tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-43546129968852535612024-03-13T22:03:20.690-07:00mildredsunset opening, lone figureUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger66125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-32152979182299507602015-03-04T23:07:00.000-07:002015-03-04T23:13:54.798-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1JdCR2SfUEo/VPfz5yuwlrI/AAAAAAAABSk/LX7voSIVkF0/s1600/emwinter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1JdCR2SfUEo/VPfz5yuwlrI/AAAAAAAABSk/LX7voSIVkF0/s1600/emwinter.jpg" /></a></div>
<br />RiKenna Elle http://www.blogger.com/profile/15599544592811512366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-41796529574908772612014-07-16T20:23:00.001-07:002014-07-16T20:23:10.927-07:00Taking Time
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">He
would work on the painting until the phone rang. And though he knew it would
ring soon, at any moment, he knew not to rush it, not to fuck it up. Sure, with
time and patience even a massive mistake could be corrected, but time was not
an option. There was only patience, consideration, breathing, slowly. Purple
was the main color now. Different shades and tones of course—violet,
crimson—but to a child they’d all be purple. In a way maybe this was a painting
for children. He let the streaks bleed, let the oil run, and each streak seemed
to fall right where it needed to, a sort of controlled chaos, like Pollock’s
splatters or Saint Phalle and her rifles, but less violent. The way the morning
sunlight came in was nice, lighting up the dust particles in the air as well as
the painting, softly. No music played—he couldn’t do it—and still no birds
chirped. A cricket maybe somewhere outside, a frog, a lawnmower miles away. He
dipped the brush again and pressed it to the canvas.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The phone upstairs rang.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He closed and opened his eyes, set
the brush down, took a photo of with his cell-phone, and left the basement. The
clock on the wall said five forty-five.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re awake,” she said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, you too.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And then he was driving over. It was
cold outside and inside his truck, which needed to warm up first or it would
die out but there was also no time, not enough time, and so after five minutes,
after a cigarette and filling his thermos, he was on the dirt road that led to
the highway, the moisture from last night running down the windshield in tiny
little streams that caught the orange light and looked something like the
painting. Her house was a guest-house of sorts and it sat behind a much larger
house where an old and dying woman lived alone, a woman who’d devoted her life
to her job and retired to a country home so she could die, an old woman who met
Karen on the right day and so let her move into the guest-house and there she’d
been for five years now. He turned off the highway onto another dirt road and,
after drifting through a clenching of trees, circled around the large house
that he called a mansion and into his parking spot. Well it wasn’t his his, but
no one else ever parked there.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Karen sat on the porch drinking
decaf. It seemed like it might rain that day. She had a cigarette, unlit, and
as he stepped onto the wooden stairs she held out her hand and he placed the
lighter in it and sat beside her. She wore her father’s jacket, leather with
stains and smooth spots, old and brown and still smelling like either her
father or the original animal. He wished she wouldn’t wear it and he’d told her
so but it never ended well. “It’s my fucking jacket and it’s comfortable,”
she’d say and then he’d let it go and feel like a fool for bringing it up,
because it always turned moving forward into moving backward and there just
wasn’t time for that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How’d you sleep?” she asked, smoke
and warmth leaving her mouth and vanishing near the porch’s ceiling, shifting
from white to invisible.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good,” he lied. “You?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Bad,” she told the truth.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He lit his own cigarette and asked
why.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know why,” she said. “This
fucking head.” She tilted her head back slightly and rolled her eyes back into
her head, going all white.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It takes time,” he said. “Remember?
You can’t rush it. One day at a time.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” she said quickly, her voice
filled with disbelief and maybe a bit of annoyance. The kind of annoyance that
meant “Are you gonna fill me with that bullshit too? Are you gonna sit here and
fill me with that bullshit too? I know everyone else will but you too?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They sat and smoked in silence and
when their coffee was gone he had to go.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Call in, Shane,” she said, forcing
what she thought was a wicked smile onto her face.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know I can’t,” he said. He
kissed her on the forehead and drove to town.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
shaker was acting up again and Steve was in a panic. “We’ve got a nine o’clock
for fifteen cans of 342, dammit.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll figure it out,” Shane said,
bending onto one knee to look under the device, where it mounted into the wall.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know you will,” said Steve. “But
you gotta hurry because otherwise I’m gonna lose my shit, man. It’s that
fucking new kid. What’s his name?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“David.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You sure?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shane inserted the tip of his knife
into the wedge and, lifting slowly, extracted a massive clump of color 250, a
paint he’d mixed the day before and had clearly spilled.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m sure,” he said. “His name is
David. I’ve been working with him for months.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well it was him,” said Steve. “He
doesn’t take care. He’s always in such a goddamn hurry, as if he only has a
certain number to mix and then he’s just gonna waltz outta here and—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Steve,” Shane said. “It’s early.
