickly. Ransoms monies, blackmail, the whole deal.
But to entrust this information to one person, or even a handful of persons, had seemed foolish and arrogant. That is why they had piggybacked it onto a common cold virus, and a pretty nasty one at that. Let the cold spread, only a few people knew what it truly contained. They would still track the four original
The two men had met halfway up the stairs of a Metro entrance, at exactly the agreed upon time. Javier had asked him for a cigarette in his limited English, accepted the man’s lighter, and handed it back along with a sleek inhaler he had taken from his right jacket pocket. He had immediately returned the hand to his pocket, where his sweaty palm had gripped the cheap red plastic handle of a Chinese knockoff SAS flechette pistol.
There was a single charge in the inhaler, he knew, from what he could tell on the miniature readout display. With empty eyes he watched the man take his hit, and took back the inhaler. Turning, he walked down the stairs, extinguished his cigarette, running to catch an approaching train that would take him to the next station. His man waited there, in a van outside, with a cellphone, a steel box, a vial of phosphorus, and a change of clothes.
Sally had convinced her parents to send her to summer camp, one she had not been to yet. She had also convinced a poor girl she had met at the mall, who shared her build, but not her looks, to go in her stead. The poor girl had agreed at five hundred dollars, which she had withdrawn from checking. Three of her friends had arranged to ditch their parents that week as well, and the four of them were going to visit some seniors they had run into at the mall, who were crashing at one of their brothers’ lofts in the City.
She had gotten separated from her friends, somewhere north of Union Square, on their way back to the loft. Their laughter echoed off the canyon like walls, as her world began to spin. Suddenly on hands and knees, she came to puking expensive alcohol through the heavy grates in the diffuse blackness below. Looking to her right, she realized the pile she thought was garbage was instead a man, very close to her, who was getting ready to sneeze.
08 July 2005
Challenges facing literature; paths to resolution?
I found myself thinking, actually getting quite upset about it, but nonetheless thinking about what writing means today.
Looking at other genres, you have abstract structural art, e.g. a giant fork welded to the side of a bulldozer, or seventeen video monitors mounted on top of each other, all showing different segments of the same elderly man’s talking head reciting the alphabet backwards.
In music you have perhaps the greatest breadth of options known to mankind. Right now, I could go online, and, within fifteen minutes, find stations broadcasting the latest sounds out of Ramadi, Ninsei, Mumbai, Novosibirsk. I can listen in to the local sounds of any part of the globe, or find modern music ranging from silent symphonies to seventeen loudspeakers all playing different segments of the same Harley motorcycle starting up.
Looking to writing, though, what do we find? We find the same medium, paper and ink, that has been around since the dawn of mankind, perused by millions of people a day. Of course, music has been around far longer, but enjoys the advantage of mobility.
The reader must sit his or her ass down, in one spot, with the intention of reading just one book, one page at a time, to myself, ignoring everyone and everything around me. Running on the boardwalk by the beach today, however, I heard a dozen different snippets of pieces of music, and saw cars, houses, bodies and clothing that bore visual art. Where would I rather be, as a young man in Southern California? Out in the sun, checking out sculpted female bodies, iShuffle blasting, looking for new tatoo ideas, or inside, in a comfy chair, jogging the mind, expanding the imagination?
Both options have their merits, both fulfil certain needs, desires. But with eternal sunshine, endless TV programs and internet pr0n, who has time for books, let alone novels? I work hard myself to make the time to read and write, but find it far easier to boot up the PS2 and drop in Mean Girls, naked, in the dark.
So, what is the solution? I beg to offer none. Just as there is no silver bullet for terrorism (RIP London 7/72005) or environmental destruction (too many to mention, open your blinds), this is a complex issue. For one, it’s really not cool to read, at least not when you’re, say, walking, or riding your bike, or at a party.
Would you be reading, at the party? Not there. I would be working the room, dropping body language hints to the foreign chick smoking non-filters in the corner, guzzling Black Russians, grab-assing and being generally inappropriate.
Well, if not at the party, would you be reading at home? My GBA is burning a hole in my skull right now, from twenty feet away, Sacred Stones begging to be saved. I discipline myself as best as possible, to read, and not just in the fifteen minutes before going to bed.
One possible solution is to shorten the material into its basic components without losing the basic, underlying meaning or substance of the piece. Is this possible? I mean to try. I read not too long ago that the majority of people who read novels are over 50. Would the under 35 demographic take the time to read five pages of kick-ass text, boiled down from the classics, or compiled from today’s newest and finest? Perhaps such shrinkage would alienate the older foundation of readers. Perhaps, it would not even register, and they could go on leafing through leather bound tomes.
Another solution would be to offer cheap downloads of text read by man or computer to portable devices, with voice on-off activation, so that the under 35s can listen while driving, walking, fucking, and not face the nuisance of having to take the CD with them, or carry an additional playback device.
Personally, I like listening to books read on long trips. Maybe ... weave pop music in with the story, have it in the background, but I doubt if radio stations would play it. Maybe NPR, before the Republicans cut funding. Pop music would time-stamp the piece, forcing periodic rework, or encouraging the creation of all new stories to all new music. I will have to look for similar discussion groups, or blogs. Any ideas? MG.
Looking at other genres, you have abstract structural art, e.g. a giant fork welded to the side of a bulldozer, or seventeen video monitors mounted on top of each other, all showing different segments of the same elderly man’s talking head reciting the alphabet backwards.
In music you have perhaps the greatest breadth of options known to mankind. Right now, I could go online, and, within fifteen minutes, find stations broadcasting the latest sounds out of Ramadi, Ninsei, Mumbai, Novosibirsk. I can listen in to the local sounds of any part of the globe, or find modern music ranging from silent symphonies to seventeen loudspeakers all playing different segments of the same Harley motorcycle starting up.
Looking to writing, though, what do we find? We find the same medium, paper and ink, that has been around since the dawn of mankind, perused by millions of people a day. Of course, music has been around far longer, but enjoys the advantage of mobility.
The reader must sit his or her ass down, in one spot, with the intention of reading just one book, one page at a time, to myself, ignoring everyone and everything around me. Running on the boardwalk by the beach today, however, I heard a dozen different snippets of pieces of music, and saw cars, houses, bodies and clothing that bore visual art. Where would I rather be, as a young man in Southern California? Out in the sun, checking out sculpted female bodies, iShuffle blasting, looking for new tatoo ideas, or inside, in a comfy chair, jogging the mind, expanding the imagination?
Both options have their merits, both fulfil certain needs, desires. But with eternal sunshine, endless TV programs and internet pr0n, who has time for books, let alone novels? I work hard myself to make the time to read and write, but find it far easier to boot up the PS2 and drop in Mean Girls, naked, in the dark.
So, what is the solution? I beg to offer none. Just as there is no silver bullet for terrorism (RIP London 7/72005) or environmental destruction (too many to mention, open your blinds), this is a complex issue. For one, it’s really not cool to read, at least not when you’re, say, walking, or riding your bike, or at a party.
Would you be reading, at the party? Not there. I would be working the room, dropping body language hints to the foreign chick smoking non-filters in the corner, guzzling Black Russians, grab-assing and being generally inappropriate.
Well, if not at the party, would you be reading at home? My GBA is burning a hole in my skull right now, from twenty feet away, Sacred Stones begging to be saved. I discipline myself as best as possible, to read, and not just in the fifteen minutes before going to bed.
One possible solution is to shorten the material into its basic components without losing the basic, underlying meaning or substance of the piece. Is this possible? I mean to try. I read not too long ago that the majority of people who read novels are over 50. Would the under 35 demographic take the time to read five pages of kick-ass text, boiled down from the classics, or compiled from today’s newest and finest? Perhaps such shrinkage would alienate the older foundation of readers. Perhaps, it would not even register, and they could go on leafing through leather bound tomes.
Another solution would be to offer cheap downloads of text read by man or computer to portable devices, with voice on-off activation, so that the under 35s can listen while driving, walking, fucking, and not face the nuisance of having to take the CD with them, or carry an additional playback device.
Personally, I like listening to books read on long trips. Maybe ... weave pop music in with the story, have it in the background, but I doubt if radio stations would play it. Maybe NPR, before the Republicans cut funding. Pop music would time-stamp the piece, forcing periodic rework, or encouraging the creation of all new stories to all new music. I will have to look for similar discussion groups, or blogs. Any ideas? MG.
07 July 2005
Shortcut; Imp. of Risk Assmt.; Anticipation; the Date
Maybe, he thought, maybe if I take this road, it will lead me by some secret back way sun-glazed cliffs which I aim to descend, for to meet a fain lass in the vale. The jolly man, hidden in his cave, had made a few things clear to me before I left.
Not to take anything, you know, from the company, and certainly not to sell it so blatantly, in the square on market day. Rather to permeate all levels of the keep, to know of things before they happen, and plan for the bounty they bear, should the preparations be just right.
Of these things he did not speak, but I was thinking them over his words as he rambled on about the supposed necessity of maintaining a permanent, positive image in the eyes of others. How god damn important is it, I thought, if the new guy thinks you’re his best bud, if some jackass upstairs just up and walks into your office, yanks out some super-limited product, then hackles it at the market for no cost but that intangible risk of being caught. Whole peoples have been decimated by men willing to take, or oblivious even to the existence, of that risk.
The lean beast pounding away beneath me sounds a bit raspy, could have him checked out at the glue maker’s. This patch of road seems in no way familiar, unless that bridge up ahead is ... indeed, it is. Damn, must have triangulated my intended location by about three miles. At the very least, this stretch is, for sheer lack of interesting features, to be avoided.
Buy the ticket, take the ride. She had laughed, that night, every time she twirled, sinking back into my arms, allowing me to steal a kiss in her shy way, hesitant, with all her friend’s eyes on her, but excited at the prospect of it, at the spontaneous naughtiness. For some reason, I knew I would call her. It had become a bit of a personal problem, girls’ numbers filling empty spaces on scratch paper, appearing magically on cellphone contact lists, like so many others never to be called. I knew it would have to end, that I would have to not only buy the ticket, but take the fucking ride with it.
But why her? Why did the brief and barely noticed rash of empty promises, missed opportunities, echoing in its own loneliness, more of an irritation than a rash, really, that happened to plague this finest city briefly, before the advent of summer, end with her?
The bar can’t be but a few more blocks, and the lights have been sooooo good, hold, just a little longer, let me through, good, just ah... crap. Can’t get the fucking thing into neutral, roll back, gun it forward, get some friction on it, there. Something calming about that little green light, pulsating softly as the turn signal sucks juice, like the eye of a storm, internal clocks resetting as signs of an impending traffic light change promulgate. Then, the eyes pulsating slightly in their sockets as the lungs suck juice, releasing held breath slowly, for the split second when sound, wind and velocity once again reign supreme.
His eyes adjust to the dimness, a low mishmash of ceilings covering a previous courtyard. The Mexican bartender dunks a sliver of lime, too small, into his beer, seemingly for good measure, as he turns again, to scan the bar. Door in the back, looks like even more dim booths and tables in there. Two, at a table close by, pretty, but keep looking. The handful of booths that line the wall in this main room are all filled with couples, and it’s certainly not the eight year old sitting with Granny and Gramps. Now don’t they look foul. No smiles on her old face in decades, at least not real ones. He’s probably a cop, or wishes he still were, set in his ways, trigger happy, would complain about his own sweat.
The family close to the back door doesn’t even compute. You wouldn’t meet up with someone for drinks with your infant girl cousin puking on herself two feet away. No sir, it must be these two.
Three times he touches her, lightly, on the arm, about half way down the biceps. It is a gesture that is best used when something the lady said was not heard correctly, to encourage her to lean in, maybe get a little of your hot man breath down her ear canal to boot. Pleasant, interested, amusing, but not a fool, inquisitive, making sure to mix a little salt in with the sugar, so they know I’m not just feeding them lies.
Fuck I always mix up the first and third persons. Can we drop tense, shall I switch between them, can I? Will it make any difference, if someone picks up on it? Does it denote sloppiness, or a concentration on the greater structure of the piece?
It ends with a hug! Didn’t help that her sister was there. It was worse because she was hotter, maybe a bit smarter, but there for many different purposes. Failsafe. Judge. Support. Not once did she ask me a question. Fine. I just want to bang this little honey, probably never call her back. But a hug?
Proper fucked. There’s always prostitution. JK
Not to take anything, you know, from the company, and certainly not to sell it so blatantly, in the square on market day. Rather to permeate all levels of the keep, to know of things before they happen, and plan for the bounty they bear, should the preparations be just right.
Of these things he did not speak, but I was thinking them over his words as he rambled on about the supposed necessity of maintaining a permanent, positive image in the eyes of others. How god damn important is it, I thought, if the new guy thinks you’re his best bud, if some jackass upstairs just up and walks into your office, yanks out some super-limited product, then hackles it at the market for no cost but that intangible risk of being caught. Whole peoples have been decimated by men willing to take, or oblivious even to the existence, of that risk.
The lean beast pounding away beneath me sounds a bit raspy, could have him checked out at the glue maker’s. This patch of road seems in no way familiar, unless that bridge up ahead is ... indeed, it is. Damn, must have triangulated my intended location by about three miles. At the very least, this stretch is, for sheer lack of interesting features, to be avoided.
Buy the ticket, take the ride. She had laughed, that night, every time she twirled, sinking back into my arms, allowing me to steal a kiss in her shy way, hesitant, with all her friend’s eyes on her, but excited at the prospect of it, at the spontaneous naughtiness. For some reason, I knew I would call her. It had become a bit of a personal problem, girls’ numbers filling empty spaces on scratch paper, appearing magically on cellphone contact lists, like so many others never to be called. I knew it would have to end, that I would have to not only buy the ticket, but take the fucking ride with it.
But why her? Why did the brief and barely noticed rash of empty promises, missed opportunities, echoing in its own loneliness, more of an irritation than a rash, really, that happened to plague this finest city briefly, before the advent of summer, end with her?
The bar can’t be but a few more blocks, and the lights have been sooooo good, hold, just a little longer, let me through, good, just ah... crap. Can’t get the fucking thing into neutral, roll back, gun it forward, get some friction on it, there. Something calming about that little green light, pulsating softly as the turn signal sucks juice, like the eye of a storm, internal clocks resetting as signs of an impending traffic light change promulgate. Then, the eyes pulsating slightly in their sockets as the lungs suck juice, releasing held breath slowly, for the split second when sound, wind and velocity once again reign supreme.
His eyes adjust to the dimness, a low mishmash of ceilings covering a previous courtyard. The Mexican bartender dunks a sliver of lime, too small, into his beer, seemingly for good measure, as he turns again, to scan the bar. Door in the back, looks like even more dim booths and tables in there. Two, at a table close by, pretty, but keep looking. The handful of booths that line the wall in this main room are all filled with couples, and it’s certainly not the eight year old sitting with Granny and Gramps. Now don’t they look foul. No smiles on her old face in decades, at least not real ones. He’s probably a cop, or wishes he still were, set in his ways, trigger happy, would complain about his own sweat.
The family close to the back door doesn’t even compute. You wouldn’t meet up with someone for drinks with your infant girl cousin puking on herself two feet away. No sir, it must be these two.
Three times he touches her, lightly, on the arm, about half way down the biceps. It is a gesture that is best used when something the lady said was not heard correctly, to encourage her to lean in, maybe get a little of your hot man breath down her ear canal to boot. Pleasant, interested, amusing, but not a fool, inquisitive, making sure to mix a little salt in with the sugar, so they know I’m not just feeding them lies.
Fuck I always mix up the first and third persons. Can we drop tense, shall I switch between them, can I? Will it make any difference, if someone picks up on it? Does it denote sloppiness, or a concentration on the greater structure of the piece?
It ends with a hug! Didn’t help that her sister was there. It was worse because she was hotter, maybe a bit smarter, but there for many different purposes. Failsafe. Judge. Support. Not once did she ask me a question. Fine. I just want to bang this little honey, probably never call her back. But a hug?
Proper fucked. There’s always prostitution. JK
02 July 2005
Returning home; raven-haried killer wife; a meeting
Silently now, she must not hear me coming in so late.
His clothes seem tattered, the open collar revealing scratches, what could be a fractured collarbone. Looking in the hallway mirror, his eye sockets sheathed in pools of darkness. Through the large bay window off to the left, a sportscar, with one headlight out, choking on fumes in the driveway dark. With a sigh, it dies, the headlight dimming automatically.
Those German bastards really did get it right, with the new 500s.
Staring into the gloominess, he feels the Look from his wife. Call it spidey sense, maybe with a little radar thrown in, but with full send and receive. Scanning, he locates it off to the right, and meets her eyes by the stairs. She is armed when he reaches her, and he bear the scars to remind him of her abilities with even the smallest blades.. He knows if anyone else entered the house with malintent, they would be dead before their second breath of home sweet home.
From the tire tracks on the front lawn, and her loose stance, someone must have beat me here. But did they leave, or were they still here?
“Where is he?”
All was running according to plan. They knew they would have to face mercenaries at some point, he had just acquired the means to assure their financial security. She merely glares, a look of playful but deadly contempt briefly fill her face, to vanish back into the otherwise stoic depths of her face. She turns, and bolts silently up the stairs.
Reaching the top landing, he knows his son is safe, and looks at his wife.
Running her hands over his bruised body, she looks for signs of broken bones. They speak in hushed tones.
“How many?” A hint of mania rides his rational mind. He would never surrender the boy to that beast of a man. Sooner the boy would be dead.
“Maybe ten. If they burn the house, he will die. We must ...”
“He comes with us, then.”
The buyer sits, his legs crossed, wearing a loose Acapulco shirt, morning sun pouring into the misty beach air. He is drinking a mimosa, and is visibly drunk.
“Jack How the hell are ya ” He yells across the bar, waving Jack, the man who just sold out his company, to boot stealing hundreds of millions of dollars worth of product research and other sensitive data over, already ordering his new companion something to drink. The thumb drive burned a hole in his thigh as he slid in next to the American.
“What did you order for me?
“Jack and Coke.” He hesitates, looking toward the bartender, who causally moves on to the other end of the bar.
“Don’t worry. If you have what you say you do, you won’t need for money. Maybe find a safe place to hole up though. I got a cousin, in LA, could hook you up.”
Jack nods slightly, the base of his neck tight.
Winston J. Hall sees the movement, and realizes just how tense he himself is. This is big time, now, W. The only thing now is to get the data, and the passwords. His superiors had been pleased with the tidbits Jack had fed them, wanted the whole thing, even had the twenty million lined up for transfer.
His clothes seem tattered, the open collar revealing scratches, what could be a fractured collarbone. Looking in the hallway mirror, his eye sockets sheathed in pools of darkness. Through the large bay window off to the left, a sportscar, with one headlight out, choking on fumes in the driveway dark. With a sigh, it dies, the headlight dimming automatically.
Those German bastards really did get it right, with the new 500s.
Staring into the gloominess, he feels the Look from his wife. Call it spidey sense, maybe with a little radar thrown in, but with full send and receive. Scanning, he locates it off to the right, and meets her eyes by the stairs. She is armed when he reaches her, and he bear the scars to remind him of her abilities with even the smallest blades.. He knows if anyone else entered the house with malintent, they would be dead before their second breath of home sweet home.
From the tire tracks on the front lawn, and her loose stance, someone must have beat me here. But did they leave, or were they still here?
“Where is he?”
All was running according to plan. They knew they would have to face mercenaries at some point, he had just acquired the means to assure their financial security. She merely glares, a look of playful but deadly contempt briefly fill her face, to vanish back into the otherwise stoic depths of her face. She turns, and bolts silently up the stairs.
Reaching the top landing, he knows his son is safe, and looks at his wife.
Running her hands over his bruised body, she looks for signs of broken bones. They speak in hushed tones.
“How many?” A hint of mania rides his rational mind. He would never surrender the boy to that beast of a man. Sooner the boy would be dead.
“Maybe ten. If they burn the house, he will die. We must ...”
“He comes with us, then.”
The buyer sits, his legs crossed, wearing a loose Acapulco shirt, morning sun pouring into the misty beach air. He is drinking a mimosa, and is visibly drunk.
“Jack How the hell are ya ” He yells across the bar, waving Jack, the man who just sold out his company, to boot stealing hundreds of millions of dollars worth of product research and other sensitive data over, already ordering his new companion something to drink. The thumb drive burned a hole in his thigh as he slid in next to the American.
“What did you order for me?
“Jack and Coke.” He hesitates, looking toward the bartender, who causally moves on to the other end of the bar.
“Don’t worry. If you have what you say you do, you won’t need for money. Maybe find a safe place to hole up though. I got a cousin, in LA, could hook you up.”
Jack nods slightly, the base of his neck tight.
Winston J. Hall sees the movement, and realizes just how tense he himself is. This is big time, now, W. The only thing now is to get the data, and the passwords. His superiors had been pleased with the tidbits Jack had fed them, wanted the whole thing, even had the twenty million lined up for transfer.
29 June 2005
Post-accident; discontent; strength of character - A Hassan side story
Und er gewann die Hand der schönsten Frau im ganzen Lande. Sie hatte Angst um ihn gehabt, wie er im Turnier sein Leben riskierte. Er hatte es getan, um sie seiner Liebe Zeuge zu machen, um Allen zu zeigen, dass ein gewöhnlicher Junge, vom Dorf, von normalen Eltern, den besten der Ritten schlagen konnte.
A couch sits in one corner, unused, but dusted and vacuumed, from time to time. The couch had been cause for a major disturbance, at the beginning. She had insisted they couldn’t afford it, that the kids needed other things more than a couch. But he had held fast, insisting on buying it. He didn’t know why, at the time, but hadn’t spent a dime on himself for a year without letting her know because of the cost. Now, quietly thinking to himself that he had been right, the man smiles a tiny smile at the absurdity of the arguments, the time when they would yell at each other, over it. Catching himself short as he sees movement in the corner of his eye, he straightens his back, and turns to face his daughter, just coming into the room, a concerned look on her face.
Immediately, she knows that he will be fine, that he will get this, that he will, as he always has, at the end, be somehow better for it. Beginning again to think of what happened, she finds her throat closing, a mild panic rising in her belly.
Fleeing from the room, she can’t but hate her father for the fact that he will be ok in the end. She fears for her younger sister. Her brother. Someone is going to have to tell him now. Tears soak her ears, and she is running down the street.
Fuck this. This sucks. I hate work, the young man thinks to himself, every day I come in here and unload these trucks, and stack the stuff in the store room in the back, and every day it sucks. It wouldn’t be so bad, if I didn’t have to work with the old man. His son is cool, he doesn’t give me any shit, tries to work with me. If they let me mess with the copiers and such, but the old fucker, he just likes to boss everyone around, even the customers sometimes. Randy works at Cold Stone, says it isn’t too bad, and you get to talk to hot chicks, says he can get me a job there. Maybe I should talk to him.
Shit, are they calling my name?
“Coming..” He says, walking toward the door. Is there someone crying inside. Wait, it sounds like Jenny, he thinks to himself.
“Redmond. Red.” Sniff. Just tell him she thinks, straight up. “Red, oh god, I gotta tell you something. It’s about Mom.”
“Jenny, what are you talking about.”
At that moment, they hear tires screeching in the parking lot out front. The door to the store flies open, little chimes banging violently on the aluminum.
“Jennifer! Red, have you seen Je ... thank god, there she is. Jen, why did you run off like that? You scared me ... I got your sister in the car. Red, I got to tell you something.”
“Dad, no. I’ll do it. Redmond, it’s Mom. She uh she was in an accident.” Fighting back tears, “She’s in the hospital. It just happened, like, fifteen minutes ago. Red, I’m so scared.” Finally, she cannot hold back, and falls into her brother’s arms, sobbing quietly into his warm side. Red looks at his Dad, and knows he is being strong for them, for him. He knows he will be strong too, for everyone.
“Dad, could you go tell Mr. Rostone that I’ll be leaving early today? I’ll get Jenny in the car.”
Dad seemed really mad, she thought. But maybe he was just scared. I’m scared, but I’m glad I have Nancy, she’s my best friend, and she’ll make Mommie better, when we see her. Mommie says I can’t take her to school next year, but maybe I can sneak her with me under my shirt, and she can protect me there too. I think this is where Roro works, Mom and I came here last week, but she and Roro were yelling at each other in the car.
“Hey Tyler, could you give your sister a hug? She really needs one now.” As he shuts the door, and moves forward to shotgun, the sight of the two hugging in the back, a small form cradling one far larger, he fights back panic, bracing himself against the car door. His father pauses at the driver door, and meets his eyes. Red can see the slightest, fleeting panic.
“Son. Your sisters and I need you to be strong, now. We’re going to see her at the hospital. It’s pretty bad, from what the nurses could tell me. She’s a strong woman, Red.”
Hassan watches, from the window, as the family drives off. He had class with the older girl, Jenny, he thinks, and hopes that their Mom will be ok. He feels his father, close behind him.
“Hassan, there are customers waiting. I’m sure everything will be all right, with them.”
“Dad, they all looked pretty upset. I hope nothing like this happens to us.”
“It may, it may not. We must leave that up to God. Now, come back to work.”
A couch sits in one corner, unused, but dusted and vacuumed, from time to time. The couch had been cause for a major disturbance, at the beginning. She had insisted they couldn’t afford it, that the kids needed other things more than a couch. But he had held fast, insisting on buying it. He didn’t know why, at the time, but hadn’t spent a dime on himself for a year without letting her know because of the cost. Now, quietly thinking to himself that he had been right, the man smiles a tiny smile at the absurdity of the arguments, the time when they would yell at each other, over it. Catching himself short as he sees movement in the corner of his eye, he straightens his back, and turns to face his daughter, just coming into the room, a concerned look on her face.
Immediately, she knows that he will be fine, that he will get this, that he will, as he always has, at the end, be somehow better for it. Beginning again to think of what happened, she finds her throat closing, a mild panic rising in her belly.
Fleeing from the room, she can’t but hate her father for the fact that he will be ok in the end. She fears for her younger sister. Her brother. Someone is going to have to tell him now. Tears soak her ears, and she is running down the street.
Fuck this. This sucks. I hate work, the young man thinks to himself, every day I come in here and unload these trucks, and stack the stuff in the store room in the back, and every day it sucks. It wouldn’t be so bad, if I didn’t have to work with the old man. His son is cool, he doesn’t give me any shit, tries to work with me. If they let me mess with the copiers and such, but the old fucker, he just likes to boss everyone around, even the customers sometimes. Randy works at Cold Stone, says it isn’t too bad, and you get to talk to hot chicks, says he can get me a job there. Maybe I should talk to him.
Shit, are they calling my name?
“Coming..” He says, walking toward the door. Is there someone crying inside. Wait, it sounds like Jenny, he thinks to himself.
“Redmond. Red.” Sniff. Just tell him she thinks, straight up. “Red, oh god, I gotta tell you something. It’s about Mom.”
“Jenny, what are you talking about.”
At that moment, they hear tires screeching in the parking lot out front. The door to the store flies open, little chimes banging violently on the aluminum.
“Jennifer! Red, have you seen Je ... thank god, there she is. Jen, why did you run off like that? You scared me ... I got your sister in the car. Red, I got to tell you something.”
“Dad, no. I’ll do it. Redmond, it’s Mom. She uh she was in an accident.” Fighting back tears, “She’s in the hospital. It just happened, like, fifteen minutes ago. Red, I’m so scared.” Finally, she cannot hold back, and falls into her brother’s arms, sobbing quietly into his warm side. Red looks at his Dad, and knows he is being strong for them, for him. He knows he will be strong too, for everyone.
“Dad, could you go tell Mr. Rostone that I’ll be leaving early today? I’ll get Jenny in the car.”
Dad seemed really mad, she thought. But maybe he was just scared. I’m scared, but I’m glad I have Nancy, she’s my best friend, and she’ll make Mommie better, when we see her. Mommie says I can’t take her to school next year, but maybe I can sneak her with me under my shirt, and she can protect me there too. I think this is where Roro works, Mom and I came here last week, but she and Roro were yelling at each other in the car.