Shutup. I broke it, it’s fixed now, his name’s David, and at nine o’clock we’ll
have fifteen cans of 342.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Steve flipped the switch to the Axis
Paint Shaker II and it jostled loudly, making the floor hum. He patted Shane on
the back. “I knew you could do it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">At
lunch he got out his colored pencils and sketchbook and opened it and then took
out his phone and pulled up the image he’d taken earlier. First he quickly and
lightly copied the new strokes and streaks he’d completed this morning into the
book. He’d only been at it fifteen minutes when she’d called, so it didn’t take
long. David sat across from him, respecting his concentration. The young boy
had his headphones in and though the volume was low, he invisibly hammered on
the ghost drum-set before him, taking bites of ham and cheese and mustard
pretzels in between fills. Shane liked David. He worked hard enough and didn’t
care enough and that mattered to Shane. This job, mixing paint, was not suited
for a kid like David, a kid with his kind of talent. Shane had seen their band
at least four times now, and though he usually had to leave early, he could
tell by the energy in the air, the increase of fans at each show, that they
could be going somewhere. They were, actually, going somewhere, he remembered.
This summer they’d somehow got booked at a couple festivals on the west coast.
A major chance for them, thousands of people. Shane raised his hand and waved
it until David pulled out an earbud.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where are you playing those shows
again?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This summer? L.A. and San Fran.
Why?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I keep forgetting.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,” David kept drumming. “You
gonna come?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shane laughed. “Nah.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You ever been to California, man?
It’s beautiful. You’d love it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve been,” said Shane. “A long
time ago.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh yeah, dude. I knew that. You did
some gallery shows there right? In the eighties?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Early nineties but yeah,” said
Shane.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He took out the remaining earbud and
leaned over the table. He nodded at the sketchbook. “That the same one?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>David reached over and turned the
pad around to face him. He was quiet, actually looking, watching it like it
would start to move and bleed more right then. Nothing came from his mouth
immediately. Shane liked this about him. He wouldn’t just speak to speak. He
thought first. He didn’t rush off and make big decisions without thinking them
through. He took his time.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’d make a cool album cover,” said
David. “When you gonna finish it?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t know,” said Shane.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>His phone rang and David looked at
him. Shane nodded and David stood up.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sit down,” said Shane. “I can
leave. I need a cigarette anyway.” He gathered his supplies into a pile and
carried the phone outside.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">The
clouds had thickened and it was definitely going to rain. It was a good thing.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I like the rain,” she said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know. Me too,” he lied.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It calms me. I feel less… I don’t
know, less something. Less everything. But it’s a good kind of less everything,
you know?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” he said. And he did. There
was so much to do all the time. So much to be or try to be and so much to take
care of and let go of.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s like I can be less and more at
the same time,” she said. “Less of a person and yet more part of everything
else. Where the me goes away and I actually like it.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is this what you want to talk about
right now?” Shane asked. “I have to clock back in in about five minutes.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can’t you just leave?” She asked.
“I’ll make it worth it for you.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He knew she couldn’t, not in the way
she meant. But not because she didn’t want to or he didn’t want to but because
she just couldn’t. And that was okay with him now. It used not to be. Years ago
when he was still traveling and her problems had just begun. He blamed her
then, for always having to answer the phone and always feeling guilty and
nauseous the day after he’d been with someone else who actually would with him.
He didn’t know what was different now, what had changed in him, but it didn’t
matter why really. He’d been teaching himself to stop asking why so much. There
was a philosopher whose name he forgot but he learned about in art school who
basically said that the problem with questions like “What is the meaning of life?”
was that by posing them as a question you made the mistake of thinking there
even was an answer. That by asking something you created the necessity for and
the possibility of an answer. That by asking “What is the” you’ve created the
impression that there “is a.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can’t. It’s barely one. Steve
won’t let me. Plus,” he said, careful to use the correct word, “I need the
money.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But will you come after?” she
asked, pleading.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of course,” he said. “I’ll be there
by five.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">“You
want to grab a quick beer after work?” asked David.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">Across
the street from the hardware store was a small Mexican restaurant with a bar
attached and a ridiculously long Happy Hour. He and David took a seat on the
back patio, where the fading sunlight still leapt over the surrounding fence
and warmed their skin. David ordered chips and salsa and a Corona; Shane asked
for iced tea.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Too early for beer?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can’t drink anymore,” Shane said,
lighting a cigarette. “It’s easier for Karen to stop if I’m not doing it
either.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How is she?” David asked. There was
sincerity in his voice, a sad and caring sincerity that tempted Shane to open
up more than he could.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The same? Better? I don’t know,”
Shane exhaled a long stream of smoke. “I think better.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good,” said David.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, I actually can’t stay long.