“Hey Tyler, could you give your sister a hug? She really needs one now.” As he shuts the door, and moves forward to shotgun, the sight of the two hugging in the back, a small form cradling one far larger, he fights back panic, bracing himself against the car door. His father pauses at the driver door, and meets his eyes. Red can see the slightest, fleeting panic.
“Son. Your sisters and I need you to be strong, now. We’re going to see her at the hospital. It’s pretty bad, from what the nurses could tell me. She’s a strong woman, Red.”
Hassan watches, from the window, as the family drives off. He had class with the older girl, Jenny, he thinks, and hopes that their Mom will be ok. He feels his father, close behind him.
“Hassan, there are customers waiting. I’m sure everything will be all right, with them.”
“Dad, they all looked pretty upset. I hope nothing like this happens to us.”
“It may, it may not. We must leave that up to God. Now, come back to work.”
23 June 2005
A moustache; Hero's Quest; banishment
Gott sagte, und er sprach, so lasse dir doch einen Schnurbart wachsen. Und wie Er sah, dass es geschehen war, legte er seine Arbeit nieder, und war zufrieden. Sometimes, you chop your beard off, leaving only a moustache, and suddenly, everything changes. It’s not just that having one is so Out, it’s also the fact that it is absurd to wear one, but not in a pretentious way, somehow self-deprecating. It is also somehow a powerfully subtle statement that I fundamentally don’t fucking care if the fashion-whore magazines don’t like it, while sticking a shovel up cubeLand’s ass, and telling it to suck golfballs.
To emulate Hannah's Gonzo Brain, I will sum up a bit. Working on some short stories, slowly churning out some chunks, some building blocks, with which I will one day soon craft my own version of the hero’s quest. Essentially, every story ever written is a hero’s quest in its own right. It is so simple in concept, and so very fucking hard to turn into practice. Of course, I may be looking to produce a masterpiece overnight, and am only slow to realize that I can’t. But every piece is a building block to a larger potential piece, I just have to choose the format, create the environment, introduce the characters, kill off one or two main ones, throw in a reference to the cancer-killing AAV2 virus more here, and have some killer pr0n scenes involving femjacking and whiskey.
I was first introduced to the concept of the hero’s quest by my brother, His Illustriousness, esq., coming soon to Vatam Inc website who pointed me toward The Hero with a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell, more here , which outlines the basic concept.
Fundamentally, we meet a hero, let’s say he lives in a small village of a few hundred people, in a mythical land of beasts and magic. The king of this mythical land, sitting on his throne many leagues removed, sends forth messengers to the far corners of his realm, offering fame, riches and honor to any man who can slay a terrible dragon which lives in the hills, blocking the entrance to a vast silver mine of lore.
Our young hero packs his meager belongings, accepts the large salami offered by his mother, kisses her, shakes his father’s hand, and turns his back on everything he has ever known. After traversing the scorching acid plains of the western desert, and fighting off his zombie parents, stopping briefly to slowly torture his roommate to death, who cannot leave a budding writer a moment’s peace to complete a few modest words.
Having reached the mouth of the great, terrible dragon’s lair, on the edge of the Eastern Sea, nestled in the rolling foothills of the Hundusian mountains, he wavers. His resolve broken, his body and mind exhausted from the journey, scarred from his countless battles, the recent patri-, matricide fresh in his mind, he doubts himself, with one foot in the cave. Realizing he has nothing left to lose, nothing to turn back to, however, he steels himself, setting on, to face the dragon, a silver-scaled beast standing two stories tall, not one of the fire breathers (his cousins are), but lightning quick, and beautiful to behold, who takes half of his left hand, as well as our hero’s right eye, with him to the grave. With a shock, the hero realizes that the real battle was internal, with himself, and turns back, to wealth and fame, rebuilds his parent’s ruined home, marries the brunette baker’s daughter, and lives to scare the shit out of his grandchildren with his tales of conquest, his gaping ocular cavity coming in handy at certain points.
Or, you could have the hero, vomiting blood, staring as, with its final dying energy, the dragon chews half of his small intestine out of his belly. He holds on for a few more minutes, reciting his final dying words into a special recording scroll he purchased from a fetching merchant lady, his head swimming with shock, reveling in the fact that he laid it all on the line, that he bought the ticket, took the ride, and died trying.
So, he leaves the comfort of childhood, fights his way to the “dragon”, kills it, becoming a man, and either goes on to kill more dragons (see the many villains struck down by Ian Fleming’s James Bond), or fades into relative obscurity, perhaps emerging to write a bestseller about his achievements, or just getting married and pumping out a bunch of ankle biters, to tell them all about it when they’re old enough to listen without trying to chew on the tattered finger-nubs of his left hand.
Of course, any combination of settings, love interests, villains, and heros are available, and I should probably re-read Campbell’s THwaTF (see previous), finish Herodotus’ Histories, and plough through Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, all the while experimenting blindly with various styles, literary methods, transitions, character depth, etc., until I find the right combo.
I know a cherished few do read this blog, for that I give my thanks. The more who do read it, the merrier, and the more I will put myself under pressure to produce better and more interesting shorts to read. So, tell your friends, and who knows, if it gets big enough, we can do an Olde Bouyah t-shirt, I already got some designed, which would r0xx0rz.
Thanks for reading.
Doch sah Er, was der Mann sich zugetan hat, und befohl ihm es sofort zu richten, was nicht geschah. Gekränkt, schickte Er ihn fort. Er war Spott und Demut ausgesetzt, und leidete sehr. Und Er war zufrieden.
To emulate Hannah's Gonzo Brain, I will sum up a bit. Working on some short stories, slowly churning out some chunks, some building blocks, with which I will one day soon craft my own version of the hero’s quest. Essentially, every story ever written is a hero’s quest in its own right. It is so simple in concept, and so very fucking hard to turn into practice. Of course, I may be looking to produce a masterpiece overnight, and am only slow to realize that I can’t. But every piece is a building block to a larger potential piece, I just have to choose the format, create the environment, introduce the characters, kill off one or two main ones, throw in a reference to the cancer-killing AAV2 virus more here, and have some killer pr0n scenes involving femjacking and whiskey.
I was first introduced to the concept of the hero’s quest by my brother, His Illustriousness, esq., coming soon to Vatam Inc website who pointed me toward The Hero with a Thousand Faces, by Joseph Campbell, more here , which outlines the basic concept.
Fundamentally, we meet a hero, let’s say he lives in a small village of a few hundred people, in a mythical land of beasts and magic. The king of this mythical land, sitting on his throne many leagues removed, sends forth messengers to the far corners of his realm, offering fame, riches and honor to any man who can slay a terrible dragon which lives in the hills, blocking the entrance to a vast silver mine of lore.
Our young hero packs his meager belongings, accepts the large salami offered by his mother, kisses her, shakes his father’s hand, and turns his back on everything he has ever known. After traversing the scorching acid plains of the western desert, and fighting off his zombie parents, stopping briefly to slowly torture his roommate to death, who cannot leave a budding writer a moment’s peace to complete a few modest words.
Having reached the mouth of the great, terrible dragon’s lair, on the edge of the Eastern Sea, nestled in the rolling foothills of the Hundusian mountains, he wavers. His resolve broken, his body and mind exhausted from the journey, scarred from his countless battles, the recent patri-, matricide fresh in his mind, he doubts himself, with one foot in the cave. Realizing he has nothing left to lose, nothing to turn back to, however, he steels himself, setting on, to face the dragon, a silver-scaled beast standing two stories tall, not one of the fire breathers (his cousins are), but lightning quick, and beautiful to behold, who takes half of his left hand, as well as our hero’s right eye, with him to the grave. With a shock, the hero realizes that the real battle was internal, with himself, and turns back, to wealth and fame, rebuilds his parent’s ruined home, marries the brunette baker’s daughter, and lives to scare the shit out of his grandchildren with his tales of conquest, his gaping ocular cavity coming in handy at certain points.
Or, you could have the hero, vomiting blood, staring as, with its final dying energy, the dragon chews half of his small intestine out of his belly. He holds on for a few more minutes, reciting his final dying words into a special recording scroll he purchased from a fetching merchant lady, his head swimming with shock, reveling in the fact that he laid it all on the line, that he bought the ticket, took the ride, and died trying.
So, he leaves the comfort of childhood, fights his way to the “dragon”, kills it, becoming a man, and either goes on to kill more dragons (see the many villains struck down by Ian Fleming’s James Bond), or fades into relative obscurity, perhaps emerging to write a bestseller about his achievements, or just getting married and pumping out a bunch of ankle biters, to tell them all about it when they’re old enough to listen without trying to chew on the tattered finger-nubs of his left hand.
Of course, any combination of settings, love interests, villains, and heros are available, and I should probably re-read Campbell’s THwaTF (see previous), finish Herodotus’ Histories, and plough through Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment, all the while experimenting blindly with various styles, literary methods, transitions, character depth, etc., until I find the right combo.
I know a cherished few do read this blog, for that I give my thanks. The more who do read it, the merrier, and the more I will put myself under pressure to produce better and more interesting shorts to read. So, tell your friends, and who knows, if it gets big enough, we can do an Olde Bouyah t-shirt, I already got some designed, which would r0xx0rz.
Thanks for reading.
Doch sah Er, was der Mann sich zugetan hat, und befohl ihm es sofort zu richten, was nicht geschah. Gekränkt, schickte Er ihn fort. Er war Spott und Demut ausgesetzt, und leidete sehr. Und Er war zufrieden.
17 June 2005
Disconnected, observant
Deep down, he knew what would occur. He knew that, once he got to the mall, he would essentially have nothing to do there, no purpose. All day, the only thing that he could think about, throughout the meetings, while having a walk and talk with his boss, churning out emails and pretty much getting shit done, everything he did was tarnished by the desire to be at that mall.
Everywhere you looked, once you got there, while either sitting at the food court in the middle, or roaming the open expanses, there were beautiful women. They walked the broad central thoroughfare, passing boutiques large and small, chain and startup, millions of colors, fabrics assaulting their senses, fulfilling the most pure ideals of consumerism, alive with passionate discourse, explaining excitedly to a girlfriend what outfit they had picked out, quiet, internal evaluations, lips barely moving, as gross calculations were made based on a constellation of variables.
Current cash-flow, available increases to current cash-flow, possible occasions that would justify the purchase, matching shoes, necessary accessories to bring out, or subdue, this or that feature, known blemishes and the purchases’ ability to conceal and or alleviate the need to conceal, and on and on.
In a split second, at least no more than one or two, the brain calculates these and many more. Sometimes the rational voice wins, overcoming the desire to live out the envisioned future enjoyment of the purchase. Other times, the rational voice is quiet, or not loud enough to tamp out the desire to simply feel beautiful, to know that outfit was yours, and no one else’s.
Deep down, he thought he knew these things to be true. He watched them, as they browsed, comparing and tracking prices, perhaps walking, true of purpose, to a previously visited store, to doublecheck the price of a certain item, perhaps even buy it there. Perhaps that was the reason he came to the mall, to watch these beautiful creatures passionately hunting for just the right item, gathering together the means to their individual ends.
Perhaps, however, he was merely projecting his notions of a woman’s desires and habits from his knowledge of previous wives, his mother, onto women as a whole. Perhaps the woman sitting down, two tables to his right, resting, it seemed, from a busy day, was thinking about what to buy next. But she could have been thinking of her dog, a project at work, children, maybe if the chunk of earth two hundred miles long, just barely hanging onto the Kamchatka peninsula, would indeed shortly slide off into the ocean, kicking up a tsunami that would drown her and all others, laying waste to her fine city.
Why are these thoughts in my head, he thought to himself, sitting with the setting sun at his back. He wondered if the people around him were thinking things about him, discussing his choice of clothing, or what kind of hair shampoo he used.
Looking around, he realized that no one was looking at him, at all, that all people seemed focused on going somewhere, being or doing something else. Not a single person said anything to another, unless they had come together or were trying to sell the other person something.
Slowly, it dawned why he yearned for the mall, why his waking hours were filled with an unspecified desire to be there, to sit, unmolested, for hours. He desired to be among people, without having to answer emails, field calls, document procedures.
Nothing gave him greater pleasure that being surrounded by people, but speaking to no one, and knowing that none would speak to him, unless he got a job there and was forced to.
Inspired, in part, by Dostoevski’s Crime and Punishment, Everyman’s Library
Everywhere you looked, once you got there, while either sitting at the food court in the middle, or roaming the open expanses, there were beautiful women. They walked the broad central thoroughfare, passing boutiques large and small, chain and startup, millions of colors, fabrics assaulting their senses, fulfilling the most pure ideals of consumerism, alive with passionate discourse, explaining excitedly to a girlfriend what outfit they had picked out, quiet, internal evaluations, lips barely moving, as gross calculations were made based on a constellation of variables.
Current cash-flow, available increases to current cash-flow, possible occasions that would justify the purchase, matching shoes, necessary accessories to bring out, or subdue, this or that feature, known blemishes and the purchases’ ability to conceal and or alleviate the need to conceal, and on and on.
In a split second, at least no more than one or two, the brain calculates these and many more. Sometimes the rational voice wins, overcoming the desire to live out the envisioned future enjoyment of the purchase. Other times, the rational voice is quiet, or not loud enough to tamp out the desire to simply feel beautiful, to know that outfit was yours, and no one else’s.
Deep down, he thought he knew these things to be true. He watched them, as they browsed, comparing and tracking prices, perhaps walking, true of purpose, to a previously visited store, to doublecheck the price of a certain item, perhaps even buy it there. Perhaps that was the reason he came to the mall, to watch these beautiful creatures passionately hunting for just the right item, gathering together the means to their individual ends.
Perhaps, however, he was merely projecting his notions of a woman’s desires and habits from his knowledge of previous wives, his mother, onto women as a whole. Perhaps the woman sitting down, two tables to his right, resting, it seemed, from a busy day, was thinking about what to buy next. But she could have been thinking of her dog, a project at work, children, maybe if the chunk of earth two hundred miles long, just barely hanging onto the Kamchatka peninsula, would indeed shortly slide off into the ocean, kicking up a tsunami that would drown her and all others, laying waste to her fine city.
Why are these thoughts in my head, he thought to himself, sitting with the setting sun at his back. He wondered if the people around him were thinking things about him, discussing his choice of clothing, or what kind of hair shampoo he used.
Looking around, he realized that no one was looking at him, at all, that all people seemed focused on going somewhere, being or doing something else. Not a single person said anything to another, unless they had come together or were trying to sell the other person something.
Slowly, it dawned why he yearned for the mall, why his waking hours were filled with an unspecified desire to be there, to sit, unmolested, for hours. He desired to be among people, without having to answer emails, field calls, document procedures.
Nothing gave him greater pleasure that being surrounded by people, but speaking to no one, and knowing that none would speak to him, unless he got a job there and was forced to.
Inspired, in part, by Dostoevski’s Crime and Punishment, Everyman’s Library
16 June 2005
On pride, briefly
On pride.
Pride can be many things, but, in my opinion, certain ruough categories can be established.
An arrogant person displays pride in his or her personal achievements, boasting to others about their success and making it known to anyone who gives a damn that they did something well and should receive praise for it.
A person lacking pride does not display to the world that they have done anything worthwhile, and often attempt to downplay, even sabotage, any attempt to praise them for their accomplishments.
Both extremes can bear negative fruit, in their own way.
The arrogant person, when confronted with the suggestion that their accomplishment may not in fact be the pinnacle of excellence they thought it to be, will often argue the opposite. To protect the idea of finality and perfection they see in their accomplishment, fully convinced that they are correct, they rigidly stand behind their statement, wavering not, even in the face of superior logic, or when presented with facts proving that their accomplishment is indeed flawed, in some way.
I will argue that the arrogant person has shackled himself to a particular statement, and, rather than losing face, will not even entertain the notion that there may be a different way, an alternate approach, a new concept, and fail to realize the opportunity to learn something new.
The person lacking pride, on the other hand, will have already examined their accomplishment, found it lacking perfection, even worth, and will have already begun listing the things they see wrong with it before the task is even completed.
In my opinion, this person shackles themselves to failure even before a task is begun, thus making any progress or improvement virtually pointless, robbing the accomplishment of its value before the value has even been determined.
In the end, both die. It’s true. I read it in a pamphlet this one homeless guy gave to me while I was jogging. It was smeared with mustard, and one corner was torn, but the message was clear enough. The day before that, I had seen him vomiting near a large family gathering, and later scouring the beach, near a bunch of frat boys, for beer cans to turn in for money.
After studying the Tao Te Ching for about five years now, I am opined that the person who finds the middle ground between these two extremes is best off. That person does not take unreasonable pride in his accomplishments, but, when they are done, says they are done, and, without ado, sets his sights on the next task.
At the same time, he is aware of the fact that, in the eyes of others, his accomplishments may mean nothing, that from a different point of view, his very existence may be seen as a waste of time. Without investing emotion or too much time into the qualitative review of the completed task, the middle-ground person pursues a previously determined course of action, taking a sense of completion from the accomplishment. That person knows that so many people and factors had to occur, had to align, at that very moment in time, to allow the task to be done, so he does not directly seek praise, but takes responsibility for what was done, turns and walks away.
Quality is so hard to nail down, so hard to quantify. Damn.
Pride can be many things, but, in my opinion, certain ruough categories can be established.
An arrogant person displays pride in his or her personal achievements, boasting to others about their success and making it known to anyone who gives a damn that they did something well and should receive praise for it.
A person lacking pride does not display to the world that they have done anything worthwhile, and often attempt to downplay, even sabotage, any attempt to praise them for their accomplishments.
Both extremes can bear negative fruit, in their own way.
The arrogant person, when confronted with the suggestion that their accomplishment may not in fact be the pinnacle of excellence they thought it to be, will often argue the opposite. To protect the idea of finality and perfection they see in their accomplishment, fully convinced that they are correct, they rigidly stand behind their statement, wavering not, even in the face of superior logic, or when presented with facts proving that their accomplishment is indeed flawed, in some way.
I will argue that the arrogant person has shackled himself to a particular statement, and, rather than losing face, will not even entertain the notion that there may be a different way, an alternate approach, a new concept, and fail to realize the opportunity to learn something new.
The person lacking pride, on the other hand, will have already examined their accomplishment, found it lacking perfection, even worth, and will have already begun listing the things they see wrong with it before the task is even completed.
In my opinion, this person shackles themselves to failure even before a task is begun, thus making any progress or improvement virtually pointless, robbing the accomplishment of its value before the value has even been determined.
In the end, both die. It’s true. I read it in a pamphlet this one homeless guy gave to me while I was jogging. It was smeared with mustard, and one corner was torn, but the message was clear enough. The day before that, I had seen him vomiting near a large family gathering, and later scouring the beach, near a bunch of frat boys, for beer cans to turn in for money.
After studying the Tao Te Ching for about five years now, I am opined that the person who finds the middle ground between these two extremes is best off. That person does not take unreasonable pride in his accomplishments, but, when they are done, says they are done, and, without ado, sets his sights on the next task.
At the same time, he is aware of the fact that, in the eyes of others, his accomplishments may mean nothing, that from a different point of view, his very existence may be seen as a waste of time. Without investing emotion or too much time into the qualitative review of the completed task, the middle-ground person pursues a previously determined course of action, taking a sense of completion from the accomplishment. That person knows that so many people and factors had to occur, had to align, at that very moment in time, to allow the task to be done, so he does not directly seek praise, but takes responsibility for what was done, turns and walks away.
Quality is so hard to nail down, so hard to quantify. Damn.
14 June 2005
Reverie; a daring attack; satchel-charges; retreat
A kite flew, a single kite, flitting in and out of the smoke that rose from the barricades the insurgent fighters had raised that morning. She watched the kite, remembering the days when she and her brother would fly their own in the market place, off to her right, the sound of haggling in her ears, smells from a hundred countries filling her nostrils, the sun flashing off of rows upon rows of dented, chipped silverware. She remembered laughing, as they ran, trailing their kites, through the streets, to escape the half-hearted attempts of the guards to catch and punish them.
Today, there were no people in the square. A donkey lay on its side, long dead, bloated in the hot sun, still tied to a cart that had already been stripped of its wheels. The fountain had stopped running, and what few weeds had somehow managed to survive now listed, brown, as thirsty for water as she was for the past.
Behind her, to the south, she heard gunfire, short, disciplined bursts. By the sound, she knew it was an AK, or the Right Hand of God, as her brother had told her once. Perhaps it was her brother who was shooting, at whom she did not know, or if he even lived. Peeking around the corner at which she stood, she watched five men running along the side street toward her, bent low, in single file, not saying anything, disciplined. Plaster and rocks rained down on her, bouncing off her hijab, as something slammed into the wall directly above her. The last thing she saw, before she lost consciousness, was an armored vehicle of some sort with a man halfway out, pointing something in her direction.
Behind them, he heard the vehicle scrape to a halt, surely getting ready to fire. Who is that? Silly girl will get herself killed, the man at the front of the column thought to himself. What is she doing out here in this part of town, it is off limits, and dangerous, she could ... damn!
At that moment, he watched the wall the girl was looking around explode, and dust obscured his view, for the moment. The five figures reached the end of the short road, passing a burned out SUV, and threw themselves against the short wall. Looking over, the leader saw the girl lying on the ground, but did not see blood. Good, she must still be alive. What in God’s name is she doing here, he asked himself.
Peeking around the corner himself, he saw that the armored car had turned the corner, and was coming their way. He knew that the enemy would shoot the girl, thinking her armed, or loaded with explosives, if they made it to the end of the street, and turned to the other four. Having caught their breath, the four nodded that they ready, looking at him intently. None of them had seen the round hit the wall near the girls’ head, or had seen the girl at all, for that matter. The leader pointed, in her direction, letting them know that, if they did not stop the armored car, and rescue the girl, she would be killed. Four pairs of eyes stared back at him, the men awaiting him to command them, to lead them.
How did I get myself here, he thought, to this square I used to come to play in, with my sister, when we were younger? Why do these men follow me, willing to die at my command? Wheels crunched on broken appliances that lay in the street as the beast came closer, breaking him from his brief reverie. He signed for two of the men to loop north, then left, to flank the armored beast, and to get as close as they could to it in the small courtyards that lined the square. The two, not much more than boys themselves, were off and running before the last words left his mouth, saying something he could not hear to each other, chuckling quietly.
He looked quickly over to the girl, ducking back down quickly as a burst of machine gun fire raked the opposing wall of the market. Suddenly, one of the two remaining fighters sprinted east, across the barren expanse in front of them, leaping across a dead animal, up and over another twisted heap of car, dancing and leaping as someone on the armored car let loose with a steady stream of fire. Before he was halfway across the marketplace, the leader had handed one of the two makeshift satchel-bomb they had brought, and, cellphone in hand, sprinted around the corner, directly at the armored car, screaming for the other boy to follow.
On top of the vehicle Private ______’s heart skipped a beat. The leader was running right toward him, with a bundle in one hand, and what looked like can’t let him reach the car, not with the hatch open like this, who knows what’s in that bundle, he thought, swinging his weapon down, sighting on the figure coming his way, just another half second and
In his peripheral vision, off to the left, as he was lowing his weapon on to sprinting figure, the Private saw two torsos pop up from behind the wall, and knew he was dead.
The soldier sticking halfway out of the armored car was turning to shoot him when his head and left shoulder were torn away, and he slumped over in the open hatch of the vehicle, and down into its bowels. The leader saw another machine gun swivel, this one on motors, attached to a turret with little armored mirrors for peeking out, toward him. He confidently, almost lazily, underhanded the bundle in his hand, up and over the top of the large vehicle, where he figure the sniper had been standing, at the same time pressing and holding down the number eight, on his cellphone.
A shout from one of the men who had flanked the tank, an old victory cry they had used, before the war, when their team scored a goal in soccer, informed him that his aim had been true. Glancing at his phone, he saw the call connect, and turned to run for the girl, a bit of her scarf just peeking around the corner.
The young woman woke to the ground humming against her face, dust stinging her eyes. Looking up, she saw a large tire shoot into the market place, followed by a limp body that flew a few yards, crumpled, and slid to a halt. After a moment, she rose, and peeked around the corner to find the once menacing armored car belching smoke, its top splayed like a half-peeled orange. She heard a cough from the crumpled lying a little ways into the market place, and rushed to its side.
“Are you ok?” she asked.
“ ... “
A gasp escaped her lips, as she turned the figure over onto her lap, blood trickling out of her brother’s ears, both eyes bruised, as if from a fight, his jaw lolling, breath barely escaping.
“You are safe now, brother, let me take you home.”
Looking up, she started at the other four men, dirty and young, standing close to her, but let them bend to hoist her brother up on their shoulders, and run off to the east, toward home.
She rose to follow.
Today, there were no people in the square. A donkey lay on its side, long dead, bloated in the hot sun, still tied to a cart that had already been stripped of its wheels. The fountain had stopped running, and what few weeds had somehow managed to survive now listed, brown, as thirsty for water as she was for the past.
Behind her, to the south, she heard gunfire, short, disciplined bursts. By the sound, she knew it was an AK, or the Right Hand of God, as her brother had told her once. Perhaps it was her brother who was shooting, at whom she did not know, or if he even lived. Peeking around the corner at which she stood, she watched five men running along the side street toward her, bent low, in single file, not saying anything, disciplined. Plaster and rocks rained down on her, bouncing off her hijab, as something slammed into the wall directly above her. The last thing she saw, before she lost consciousness, was an armored vehicle of some sort with a man halfway out, pointing something in her direction.
Behind them, he heard the vehicle scrape to a halt, surely getting ready to fire. Who is that? Silly girl will get herself killed, the man at the front of the column thought to himself. What is she doing out here in this part of town, it is off limits, and dangerous, she could ... damn!
At that moment, he watched the wall the girl was looking around explode, and dust obscured his view, for the moment. The five figures reached the end of the short road, passing a burned out SUV, and threw themselves against the short wall. Looking over, the leader saw the girl lying on the ground, but did not see blood. Good, she must still be alive. What in God’s name is she doing here, he asked himself.
Peeking around the corner himself, he saw that the armored car had turned the corner, and was coming their way. He knew that the enemy would shoot the girl, thinking her armed, or loaded with explosives, if they made it to the end of the street, and turned to the other four. Having caught their breath, the four nodded that they ready, looking at him intently. None of them had seen the round hit the wall near the girls’ head, or had seen the girl at all, for that matter. The leader pointed, in her direction, letting them know that, if they did not stop the armored car, and rescue the girl, she would be killed. Four pairs of eyes stared back at him, the men awaiting him to command them, to lead them.
How did I get myself here, he thought, to this square I used to come to play in, with my sister, when we were younger? Why do these men follow me, willing to die at my command? Wheels crunched on broken appliances that lay in the street as the beast came closer, breaking him from his brief reverie. He signed for two of the men to loop north, then left, to flank the armored beast, and to get as close as they could to it in the small courtyards that lined the square. The two, not much more than boys themselves, were off and running before the last words left his mouth, saying something he could not hear to each other, chuckling quietly.
He looked quickly over to the girl, ducking back down quickly as a burst of machine gun fire raked the opposing wall of the market. Suddenly, one of the two remaining fighters sprinted east, across the barren expanse in front of them, leaping across a dead animal, up and over another twisted heap of car, dancing and leaping as someone on the armored car let loose with a steady stream of fire. Before he was halfway across the marketplace, the leader had handed one of the two makeshift satchel-bomb they had brought, and, cellphone in hand, sprinted around the corner, directly at the armored car, screaming for the other boy to follow.
On top of the vehicle Private ______’s heart skipped a beat. The leader was running right toward him, with a bundle in one hand, and what looked like can’t let him reach the car, not with the hatch open like this, who knows what’s in that bundle, he thought, swinging his weapon down, sighting on the figure coming his way, just another half second and
In his peripheral vision, off to the left, as he was lowing his weapon on to sprinting figure, the Private saw two torsos pop up from behind the wall, and knew he was dead.
The soldier sticking halfway out of the armored car was turning to shoot him when his head and left shoulder were torn away, and he slumped over in the open hatch of the vehicle, and down into its bowels. The leader saw another machine gun swivel, this one on motors, attached to a turret with little armored mirrors for peeking out, toward him. He confidently, almost lazily, underhanded the bundle in his hand, up and over the top of the large vehicle, where he figure the sniper had been standing, at the same time pressing and holding down the number eight, on his cellphone.