I’m supposed to meet her at five.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Any big plans?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sit on the porch. Drink coffee.
Smoke cigarettes.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can I ask you something?” David
asked. “Something personal.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What do you get out of it?” David
asked. “I mean, not that she’s not a good person or anything but, you know,
what about you?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What do you mean?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It just seems like everything you
do is for her, you know? And I’m not saying that’s a problem or that you
shouldn’t or anything like that but it kinda seems like you put yourself on the
back burner all the time, for her sake, and that you could, I don’t know, maybe
benefit from doing some things for yourself once in a while.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Like what?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Like what! Like your art, man. Your
paintings. I mean, how long you been working on that one, the one from today?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t know. A year maybe.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A year!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It takes time,” Shane lit another.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Look,” said David. “All I mean is
that I think you’re really good. Like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i>
good. And I know you can do it because you already have, in the nineties, and
people liked it man. You have a Wikipedia page! And it just seems like you’ve
given up, for her, and that you’re gonna miss out on so much. Like if you just
moved away for a while you know, to like New York or L.A. or somewhere with a
scene, not this fucking hole, then you could be something again. Something more
than the manager of the paint department at fucking Steve’s Hardware. I mean,
you’re not getting any younger, man.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She needs me,” Shane said, looking
over the wall to where the sun set behind it, where the orange leapt out and
hit the pink and blue. “Her mind isn’t well, you know. She has no one else.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But you need you too. You can’t be
so selfless, man.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s harder when you get older.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know, man, it’s just… I don’t
know. I want you to be happy. I want you to do what you’re good at and fucking
get out of here, you know. I’m not saying you have to just abandon her forever
but, you know, she’ll be around. You can come back if you want but give it a
chance is all I’m saying.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shane looked at his watch. “I’ve got
to go.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright,” said David, finishing off
his beer. “Look, I don’t mean to step on your toes or anything, I just—”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t worry,” said Shane. “I appreciate
it. I really do. Thanks.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">He
pulled the truck into his spot and she came outside with distress on her face.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re late.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s five ten,” he said. “It’s only
ten minutes.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She groaned in annoyance. “It’s only
ten minutes,” she repeated in the dumbest voice she could conjure. “It’s only
ten minutes, it’s only ten minutes it’s only ten minutes. Fuck you!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Karen—” he began, but she was
already back inside and the door had slammed behind her.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fuck,” he said, and lit a
cigarette.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">He let the tail-gate down and swung his
legs from it. The stars were coming out, blinking into existence by the dozens.
He practiced smoke rings and French inhales and thought about the color purple
and all its variations. He thought about the painting at home and about Karen
inside. He thought about streaks going down the canvas and down her face and he
thought about her crying purple tears that stained her skin and dried like oil
over years and years. He thought about purple smudges on her forearms and hands
from where she wiped the tears away and then even her snot was purple as it
slunk down from her nose in thick globs she brushed away violently. A light
came on upstairs and he knew soon she’d be looking out and down on him. He
imagined other fluids flowing from her purple. Not just blood, that was easy,
but sweat and piss and shit and even the moist area between her legs that was
never moist anymore, all of it streaking crimson and violet down her sides and
legs and soaking into her feet. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">He looked to the window in time to see
her turn away and then said “Fuck it,” and got in the truck and drove home,
stopping along the way to pick up a fifth of vodka and more cigarettes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">He
took shots while mixing the paints. The moonlight hit the canvas like the
sunlight and he turned on a single lamp in the corner. He remembered it was his
weekend now and decided he’d finish the painting before it was over. He
wouldn’t leave the room until it was done. He kept one burning in his mouth and
took out his sketchbook and compared and stared and thought.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When the phone rang he took another
shot and ignored it as best he could. When he finally put the brush to the
canvas a minute later he heard the phone stop and a voice, his voice, came from
upstairs. “This is Shane. Please leave a message, including your number, and
I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.” He’d forgotten he had an answering
machine. Then came the beep and then came Karen.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shane, it’s me. I’m sorry. Just
having a bad one, you know,” she laughed to herself and sighed. “Look, can you
just come back please? I need you, okay? I’ll do whatever you want. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Whatever</i>. I didn’t mean to take it out
on you. You know that. I know it’s not your fault. If it’s anyone’s fault it’s
mine, or my fucking father’s. You know what he did to me, that fuck. That sick
fuck.” She sighed again and waited. “I could use a fucking drink right now. I
sure could. Something stiff. Whiskey neat. A martini. Remember those Sake Bombs
that time in Chinatown? When you broke the table from slamming it too hard and
the waiter got pissed? Remember we took the cab with that other couple back to
our hotel? You’d just sold a piece and we used the money to do coke all night
with them. Where were they from? France? Or was it Belgium? And the guy wanted
to fuck me and he told you that the girl wanted to fuck you too. God, that was
crazy. Remember that Shane?” She paused again and when her voice came back it
was pleading. “Shane? Answer me, please. Don’t leave me like this. We can have
kids. I’ll get off the pills for a bit and when they’re born I’ll get back on
them. We can move in together when the old woman dies. I know she’s gonna leave
me the house, she has no family. Wouldn’t that be nice, Shane? Wouldn’t—” and
the machine cut her off.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He took another shot of vodka and that
was when he noticed the streak. Had he done that? Fuck. Fuck, it was all wrong.