A shout from one of the men who had flanked the tank, an old victory cry they had used, before the war, when their team scored a goal in soccer, informed him that his aim had been true. Glancing at his phone, he saw the call connect, and turned to run for the girl, a bit of her scarf just peeking around the corner.
The young woman woke to the ground humming against her face, dust stinging her eyes. Looking up, she saw a large tire shoot into the market place, followed by a limp body that flew a few yards, crumpled, and slid to a halt. After a moment, she rose, and peeked around the corner to find the once menacing armored car belching smoke, its top splayed like a half-peeled orange. She heard a cough from the crumpled lying a little ways into the market place, and rushed to its side.
“Are you ok?” she asked.
“ ... “
A gasp escaped her lips, as she turned the figure over onto her lap, blood trickling out of her brother’s ears, both eyes bruised, as if from a fight, his jaw lolling, breath barely escaping.
“You are safe now, brother, let me take you home.”
Looking up, she started at the other four men, dirty and young, standing close to her, but let them bend to hoist her brother up on their shoulders, and run off to the east, toward home.
She rose to follow.
11 June 2005
10 June 2005
A journey; helicopters in the heat; a decision is made
With a shudder and the sound of gears grinding, the old Suburban leaped into action. Well, at the very minimum, the behemoth started moving down his aging father’s long driveway. Giggles escaped from the back of the SUV as one of the two sets of girls whispered to each other about the only male, besides the driver, a young boy, who was sitting in the passenger seat, oblivious. Eight people bounced along the final unfinished gravel section that terminated in the local highway on their way to the mall.
There were to be found six sets of shrill, high voices set to giggle, while one pair, deep or soon to be, lay silent. It seemed, to the young boy, as if the two sets of three girls were competing for his attention, but he could not be sure.
It had not been until earlier that week, when he had been playing with action figures at the side of the pool with some of his younger cousins, that he had first become aware of a certain pull, a subconscious shame and arousal that came upon him when he glanced over, from time to time, at the gaggle of bikini-clad girls his age diving and swimming in the noon sunshine.
Now, sitting next to his uncle, shifting on the hot leather of the seat, he realized his ears were again turning red, and felt his shoulders scrunch forward, to act as walls against the attention he was getting from the rear of the vehicle.
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, saw the boy’s shoulders bunch up, felt tension rise in the car at the same moment that the girls’ giggles soured, and they shut up. I’d better have a talk with this boy, he thought, run some things past him about what I think I know about females. Glad those girls shut up, there’s only so much I can take, and the mall is still a half hour away, he thought.
Sweat poured off of his brow, through the stubble on his chin, to indiscriminately bombard his loose cotton shirt. The air conditioning had decided to quit about ten minutes into the traffic jam. Smoke rose ahead, and an ambulance had roared past, sirens blazing, a few minutes before, so he guessed they were coming abreast with whatever was burning. Based on the speed of the ambulance, and the helicopter he was just beginning to hear, over the din of the latest pop diva, played at high volume on insistence of the princesses in back, he surmised that the accident was indeed serious, and that lives were at stake. He figured they had about another fifteen minutes until they cleared the ‘jam, then another fifteen until they reached the mall.
The boy relaxed more as the sun heated up the car and the heat sapped the girls’ energy reserves. After a few minutes, he hazarded a glance back at Her. She had not spoken to him since they arrived for the family reunion, unlike all the other girls, who wanted to know living in California was like. Just like anywhere else, was his answer, which, without fail, caused minor swooning and fanning of the face, and sent girls turning their heads together and whispering.
But She had not seemed interested in the least, had not even apologized when she accidentally kicked his GameBoy into the pool. Her nose turned up into a riot of freckles, and her chestnut hair shone like kelp when it was wet and ohmygod she is looking right at me, he thought, and jerked his head back around to stare forward, awkwardly pointing at something ahead of them, hoping to draw attention from his ruddy ears.
“I see it,” the driver said. “It’s a Huey. Looks like someone got pretty messed up.” The older man looked over at the boy, smiled quickly, then turned to check on the girls in the back.
“You ladies doing alright? I know it’s hot, but we should be there soon.” Only one of the girls, the one his young friend had been checking out, looked directly at him, and smiled weakly.
That’s the girl I would have picked, too, to have a crush on, he thought. Can’t they just hurry it up and shovel up whoever they managed to drag out of that burning heap and fly him off in that shiny new ... He sighed. The heat was getting to him, sapping his patience along with his humanity. Deep breath, there we go, let the body cool itself down.
“Only a few more miles to go, ok guys?” Nothing. Silence from the back, from shotgun.
The girls beat them to the entrance, for the most part because the two weren’t running. The driver yelled across the shimmering heat of the parking-lot for them to wait, asking them to regroup once they got inside the door.
“So, which one is your favorite,” he asked the boy, heat seeping up through the soles of his sneakers, “which one has got you by the balls?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Uncle T.”
“Once we make sure everyone knows the meeting times and areas, let’s you and me go for a walk, cool?”
“Cool,” replied the young Californian.
They sat, at the only bar in the whole mall, looking at each other over frosty mugs of beer, real and root. The older man polished off a glass of water, slamming it down carelessly on the table.
“Let’s get right to the heart of this thing. I couldn’t help but notice that every single one of those girls in the car on the way here was dying for you to talk to her, for you give her the slightest bit of attention. Yet you sat up front, scrunching yourself up, and pointing out of the window. But at one point, you seemed more embarrassed than anything. What does a kid your age have to be embarrassed about?” Shit, I asked him too many questions, he thought.
Seeing confusion cloud over the kid’s face, sensing fear rising in the lymph-nodes where the boy’s jaw turned toward the skull, saw his mouth moving as a dozen different answers fought for approval and vocalization. He decided to start over, keeping it simple.
“Alright. You know what? Forget everything I just said. Let’s keep this simple. Do you like any of the girls you’ve met so far?”
The boy smiled a big smile, and said ”I really like Angelina. Is she your girlfriend or is she your wife? Are you going to marry her?”
“I like her too, but I’m not sure if we’re getting married. Ok, so you like the girl I brought, but what about the ones a little more your age, huh? What about the girls sitting in the back of the car today, you like any of those girls?”
“Well ...” the boy began, looking off to the side, his shoulders slumping. After a moment, he looked back, briefly meeting the older man’s eye before buying his face in the sweet foam of his float.
The older man sat patiently, took a sip of his beer, and checked out a waitress walking by.
“Well ...” the boy continued, setting down his drink, foam caked in the corners of his mouth, “the thing is, there’s this one girl, she has freckles, and she doesn’t like me, plus she kicked my GameBoy into the pool, and she never even looked at me until today, and ..”
“Slow down, champ,” the man said, ”what’s this about her not liking you? Did she say so?”
“Not really,” the boy responded, looking down at his drink. Mumbling, he continues “but every other girl has been asking me all kinds of questions about where I live, and been really excited about talking to me, while this girl, she’s so pretty, and seems nice, and I’d really rather talk to her than all the other girls, I just know it, but she hasn’t come over yet.”
“I think I understand. One time, there was this girl, named Lynn Crumbling, who I was crushing on like a motherf ... anyway, she was hot, and the day before my birthday party, I handed her a note on the bus, but she didn’t come to my party. I think it still affects me today.”
The kid had been looking off in the direction of a gaming store, and didn’t notice I had stopped talking for a few seconds after the fact.
“Look, kid, I didn’t bring you here to lecture you, but maybe what you should do is make the first move, just go in guns blazing, dazzle her with, well, with ... do you have anything you can dazzle her with?”
“I can play the piano, sort of,” the kid said.
“That’s better than nothing, but doesn’t really help us right now. Tell you what, let’s go track down the girls, and then you can talk to her, right?”
“But won’t the other girls get upset,” the boy asked, panic sneaking into his voice, “what if they don’t talk to me after that?”
“That is what it boils down to, kid. What do you want more, to have all these girls all over you, or do you want to make it happen with the one you really want to talk to? Your call.”
For a moment, the boy sat, watching the remnants of his drink settle in the mug before him.
“Want another,” The older man asked, raising his had to flag down a waitress
“No!” The boy said, loudly, more so than he had hoped. “Let’s go find them. I’ve made my choice.”
There were to be found six sets of shrill, high voices set to giggle, while one pair, deep or soon to be, lay silent. It seemed, to the young boy, as if the two sets of three girls were competing for his attention, but he could not be sure.
It had not been until earlier that week, when he had been playing with action figures at the side of the pool with some of his younger cousins, that he had first become aware of a certain pull, a subconscious shame and arousal that came upon him when he glanced over, from time to time, at the gaggle of bikini-clad girls his age diving and swimming in the noon sunshine.
Now, sitting next to his uncle, shifting on the hot leather of the seat, he realized his ears were again turning red, and felt his shoulders scrunch forward, to act as walls against the attention he was getting from the rear of the vehicle.
He caught movement out of the corner of his eye, saw the boy’s shoulders bunch up, felt tension rise in the car at the same moment that the girls’ giggles soured, and they shut up. I’d better have a talk with this boy, he thought, run some things past him about what I think I know about females. Glad those girls shut up, there’s only so much I can take, and the mall is still a half hour away, he thought.
Sweat poured off of his brow, through the stubble on his chin, to indiscriminately bombard his loose cotton shirt. The air conditioning had decided to quit about ten minutes into the traffic jam. Smoke rose ahead, and an ambulance had roared past, sirens blazing, a few minutes before, so he guessed they were coming abreast with whatever was burning. Based on the speed of the ambulance, and the helicopter he was just beginning to hear, over the din of the latest pop diva, played at high volume on insistence of the princesses in back, he surmised that the accident was indeed serious, and that lives were at stake. He figured they had about another fifteen minutes until they cleared the ‘jam, then another fifteen until they reached the mall.
The boy relaxed more as the sun heated up the car and the heat sapped the girls’ energy reserves. After a few minutes, he hazarded a glance back at Her. She had not spoken to him since they arrived for the family reunion, unlike all the other girls, who wanted to know living in California was like. Just like anywhere else, was his answer, which, without fail, caused minor swooning and fanning of the face, and sent girls turning their heads together and whispering.
But She had not seemed interested in the least, had not even apologized when she accidentally kicked his GameBoy into the pool. Her nose turned up into a riot of freckles, and her chestnut hair shone like kelp when it was wet and ohmygod she is looking right at me, he thought, and jerked his head back around to stare forward, awkwardly pointing at something ahead of them, hoping to draw attention from his ruddy ears.
“I see it,” the driver said. “It’s a Huey. Looks like someone got pretty messed up.” The older man looked over at the boy, smiled quickly, then turned to check on the girls in the back.
“You ladies doing alright? I know it’s hot, but we should be there soon.” Only one of the girls, the one his young friend had been checking out, looked directly at him, and smiled weakly.
That’s the girl I would have picked, too, to have a crush on, he thought. Can’t they just hurry it up and shovel up whoever they managed to drag out of that burning heap and fly him off in that shiny new ... He sighed. The heat was getting to him, sapping his patience along with his humanity. Deep breath, there we go, let the body cool itself down.
“Only a few more miles to go, ok guys?” Nothing. Silence from the back, from shotgun.
The girls beat them to the entrance, for the most part because the two weren’t running. The driver yelled across the shimmering heat of the parking-lot for them to wait, asking them to regroup once they got inside the door.
“So, which one is your favorite,” he asked the boy, heat seeping up through the soles of his sneakers, “which one has got you by the balls?”
“I’m not sure what you mean, Uncle T.”
“Once we make sure everyone knows the meeting times and areas, let’s you and me go for a walk, cool?”
“Cool,” replied the young Californian.
They sat, at the only bar in the whole mall, looking at each other over frosty mugs of beer, real and root. The older man polished off a glass of water, slamming it down carelessly on the table.
“Let’s get right to the heart of this thing. I couldn’t help but notice that every single one of those girls in the car on the way here was dying for you to talk to her, for you give her the slightest bit of attention. Yet you sat up front, scrunching yourself up, and pointing out of the window. But at one point, you seemed more embarrassed than anything. What does a kid your age have to be embarrassed about?” Shit, I asked him too many questions, he thought.
Seeing confusion cloud over the kid’s face, sensing fear rising in the lymph-nodes where the boy’s jaw turned toward the skull, saw his mouth moving as a dozen different answers fought for approval and vocalization. He decided to start over, keeping it simple.
“Alright. You know what? Forget everything I just said. Let’s keep this simple. Do you like any of the girls you’ve met so far?”
The boy smiled a big smile, and said ”I really like Angelina. Is she your girlfriend or is she your wife? Are you going to marry her?”
“I like her too, but I’m not sure if we’re getting married. Ok, so you like the girl I brought, but what about the ones a little more your age, huh? What about the girls sitting in the back of the car today, you like any of those girls?”
“Well ...” the boy began, looking off to the side, his shoulders slumping. After a moment, he looked back, briefly meeting the older man’s eye before buying his face in the sweet foam of his float.
The older man sat patiently, took a sip of his beer, and checked out a waitress walking by.
“Well ...” the boy continued, setting down his drink, foam caked in the corners of his mouth, “the thing is, there’s this one girl, she has freckles, and she doesn’t like me, plus she kicked my GameBoy into the pool, and she never even looked at me until today, and ..”
“Slow down, champ,” the man said, ”what’s this about her not liking you? Did she say so?”
“Not really,” the boy responded, looking down at his drink. Mumbling, he continues “but every other girl has been asking me all kinds of questions about where I live, and been really excited about talking to me, while this girl, she’s so pretty, and seems nice, and I’d really rather talk to her than all the other girls, I just know it, but she hasn’t come over yet.”
“I think I understand. One time, there was this girl, named Lynn Crumbling, who I was crushing on like a motherf ... anyway, she was hot, and the day before my birthday party, I handed her a note on the bus, but she didn’t come to my party. I think it still affects me today.”
The kid had been looking off in the direction of a gaming store, and didn’t notice I had stopped talking for a few seconds after the fact.
“Look, kid, I didn’t bring you here to lecture you, but maybe what you should do is make the first move, just go in guns blazing, dazzle her with, well, with ... do you have anything you can dazzle her with?”
“I can play the piano, sort of,” the kid said.
“That’s better than nothing, but doesn’t really help us right now. Tell you what, let’s go track down the girls, and then you can talk to her, right?”
“But won’t the other girls get upset,” the boy asked, panic sneaking into his voice, “what if they don’t talk to me after that?”
“That is what it boils down to, kid. What do you want more, to have all these girls all over you, or do you want to make it happen with the one you really want to talk to? Your call.”
For a moment, the boy sat, watching the remnants of his drink settle in the mug before him.
“Want another,” The older man asked, raising his had to flag down a waitress
“No!” The boy said, loudly, more so than he had hoped. “Let’s go find them. I’ve made my choice.”
09 June 2005
An annoyance; fond memories; a shock
The man would simply not stop complaining. From the first time we met, now four years hence, when his favorite topic was how he’d be getting the short end of the stick, once his divorce went through, and the “life-draining hag” was out of his life, until now, today, a Wednesday.
For days on end I was forced to listen to Ulysses D. Thurgow III, rant on, in his pseudo-optimistic way, about how much life, in general, sucked.
Forced, you ask? Why forced? Could I not have simply walked away, stopped up my ears, put on headphones, or something?
No. I chose not to take any of the countless opportunities to act, for one simple reason: he is my brother. Not by blood, no. Ulysses D. Thurgow, III is my wife‘s brother, adopted shortly after he was born. The chasm that separates him from the otherwise gentle, strong-willed genetic offspring of Dorothy and Ulysses Thurgow, II, is quite obvious to anyone close enough to the family, who nonetheless love this perpetually complaining man.
“You know the problem with the city council?” U III asks. “U III”is what I call him, but not to his face. Sounds like “you three”.
I do not respond, pretending instead that I didn’t hear the question.
“Well let me tell you. The problem is that they sit there, bleeding the retirement coffers dry, making themselves and their friends rich, and what will happen to them? Nothing. Maybe a fine, maybe some parole. Some little guy like me, on the other hand, gets caught riding with traffic, going with the flow, you know ...” here he stopped to look at me, squinting his eyes, hoping, it seemed, for some sign on my part, that I understood, that I was on his side “Anyway, you get a guy like me, not really speeding, and ...”
“You were going ninety five, Ulysses, in a fifty five,” I say.
“But that’s not the point!” My last comment seems to have rattled him a bit. He seems to be running scared, I can see sweat bead out his pores, so closely packed is the elevator in which we stand. “The point is that I was in a hurry and there were at least two or three other people going as fast as I was. Why didn’t the cop pull them over? Did he not see the stickers saying I support cops?”
“That might have pissed him off even more,” I mumble to the woman standing next to me, who I can tell has been listening to us, based on the way she stands.
“What did you say?” Ulysses asks.
“I said, I think we just missed our floor. Does anyone know what floor we’re”
“Second, going up,” a curt, almost angry voice, nearly shouting, conveys from a line of suits in the front. Must be enjoying this little talk U III and I are having.
We were picking up my wife at the airport. My wife had insisted I stop by and grab Ulysses from his job, two business parks over, and take him with me. Otherwise he would have sat on a bus for three hours or something. As we exit the elevator I make eye contact with the woman from the lift. Somewhat tall, fit, exquisitely business-travel-dressed, half Chinese, by the looks of it, she gives me a once-over, and a little smile, lingering just too long for it to be innocent, just enough for me to remind myself that I am married.
I met my wife at a bookstore, where I was working, at my parents’ place on summer break. She lived on the other side of town, in what I always thought was a bad side neighborhood.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for a book ... help me find it?”
At that very moment I was on my knees, restocking the science fiction section, and started to tell her to go find one of the search-kiosks, where she could find anything she needed. Just as I was about to start, I saw, looking through my legs, a perfect foot, wearing light sandals. Whipping around into a crouch, too quickly (I scared her and knocked over a stack of books), I managed to say
“Sure, uh, hi. What was the name of the book you were looking for again? I’m sure I know where to find it, just let me know what genre.”
“Slow down, book-boy. Aren’t you going to clean up these books you spilled? Plus, I didn’t name any book, just said I was looking for a book.”
For the next two hours, we wandered the bookstore. she would think up names of books, and we’d go try and find them. If we did, we’d read the first page to each other, back and forth, trying to make each other mess up. We laughed and talked about everything, but, thinking back, those two hours were a blur. A perfect, sun-lit blur filled with her tanned stomach, long brown tresses. Finally the manager flagged me down, over by Ancient History, to tell me that the store would be closing soon, and that I could go home.
Words fade in, vision collapses back to reality, and I realize Ulysses is standing far too close to me, and see in my peripheral that we are both blocking others’ view of the arrivals monitor bank.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you feeling ok? Can you hear me?
“Hello? Are you ok? What are you so worried about?” Ulysses asks.
“Not worried, U, just thinking,” I say, looking over his shoulder, across to the hallway window, not sure why.
In the fading twilight, against a backdrop of cotton-puff clouds exploding with red, orange sunlight, the second port-side engine lights off, one last time, separating itself from the wing. The pilot feels it, fighting to keep the plane steady, the stick bruising his thighs in its wild jumps and starts. From his vantage point at the window, Taylor Underwood watches as the second engine ploughs back, through the wing, shearing it off, about five yards out, igniting what little fuel is left inside. He sees the plane begin to twist, turning upside down, so close to the runway. Next to him, Ulysses stands and stares, disbelief and shock fighting for pole position on his face. The plane makes it three quarters of the way around and slams into the runway, cockpit first. The rest of the plane crumples like a squashed soda-can, the tail whipping around to gouge a huge chunk out of the pavement.
After two hundred yards, what’s left of the plane comes to rest to the sound of sirens, fire-retardant foam spewing from three fire trucks.
“Wait, what flight was that ...?” I ask, turning before anyone can answer, walking calmly, a void widening in my gut, seeping into my heart, which knows the answer already.
I check the flickering screens, vision blurring. Hardly able to breathe past the lump in my throat, I find the flight my wife was on United flight 239, Los Angeles to Atlanta, arriving 1830 on the Arrival screen.
An animal wail fills the waiting area. A young boy, shocked and crying, but not sure why, turns briefly toward the noise. He sees a man, crouched on the floor in the middle of the large hallway he and his Mom crossed to get to the window. The man is crying and shaking, too, but he scares him. Another man, a fat man, is standing next to the man on the floor, looking like he doesn’t know what to do. He begins to look around, and sees the young boy. Scared, the boy buries his head in his mother’s soft hair.
For days on end I was forced to listen to Ulysses D. Thurgow III, rant on, in his pseudo-optimistic way, about how much life, in general, sucked.
Forced, you ask? Why forced? Could I not have simply walked away, stopped up my ears, put on headphones, or something?
No. I chose not to take any of the countless opportunities to act, for one simple reason: he is my brother. Not by blood, no. Ulysses D. Thurgow, III is my wife‘s brother, adopted shortly after he was born. The chasm that separates him from the otherwise gentle, strong-willed genetic offspring of Dorothy and Ulysses Thurgow, II, is quite obvious to anyone close enough to the family, who nonetheless love this perpetually complaining man.
“You know the problem with the city council?” U III asks. “U III”is what I call him, but not to his face. Sounds like “you three”.
I do not respond, pretending instead that I didn’t hear the question.
“Well let me tell you. The problem is that they sit there, bleeding the retirement coffers dry, making themselves and their friends rich, and what will happen to them? Nothing. Maybe a fine, maybe some parole. Some little guy like me, on the other hand, gets caught riding with traffic, going with the flow, you know ...” here he stopped to look at me, squinting his eyes, hoping, it seemed, for some sign on my part, that I understood, that I was on his side “Anyway, you get a guy like me, not really speeding, and ...”
“You were going ninety five, Ulysses, in a fifty five,” I say.
“But that’s not the point!” My last comment seems to have rattled him a bit. He seems to be running scared, I can see sweat bead out his pores, so closely packed is the elevator in which we stand. “The point is that I was in a hurry and there were at least two or three other people going as fast as I was. Why didn’t the cop pull them over? Did he not see the stickers saying I support cops?”
“That might have pissed him off even more,” I mumble to the woman standing next to me, who I can tell has been listening to us, based on the way she stands.
“What did you say?” Ulysses asks.
“I said, I think we just missed our floor. Does anyone know what floor we’re”
“Second, going up,” a curt, almost angry voice, nearly shouting, conveys from a line of suits in the front. Must be enjoying this little talk U III and I are having.
We were picking up my wife at the airport. My wife had insisted I stop by and grab Ulysses from his job, two business parks over, and take him with me. Otherwise he would have sat on a bus for three hours or something. As we exit the elevator I make eye contact with the woman from the lift. Somewhat tall, fit, exquisitely business-travel-dressed, half Chinese, by the looks of it, she gives me a once-over, and a little smile, lingering just too long for it to be innocent, just enough for me to remind myself that I am married.
I met my wife at a bookstore, where I was working, at my parents’ place on summer break. She lived on the other side of town, in what I always thought was a bad side neighborhood.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for a book ... help me find it?”
At that very moment I was on my knees, restocking the science fiction section, and started to tell her to go find one of the search-kiosks, where she could find anything she needed. Just as I was about to start, I saw, looking through my legs, a perfect foot, wearing light sandals. Whipping around into a crouch, too quickly (I scared her and knocked over a stack of books), I managed to say
“Sure, uh, hi. What was the name of the book you were looking for again? I’m sure I know where to find it, just let me know what genre.”
“Slow down, book-boy. Aren’t you going to clean up these books you spilled? Plus, I didn’t name any book, just said I was looking for a book.”
For the next two hours, we wandered the bookstore. she would think up names of books, and we’d go try and find them. If we did, we’d read the first page to each other, back and forth, trying to make each other mess up. We laughed and talked about everything, but, thinking back, those two hours were a blur. A perfect, sun-lit blur filled with her tanned stomach, long brown tresses. Finally the manager flagged me down, over by Ancient History, to tell me that the store would be closing soon, and that I could go home.
Words fade in, vision collapses back to reality, and I realize Ulysses is standing far too close to me, and see in my peripheral that we are both blocking others’ view of the arrivals monitor bank.
“What’s the matter with you? Are you feeling ok? Can you hear me?
“Hello? Are you ok? What are you so worried about?” Ulysses asks.
“Not worried, U, just thinking,” I say, looking over his shoulder, across to the hallway window, not sure why.
In the fading twilight, against a backdrop of cotton-puff clouds exploding with red, orange sunlight, the second port-side engine lights off, one last time, separating itself from the wing. The pilot feels it, fighting to keep the plane steady, the stick bruising his thighs in its wild jumps and starts. From his vantage point at the window, Taylor Underwood watches as the second engine ploughs back, through the wing, shearing it off, about five yards out, igniting what little fuel is left inside. He sees the plane begin to twist, turning upside down, so close to the runway. Next to him, Ulysses stands and stares, disbelief and shock fighting for pole position on his face. The plane makes it three quarters of the way around and slams into the runway, cockpit first. The rest of the plane crumples like a squashed soda-can, the tail whipping around to gouge a huge chunk out of the pavement.
After two hundred yards, what’s left of the plane comes to rest to the sound of sirens, fire-retardant foam spewing from three fire trucks.
“Wait, what flight was that ...?” I ask, turning before anyone can answer, walking calmly, a void widening in my gut, seeping into my heart, which knows the answer already.
I check the flickering screens, vision blurring. Hardly able to breathe past the lump in my throat, I find the flight my wife was on United flight 239, Los Angeles to Atlanta, arriving 1830 on the Arrival screen.
An animal wail fills the waiting area. A young boy, shocked and crying, but not sure why, turns briefly toward the noise. He sees a man, crouched on the floor in the middle of the large hallway he and his Mom crossed to get to the window. The man is crying and shaking, too, but he scares him. Another man, a fat man, is standing next to the man on the floor, looking like he doesn’t know what to do. He begins to look around, and sees the young boy. Scared, the boy buries his head in his mother’s soft hair.
07 June 2005
Ruminations, doubt. A pep talk
How much is the toil of one man worth? How much do you pay someone for doing a job? Who determines what is enough compensation for a job done, and when it would again be reasonable to inquire into the matter?
What is the meaning of this consistent apathy toward women. Typically, I have squandered nearly half a dozen opportunities this past month, two involving the exchange of telephone numbers. Many revolve around my stubborn refusal to either believe what the girl is telling me, or find any interest whatsoever in what she is saying for longer than a few minutes. After that it’s all show, going through the motions, flight-reaction kicking in, quickly overriding the urge to stay and fight it out, figuratively.
What else, when looked at from a certain point of view, is the courtship ritual? What has it become, say, perhaps, since the 1950s, where the ideals and morals of American society began to shift for real, loosening to one, tightening to another degree. Today, now, it’s a race to get into her pants, even if she’s nice, even if she’s not that kind of girl. Sure, every once in a while, you’ll come across a girl, at a bar, in Southern California, who is truly only there because of INSERT FRIEND’S EVENT, but, even if she’s married or has boyfriend, if you and she happen to be at a bar at the same time, you have a fighting chance of having sex with her.
And each and every chance I’ve got, this past month, I’ve pissed away. I even have women coming up to me, even hitting on me, and it just phases right through, like fog over a live wire, except maybe reverse. So much potential energy sitting there, out in space, and this gaseous mass just runs right into it, leaving maybe the slightest bit behind, but for all feasible accounts fully intact so short after its run-in with potentiality.
I am frustrated. I have read hundreds, but not thousands of books, in my life. I have been exposed to some of the best storytellers humankind has to offer, Chaucer, Herodotus, W. Gibson, Plato, Stephenson, Dickens, Gaiman, etc., and can not compile a simple forty page piece of semi-decent material, because I find myself burnt out after spewing thoughts onto a page for twenty minutes.
I need an outline. I need a clear, concise breakdown of the players, in the story, what they are doing, why, where, and to what end. I must sit down and write the framework, ignite the holy fire, finish it up, save the day and get the girl. I know this, and have attempted now three times to complete a decent skeleton. As suggested, I believe the most expedite path toward actually understanding how this is done, is to have it taught to me. Do not despair.