It should have moved up from right to left not left to right. He took a shot.
But he could fix it. He had all night. No, he had the whole fucking weekend. No.
He had his whole fucking life to fix it and so he took another shot. There was
no rush anymore, and the feeling of time slipping away was a rush of its own,
like when in movies the camera zooms in while the cinematographer pulls it
backward and that effect happens like nausea. But it happened within him and
then he put the brush back to the canvas and when he pulled it away it was all
wrong again. And now there were two lines to fix but it didn’t matter because
there was so much time. And within an hour Shane was drunk and the painting was
destroyed and then the phone rang.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman";">He turned away from the canvas and walked
upstairs.</span></div>
james granatowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06738623957460850599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-65671379146106038252014-06-20T19:46:00.000-07:002014-06-20T19:46:18.644-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-80002749566610797402014-04-29T10:54:00.001-07:002014-04-29T10:54:48.032-07:00Dreams of Antelope Canyon <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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RiKenna Elle http://www.blogger.com/profile/15599544592811512366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-39278054350541750632014-03-17T23:19:00.000-07:002014-03-17T23:19:05.653-07:00You're Them<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He couldn’t believe his luck. What were
the chances that he’d tune in, right now, at this very moment, when there was
only a quarter of an hour left? It was uncanny. Not only would he receive the
additional fruit-sized attachments for free, but, if he called within the next
fifteen minutes, he’d also receive the juicing attachment, a thirty-dollar
value, for only fifty cents! He picked up the cordless from the kitchen
counter, eyeing the bowl of fruits and vegetables that would soon be expertly
sliced, diced, and juiced in the blink of an eye, and, heart racing, dialed the
toll-free number. He fell asleep thinking of preparing fruit for the pretty
girl.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After exactly eight hours he woke up.
That’s how much you were supposed to sleep and that’s how much he slept, every
night, to achieve optimal physical and mental health and performance. Ten
minutes were then devoted to Good Thoughts, a trick he’d learned two months
before on Good Morning America. Five were devoted to stock phrases the show had
supplied, which he’d luckily remembered after being tipped off to always have a
blank tape in the VCR, just in case. From memory he went through the list: today
will be a beautiful day, because I am a beautiful person; not all days can be
the greatest day, but every day can be a great day, and today is no exception;
there is no greater joy than spreading joy; the people I will meet today are
complicated and caring individuals, no matter the specifics of our interaction,
and I must give them the benefit of the doubt; the world is becoming a better
place, as long as people, first and foremost myself, do their part to create
happiness and encourage understanding. After repeating this list twice (in
order to not let the later affirmations outweigh the earlier) he began his own
individual list, using some of the Suggested Guidelines for Forming Positivity:
I will not let unkind individuals break my spirit; I am unique and gifted;
sticks and stones can break my bones but words will never hurt me; Jesus Christ
is my personal lord and savoir; a penny saved is a penny earned; don’t count
your eggs before they hatch; and his favorite, picked up before the VHS tip,
and therefore from a forgotten source: be the change you want to see. Maybe
this had something to do with what You’re Them meant.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">After turning off the Deluxe Noise Lite
white noise generator he did his morning stretches, flossed and brushed, and
ran his bath water, calibrating the thermometer beforehand to avoid mistake, as
water that was too hot stunted growth and contributed to hair loss. While the
tub filled he drank one cup of orange juice, ate two bananas and one bran
muffin (counting as he chewed for proper digestive efficiency), and took his
medication last, as the bottle suggested (Take two pills daily following a
light meal). The nausea the medicine had been producing was fading lately, a
fact he attributed to his Good Thoughts and the kind words of Dr. Sylvia Hui,
who mentioned it might be rough at first, but would ultimately balance out, and
he’d feel much better in the long run.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It’s good to get out of the house, he
knows, so every morning he went for a walk to the nearby park. It wasn’t the
most beautiful day but it was a beautiful day. In the small satchel he switched
from shoulder to shoulder, to avoid back pain, he has supplies. Necessaries.