Of course, I can stumble around, finding my own way along the forked, dismal cowpaths, the broad, shining avenues of the storyteller. Certain forces, quietly, inside, work to dissuade me from paying to have an established method of writing quality literature placed before me, when I can simply read voraciously, writing out the framework of my favorite writers, toying with their ideas, filching their best devices, their most successful literary bridges, the choicest modi operandae. Filch away, olde boy, snatch and steal, take what is not yours and make it something no one has ever dreamed about. The Holy Fire is but a small flame, yellow, burning faintly in the center of my pectoral cavity. I just saw it, in front of the mind’s eye, barely flickering, like the pilot light on a gas stove, hidden away in the bowels of the beast. With the right maneuvering, the twisting of the proper dials, the right tools disposed, that small flame can become a howling inferno, an unstoppable, blind force of purest will, purest might.
I fear this flame. I fear the success it can bring, should it be fueled. Now, for a few weeks now, I have come to terms with the notion of failure. I fancy, now, that failure is in the eye of the beholder, resting next to beauty and success.
Every single action I undertake can be seen as a failure. Getting up in the morning, going to work without eating anything, can be seen as a failure to follow the simple suggestions of nutritionists the world over to stoke the engines, get things moving, lose weight faster, burn future intake better, have more energy more often, live longer, be more alert, et fucking cetera.
Success means I got out of bed in the first place, having passed out in a drunken stupor not two hours earlier, by some miracle heeding even one of the three separate alarm clocks.
I choose success. I choose to view the chaotic swirl of events, of stimuli, that is life and look at it as the positive progression from one spot to the next, one perfect frame of being, ever passing through the fulcrum point of quality, to the next.
Pretty much, suck it up, stay neutral but forward looking, mind that which has already come to pass, dig in behind your chosen principles, maintain an avenue upon which to retreat to new or better principles, should they present an overall more feasible or simply better MO.
T. A. Edison tried over one thousand times to invent the lightbulb. Finally, at the debut of a working prototype, he was asked if the end result was worth so many frustrating defeats. He responded to the affect that had he not stumbled down the path of the thousand mishaps, he would never have reached the final destination, success. So buck up, olde boy, and go for a run.
Ah yes, two and a half miles in twenty minutes. But, twenty minutes of yoga, a hundred pushups, throughout the day. Not spectacular, but getting there.
What is the meaning of this consistent apathy toward women. Typically, I have squandered nearly half a dozen opportunities this past month, two involving the exchange of telephone numbers. Many revolve around my stubborn refusal to either believe what the girl is telling me, or find any interest whatsoever in what she is saying for longer than a few minutes. After that it’s all show, going through the motions, flight-reaction kicking in, quickly overriding the urge to stay and fight it out, figuratively.
What else, when looked at from a certain point of view, is the courtship ritual? What has it become, say, perhaps, since the 1950s, where the ideals and morals of American society began to shift for real, loosening to one, tightening to another degree. Today, now, it’s a race to get into her pants, even if she’s nice, even if she’s not that kind of girl. Sure, every once in a while, you’ll come across a girl, at a bar, in Southern California, who is truly only there because of INSERT FRIEND’S EVENT, but, even if she’s married or has boyfriend, if you and she happen to be at a bar at the same time, you have a fighting chance of having sex with her.
And each and every chance I’ve got, this past month, I’ve pissed away. I even have women coming up to me, even hitting on me, and it just phases right through, like fog over a live wire, except maybe reverse. So much potential energy sitting there, out in space, and this gaseous mass just runs right into it, leaving maybe the slightest bit behind, but for all feasible accounts fully intact so short after its run-in with potentiality.
I am frustrated. I have read hundreds, but not thousands of books, in my life. I have been exposed to some of the best storytellers humankind has to offer, Chaucer, Herodotus, W. Gibson, Plato, Stephenson, Dickens, Gaiman, etc., and can not compile a simple forty page piece of semi-decent material, because I find myself burnt out after spewing thoughts onto a page for twenty minutes.
I need an outline. I need a clear, concise breakdown of the players, in the story, what they are doing, why, where, and to what end. I must sit down and write the framework, ignite the holy fire, finish it up, save the day and get the girl. I know this, and have attempted now three times to complete a decent skeleton. As suggested, I believe the most expedite path toward actually understanding how this is done, is to have it taught to me. Do not despair.
Of course, I can stumble around, finding my own way along the forked, dismal cowpaths, the broad, shining avenues of the storyteller. Certain forces, quietly, inside, work to dissuade me from paying to have an established method of writing quality literature placed before me, when I can simply read voraciously, writing out the framework of my favorite writers, toying with their ideas, filching their best devices, their most successful literary bridges, the choicest modi operandae. Filch away, olde boy, snatch and steal, take what is not yours and make it something no one has ever dreamed about. The Holy Fire is but a small flame, yellow, burning faintly in the center of my pectoral cavity. I just saw it, in front of the mind’s eye, barely flickering, like the pilot light on a gas stove, hidden away in the bowels of the beast. With the right maneuvering, the twisting of the proper dials, the right tools disposed, that small flame can become a howling inferno, an unstoppable, blind force of purest will, purest might.
I fear this flame. I fear the success it can bring, should it be fueled. Now, for a few weeks now, I have come to terms with the notion of failure. I fancy, now, that failure is in the eye of the beholder, resting next to beauty and success.
Every single action I undertake can be seen as a failure. Getting up in the morning, going to work without eating anything, can be seen as a failure to follow the simple suggestions of nutritionists the world over to stoke the engines, get things moving, lose weight faster, burn future intake better, have more energy more often, live longer, be more alert, et fucking cetera.
Success means I got out of bed in the first place, having passed out in a drunken stupor not two hours earlier, by some miracle heeding even one of the three separate alarm clocks.
I choose success. I choose to view the chaotic swirl of events, of stimuli, that is life and look at it as the positive progression from one spot to the next, one perfect frame of being, ever passing through the fulcrum point of quality, to the next.
Pretty much, suck it up, stay neutral but forward looking, mind that which has already come to pass, dig in behind your chosen principles, maintain an avenue upon which to retreat to new or better principles, should they present an overall more feasible or simply better MO.
T. A. Edison tried over one thousand times to invent the lightbulb. Finally, at the debut of a working prototype, he was asked if the end result was worth so many frustrating defeats. He responded to the affect that had he not stumbled down the path of the thousand mishaps, he would never have reached the final destination, success. So buck up, olde boy, and go for a run.
Ah yes, two and a half miles in twenty minutes. But, twenty minutes of yoga, a hundred pushups, throughout the day. Not spectacular, but getting there.
03 June 2005
Five Men in a Bar, gloomy
The room was dark. Not the kind of dark you find in horror movies, not the kind that could be hiding something. This room was dark, almost out of spite. In the corners, hidden in darkness themselves, there was absolutely nothing scary, in fact, nothing at all. Here and there, one could find a table, lit by a single candle that only shed its light onto its resting place’s circular top, not a photon escaping. There was some form of overall light in the room, coming in from cracks that had opened in the plaster and straw walls, cracks the tavern keeper had been too lazy or poor to cover. Not that it rained that much here, but it’s just not good to have holes in your walls.
Three of the four customers sitting in the place were locals. No one else really came around, except for the average tourist, one of which happens to be the fourth customer to wearily settle himself down on a hard wooden stool by the bar. The tourist, who had just come in off the dusty street, only now, his eyes adjusting to the dimness of the place, sees the dark sheets nailed over the windows, and the cracks. He also notices the dimness, listlessly clinging to whichever piece of furniture, heel of bread, or shoe happened to be closest.
Stifling a yaw from a hard day of touristy things, the stranger leans in toward the bartender, while reaching into the right jacket pocket of his tan windbreaker. He pulls a small dictionary out of his windbreaker and begins leafing through it as the local men sit, content to watch the potentially amusing encounter. There are cliffs, located a few kilometers outside of town, down the old mule path toward the ocean, that can get windy this time of year, one of the locals thinks, that must be why the tourist wears a windbreaker in this heat.
With the tiniest of starts, the local man realizes that he used to love the cliffs, but hasn’t taken the time to go, these past few years since starting at the new Ford factory in town. Maybe I will go, with my wife and our son, the local man thinks to himself, when I have some time off from the factory. I will buy my son a fine tan windbreaker, too. I will lean with him into the strong wind, and we will lean out over the side together, and nothing bad will happen to us. His mother will be afraid, but we will look each other in the eyes, my son and I, and we will laugh.
Seeing his friend start, the second local man glances toward his cousin, the bartender, who, he knows, does not mind dealing with the tourists that come to the area. He, too, remembers the cliffs, but has no desire to go to them, as there are more tourists there, more rude, unfriendly people, like the ones that treat his wife poorly, should her cleaning cart get in their way. The second man’s wife works at one of the big tourist hotels, just a few villages down the coast. There is talk, the man knows, at city hall, visible just barely through the cracks in the wall, of selling public land to a group of investors, so they can build a hotel halfway down toward the cliffs. Saddened by the thought of so many loud, smelly tourists in his small town, he smiles, thinking that his wife could take a job in the new hotel, so she would be closer, so they could spend more time together.
Floorboards creak with the first two steps our third man takes, bringing the halting conversation at the bar to a stop, his two companions snap out of their reverie, and turn to face him. A reluctant shadow still clings to his boot, it seems, returning to the gloom as soon as the tourist starts with that puzzled look many people get. The third man strokes his beard and strides over to the bar, to stand next to the puzzled tourist.
After a split second’s hesitation, he decides not to tell the tourist that he is not welcome in this place. He does not show the man his knife, with the sole purpose of slashing up a few limes of course, or shout him out into the blazing heat. He does not beg the man to leave his town as it is, does not explain to him the delicate balance that holds the community together, or how cracks are showing in the once-solid facade.
Turning to the bartender, the bearded man laughs. He laughs until he cries, then he has drinks poured for every man present. Now they all laugh.
Three of the four customers sitting in the place were locals. No one else really came around, except for the average tourist, one of which happens to be the fourth customer to wearily settle himself down on a hard wooden stool by the bar. The tourist, who had just come in off the dusty street, only now, his eyes adjusting to the dimness of the place, sees the dark sheets nailed over the windows, and the cracks. He also notices the dimness, listlessly clinging to whichever piece of furniture, heel of bread, or shoe happened to be closest.
Stifling a yaw from a hard day of touristy things, the stranger leans in toward the bartender, while reaching into the right jacket pocket of his tan windbreaker. He pulls a small dictionary out of his windbreaker and begins leafing through it as the local men sit, content to watch the potentially amusing encounter. There are cliffs, located a few kilometers outside of town, down the old mule path toward the ocean, that can get windy this time of year, one of the locals thinks, that must be why the tourist wears a windbreaker in this heat.
With the tiniest of starts, the local man realizes that he used to love the cliffs, but hasn’t taken the time to go, these past few years since starting at the new Ford factory in town. Maybe I will go, with my wife and our son, the local man thinks to himself, when I have some time off from the factory. I will buy my son a fine tan windbreaker, too. I will lean with him into the strong wind, and we will lean out over the side together, and nothing bad will happen to us. His mother will be afraid, but we will look each other in the eyes, my son and I, and we will laugh.
Seeing his friend start, the second local man glances toward his cousin, the bartender, who, he knows, does not mind dealing with the tourists that come to the area. He, too, remembers the cliffs, but has no desire to go to them, as there are more tourists there, more rude, unfriendly people, like the ones that treat his wife poorly, should her cleaning cart get in their way. The second man’s wife works at one of the big tourist hotels, just a few villages down the coast. There is talk, the man knows, at city hall, visible just barely through the cracks in the wall, of selling public land to a group of investors, so they can build a hotel halfway down toward the cliffs. Saddened by the thought of so many loud, smelly tourists in his small town, he smiles, thinking that his wife could take a job in the new hotel, so she would be closer, so they could spend more time together.
Floorboards creak with the first two steps our third man takes, bringing the halting conversation at the bar to a stop, his two companions snap out of their reverie, and turn to face him. A reluctant shadow still clings to his boot, it seems, returning to the gloom as soon as the tourist starts with that puzzled look many people get. The third man strokes his beard and strides over to the bar, to stand next to the puzzled tourist.
After a split second’s hesitation, he decides not to tell the tourist that he is not welcome in this place. He does not show the man his knife, with the sole purpose of slashing up a few limes of course, or shout him out into the blazing heat. He does not beg the man to leave his town as it is, does not explain to him the delicate balance that holds the community together, or how cracks are showing in the once-solid facade.
Turning to the bartender, the bearded man laughs. He laughs until he cries, then he has drinks poured for every man present. Now they all laugh.
01 June 2005
Hassan @ work & GF
“Hassan You are late. Why can you not be anywhere on time? I thought your mother and I raised you better than this.” He can be very quiet when he needs to. I am clumsy to have let him sneak up on me in my daydreaming. I know he’s angry, not just being a dick because he can, because he’s talking in Arabic, normally exclusively for home use. He’s probably stressed out because of the large number of customers I see looking up for the first time around the room.
Hearing someone behind him, Hassan answers in English, “Of course, father. I’ll be sure to doublecheck the toner cartridges, right away.” He turns to the middle aged gentlemen who had walked up behind him,
”Welcome to Kinko’s, sir. Is there any way I may assist you?” Hassan asks.
“Yes. I was beginning to wonder if anyone worked here. I’m looking to have some flyers printed.” The man, wearing a business suit, with briefcase, wheels to follow Hassan, already on his way toward the far side of the store.
It is late, mostly, when he returns home from helping his father at the store. His mother knows Hassan can make his way home without incident; and is very proud of him for working so hard. She herself does not work outside of the home, but cooks and keeps things neat around the house. Hassan’s mother, for all purposes, and most any point of view, raised the children.
“Tell me, son, how was school today? What are some of the things they taught you?” His mother always asks him these types of questions, because she loves him, he knows, and because she is truly interested.
“I had a math test, which I’ll get back tomorrow. We discussed a reading of American history, starting with the Civil War, leading up to WWII,” he pronounces this dubya dubya too, much to the annoyance of his father, who has just taken a seat at the dinner table.
“Hassan Speak proper English What will people think of us if they hear you talking like this?” His father speaks in Arabic, his tone carrying both disappointment and anger.
“Father,” Hassan, answering in Arabic, “all of my friends say it like this, I do not see the problem.”
“The problem is that you do not listen to your father And you were late to work today, did he tell you that, Mother?”
“It was only a few minutes, and I helped the customers the moment I walked in the door,“ Hassan tries in his defense.
“Hassan, you know that is not a valid excuse,” his mother says, not looking at the boy. “You will let us know, what your score is on test you took today, yes?”
Later that night, long after his parents had gone to sleep, Hassan stands in the kitchen of their second floor apartment, having avoided the noisy spots in the hallway floor, passing the room vacated by his brother and sister. His sister had left not long ago, for college in northern California. He missed them both, and was beginning to notice more scrutiny and less tolerance from his parents.
Dial tone. He punches in the numbers that will ring Samantha, on her cellphone. Her father works at Northrop Grumman, her mother works a register at the local Vons, where Sam packs groceries after school.
“Hello?” She was speaking quietly, which indicated to him that her mother was still awake, most likely in the living room, which was right next to Samantha’s room.
“Sam, it’s me, Hassan.”
“Hi, baby. What’s the matter?”
“What do you mean, what’s the matter?
“You sound upset, is all,” she says. Since they had met, that first day in eighth grade, he could keep nothing from her. “Listen, Hassan, I can’t talk. My mom is still up. Let me call you later. Bye”
Dial tone, once again.
Hearing someone behind him, Hassan answers in English, “Of course, father. I’ll be sure to doublecheck the toner cartridges, right away.” He turns to the middle aged gentlemen who had walked up behind him,
”Welcome to Kinko’s, sir. Is there any way I may assist you?” Hassan asks.
“Yes. I was beginning to wonder if anyone worked here. I’m looking to have some flyers printed.” The man, wearing a business suit, with briefcase, wheels to follow Hassan, already on his way toward the far side of the store.
It is late, mostly, when he returns home from helping his father at the store. His mother knows Hassan can make his way home without incident; and is very proud of him for working so hard. She herself does not work outside of the home, but cooks and keeps things neat around the house. Hassan’s mother, for all purposes, and most any point of view, raised the children.
“Tell me, son, how was school today? What are some of the things they taught you?” His mother always asks him these types of questions, because she loves him, he knows, and because she is truly interested.
“I had a math test, which I’ll get back tomorrow. We discussed a reading of American history, starting with the Civil War, leading up to WWII,” he pronounces this dubya dubya too, much to the annoyance of his father, who has just taken a seat at the dinner table.
“Hassan Speak proper English What will people think of us if they hear you talking like this?” His father speaks in Arabic, his tone carrying both disappointment and anger.
“Father,” Hassan, answering in Arabic, “all of my friends say it like this, I do not see the problem.”
“The problem is that you do not listen to your father And you were late to work today, did he tell you that, Mother?”
“It was only a few minutes, and I helped the customers the moment I walked in the door,“ Hassan tries in his defense.
“Hassan, you know that is not a valid excuse,” his mother says, not looking at the boy. “You will let us know, what your score is on test you took today, yes?”
Later that night, long after his parents had gone to sleep, Hassan stands in the kitchen of their second floor apartment, having avoided the noisy spots in the hallway floor, passing the room vacated by his brother and sister. His sister had left not long ago, for college in northern California. He missed them both, and was beginning to notice more scrutiny and less tolerance from his parents.
Dial tone. He punches in the numbers that will ring Samantha, on her cellphone. Her father works at Northrop Grumman, her mother works a register at the local Vons, where Sam packs groceries after school.
“Hello?” She was speaking quietly, which indicated to him that her mother was still awake, most likely in the living room, which was right next to Samantha’s room.
“Sam, it’s me, Hassan.”
“Hi, baby. What’s the matter?”
“What do you mean, what’s the matter?
“You sound upset, is all,” she says. Since they had met, that first day in eighth grade, he could keep nothing from her. “Listen, Hassan, I can’t talk. My mom is still up. Let me call you later. Bye”
Dial tone, once again.
...
The short repose from cubeLand, all of three days to myself, the first extended weekend since February, is alien. It felt weird, Monday morning, my subconscious activating auto-awake mode at around 6:30, without an alarm, without any other driving force than fear of getting to work late.
Giddy with the prospect of so much time to myself, to do everything and nothing, expanding works in progress, reading as much as I want, blowing up Germans in the Netherlands during Operation Market Garden, I turn around to find no time left. It has flown, too quickly, through the floodgates of unbridled exuberance, pouring out onto the sun bleached sand, pissed out on the shirttails of the last Budweiser. I loved every second of it.
“Some people would kill for a body like this,” someone close to me said recently, referring to himself. I laughed till I doubled over at the waist. The conviction in his voice, the reality of living with someone who is, to the core, so in love with himself, so convinced that he is right, all the time, that everything he says is true, and that he can order people around like servants, is fascinating.
I have been for the past four years attempting to remove myself from feelings of pride, from the idea that my accomplishments are to be touted, attempting in stead to let them shine for themselves, regardless if anyone is watching or not. Fuck, I hope no one is watching, most of the time, so they don’t see the remnants of pride wash briefly through the stormfront of my emotions, the vast copula of my imagination.
File access is becoming more and more easy. I am training myself to remember nearly everything anyone says, creating a mental image of that person, an avatar of sorts I can call up to help me remember important things about that person, to make them feel more comfortable and to facilitate conversation. I can look at a car, burning past me on the freeway, and actually see wild apes clinging to it for dear life, ripping chunks of plastic off of it as the driver takes evasive action, to throw them off.
Like a hologram projector- game I saw once, with my brother, of a cowboy fighting space creatures, kind of like that scenes constantly play out in the curved dome of my imagination. The bottom of the curve starts at eyeball height, with the main backdrop starting its curve about four feet out, coming to its hazy conclusions at the edges of the peripheral. Scenes from days past, from movies, short clips of past girlfriends, convulsing in orgasm, visualizations of hundreds of scenes from scores of books, my interpretation of an author’s ability to describe a given situation.
If I need a two ton anvil to fall on someone’s head, it busts out a few ceiling tiles, an old florescent light, to accordion the offending party.
But does everyone have this projection booth? Does everyone compare a given situation to various life experiences, video games, comics, literature, science fiction, movies, snippets of conversation, the pattern of chewing gum vs fractured pavement, a baby’s tired wail, the smell of a much-used dumpster?
I doubt I am special, doubt these three I call mine own, my daimons, the howling beast, antagonistic trickster, calculating demi-philosopher, I will ever truly call my own, lest they overwhelm me, lest I utilize their strengths too often, and fall prey to their weaknesses.
Regardless, as I do not look to compete with others, so no other will be able to compete with me. Something for the kids. X
Giddy with the prospect of so much time to myself, to do everything and nothing, expanding works in progress, reading as much as I want, blowing up Germans in the Netherlands during Operation Market Garden, I turn around to find no time left. It has flown, too quickly, through the floodgates of unbridled exuberance, pouring out onto the sun bleached sand, pissed out on the shirttails of the last Budweiser. I loved every second of it.
“Some people would kill for a body like this,” someone close to me said recently, referring to himself. I laughed till I doubled over at the waist. The conviction in his voice, the reality of living with someone who is, to the core, so in love with himself, so convinced that he is right, all the time, that everything he says is true, and that he can order people around like servants, is fascinating.
I have been for the past four years attempting to remove myself from feelings of pride, from the idea that my accomplishments are to be touted, attempting in stead to let them shine for themselves, regardless if anyone is watching or not. Fuck, I hope no one is watching, most of the time, so they don’t see the remnants of pride wash briefly through the stormfront of my emotions, the vast copula of my imagination.
File access is becoming more and more easy. I am training myself to remember nearly everything anyone says, creating a mental image of that person, an avatar of sorts I can call up to help me remember important things about that person, to make them feel more comfortable and to facilitate conversation. I can look at a car, burning past me on the freeway, and actually see wild apes clinging to it for dear life, ripping chunks of plastic off of it as the driver takes evasive action, to throw them off.
Like a hologram projector- game I saw once, with my brother, of a cowboy fighting space creatures, kind of like that scenes constantly play out in the curved dome of my imagination. The bottom of the curve starts at eyeball height, with the main backdrop starting its curve about four feet out, coming to its hazy conclusions at the edges of the peripheral. Scenes from days past, from movies, short clips of past girlfriends, convulsing in orgasm, visualizations of hundreds of scenes from scores of books, my interpretation of an author’s ability to describe a given situation.
If I need a two ton anvil to fall on someone’s head, it busts out a few ceiling tiles, an old florescent light, to accordion the offending party.
But does everyone have this projection booth? Does everyone compare a given situation to various life experiences, video games, comics, literature, science fiction, movies, snippets of conversation, the pattern of chewing gum vs fractured pavement, a baby’s tired wail, the smell of a much-used dumpster?
I doubt I am special, doubt these three I call mine own, my daimons, the howling beast, antagonistic trickster, calculating demi-philosopher, I will ever truly call my own, lest they overwhelm me, lest I utilize their strengths too often, and fall prey to their weaknesses.
Regardless, as I do not look to compete with others, so no other will be able to compete with me. Something for the kids. X
31 May 2005
A man and Woman; to Greece; love making
His right hamstring extends farther down than the left as he strains to find the right angles and positions in downward dog pose.
She steals a glance, stifles a smile at his visible effort to make his body conform to an unfamiliar position. Her smile is not malicious; she loves him for working so hard on something that comes so easily to her.
He will smile that same smile, in church, his voice clear and bright ,while she struggles trying to out-sing the group of blue-haired ladies who always seem to have arrived just before them. They are side by side, her heels rest easily on the floor behind her, his clear a few inches.
On the way home, later that night, they speak quietly. Excited at his increasing flexibility, they also speak of their upcoming trip to Greece, planned for later in the summer. They speak of having children.
What a good father he will make, she says, just as he is thinking the same thing about her. What a perfect mother she will make, he says. The couple talks about how cute their babies will look, but do not discuss when exactly they plan to begin having any.
At home, in the dark warmth of post-coital bliss, he cups her face in his hands, calls her by one of his many pet names he has for her, and is content.
The woman listens to her husband’s breathing, and, hearing it become regular and deep, knows he is asleep. Getting out of bed quietly, she reaches to turn on a small lamp, but a sudden break in the clouds lets in enough light from the full moon for her to see. She turns to the side, looking at her naked body in the mirror, running her hands over the soft skin of her stomach, wishing for something to be growing inside. She stands there, knowing she should go back to asleep, and, after admiring her slender physique one last time, does.
The Aegean sea glistens in the distance, just beyond the dry scrub covering the top of the small hill they have just climbed. She can see that his feet are dusty from the climb, and can feel the powdery soil covering her own. They stand there, holding each other, looking down at the twisting streets of the small town, at the winding alleys and small outdoor cafes that they have grown to love over the past week, and are at peace. There is no need for words, for fear that they could shatter the perfection of Them at that moment in time.
Later that evening, in the clear light of the full moon, after a dinner of fresh seafood, bread dunked in olive-oil and garlic, and fresh greens, they make love three times. Neither of the two notice how often they make love, up until the moment when the rising sun blinds them at the moment of orgasm.
The sun is high when they awake, and they are famished. They are also late for their flight, and just barely reach the gate, carrying one last packet of food from an ancient street vendor named Ander.
The woman awakes, nauseous again. After the second day of vomiting, she makes an appointment with the doctor for the next day.
“Please have a seat,” the doctor says in a soothing tone. Panic shoots up her spine, the hair standing out on her neck and arms. “We have done some tests, and discovered the reason for your nausea these past few days.”
“Well, what is it,” the woman asks, ”can you give me something to make it go away?’
“It’s not that kind of sickness,” he says. ”Please, it’s nothing bad, stay seated. Mary, you’re pregnant.”
She steals a glance, stifles a smile at his visible effort to make his body conform to an unfamiliar position. Her smile is not malicious; she loves him for working so hard on something that comes so easily to her.
He will smile that same smile, in church, his voice clear and bright ,while she struggles trying to out-sing the group of blue-haired ladies who always seem to have arrived just before them. They are side by side, her heels rest easily on the floor behind her, his clear a few inches.
On the way home, later that night, they speak quietly. Excited at his increasing flexibility, they also speak of their upcoming trip to Greece, planned for later in the summer. They speak of having children.
What a good father he will make, she says, just as he is thinking the same thing about her. What a perfect mother she will make, he says. The couple talks about how cute their babies will look, but do not discuss when exactly they plan to begin having any.
At home, in the dark warmth of post-coital bliss, he cups her face in his hands, calls her by one of his many pet names he has for her, and is content.
The woman listens to her husband’s breathing, and, hearing it become regular and deep, knows he is asleep. Getting out of bed quietly, she reaches to turn on a small lamp, but a sudden break in the clouds lets in enough light from the full moon for her to see. She turns to the side, looking at her naked body in the mirror, running her hands over the soft skin of her stomach, wishing for something to be growing inside. She stands there, knowing she should go back to asleep, and, after admiring her slender physique one last time, does.
The Aegean sea glistens in the distance, just beyond the dry scrub covering the top of the small hill they have just climbed. She can see that his feet are dusty from the climb, and can feel the powdery soil covering her own. They stand there, holding each other, looking down at the twisting streets of the small town, at the winding alleys and small outdoor cafes that they have grown to love over the past week, and are at peace. There is no need for words, for fear that they could shatter the perfection of Them at that moment in time.
Later that evening, in the clear light of the full moon, after a dinner of fresh seafood, bread dunked in olive-oil and garlic, and fresh greens, they make love three times. Neither of the two notice how often they make love, up until the moment when the rising sun blinds them at the moment of orgasm.
The sun is high when they awake, and they are famished. They are also late for their flight, and just barely reach the gate, carrying one last packet of food from an ancient street vendor named Ander.
The woman awakes, nauseous again. After the second day of vomiting, she makes an appointment with the doctor for the next day.
“Please have a seat,” the doctor says in a soothing tone. Panic shoots up her spine, the hair standing out on her neck and arms. “We have done some tests, and discovered the reason for your nausea these past few days.”
“Well, what is it,” the woman asks, ”can you give me something to make it go away?’
“It’s not that kind of sickness,” he says. ”Please, it’s nothing bad, stay seated. Mary, you’re pregnant.”
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