Two bottles of filtered water, a pear, sunblock, hand sanitizer, an umbrella (while
it’s not likely it’ll rain this weekend, John, there’s always a chance here in
Portland), a BLT hold the B (Meat is Murder he saw on a shirt), a book—today’s
is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Snow Leopard</i> by Peter Matthiessen,
a recommendation from the pretty girl at the book store—the cell-phone Mom made
him carry, and, of course, his first aid kid, which reminded him that he needed
to get his CPR certification renewed ASAP, because you never know. He smiled at
everyone as they walked past, in a calculated way that he was taught is not overly
friendly. A large man passed by and said, “How’s it going, sir?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Great
and thanks,” he responded. “How are you?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good,
thanks,” said the large man, who kept moving on.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re
welcome,” he said. “Have a nice day.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
large man didn’t respond but he didn’t take it to heart. It happened a lot, and
you never know what’s going on in a stranger’s life. Halfway through the park
he found a spot in the sun, but near the shade and restrooms, and sprawled in
the grass, where he relaxed his body while sipping water. A dog from a family
nearby came sniffing, and he yelled for permission before petting. It was
granted and the dog was very soft but not entirely clean. When it left he
applied a small layer of hand sanitizer after rubbing a capful of water between
his hands. The day’s agenda was to read in the park until one, alternating
between sunlight and shade, then to head back to the book store where the
pretty lady worked, since she did say to let her know how he liked it, then
he’d stop by Trader Joe’s and get home in time for Dr. Phil and the evening
news, because the effective citizen is the informed one. After the news he’d
make dinner from the recipe list Mom left for the kitchen and maybe read more,
depending on if he had found nothing to watch on TV, since lately everything is
so violent or dirty, and he knows if you watch too much of that stuff you can
become desentized to it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He was trying to figure out what to
tell the pretty lady about the book, because he didn’t know if he liked it.
Well, he didn’t finish it either, but it made him uncomfortable and sad for
some reason, so he couldn’t. He couldn’t figure out why the man, Peter, would
leave his kids behind and risk his life just for some pictures. The Snow
Leopard was beautiful he knew, he’d seen pictures, but the kids seemed more
important. Being a father was important, and the more he thought about it the more
it bothered him. He felt like maybe he had kids once, but that wasn’t possible,
because he wouldn’t leave them. Children are precious. Children are angels. And
so he didn’t know what to tell her, the pretty lady, because she’d called it profound,
which the dictionary made sound important. He thought about lying but knew it
wasn’t right, only the little white ones that Dr. Sylvia Hui told him about
using and when it was okay. He didn’t want to be slapped or hurt again, like
that time in Safeway when the big woman knocked him down, and all he did was say
the truth.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
when you use a white lie,” said Dr. Sylvia Hui. “When telling the truth might
be seen as hurtful to someone or yourself. You have to imagine that you’re
them.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
part always confused him. You’re them. He had to ask her about it.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
when you put yourself in their shoes for a while,” she’d said. “Just think on
it, okay?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’d
told her okay and he did, think on it, but it still made no sense, and since
Dr. Sylvia Hui didn’t bring it up again and not being able to figure it out
made him feel bad, which wasn’t good, he decided to not mention it anymore. It
was a little white lie he guessed, because thinking about it hurt him, and
that’s when you used them.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Before entering Barnes and Noble he
took <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Snow Leopard</i> from his
satchel and made sure the receipt was there. He found it folded neatly in the
back of the book, and slid it into his front pocket carefully, making sure not
to wrinkle it or drop it on the ground where it might get wet or blow away. It
had happened before and the young mean cashier—no, that wasn’t fair, he had to
be fair—the young new cashier had refused to take the book back, even though he
explained about the receipt and how it had only been five days (return books within
7 days for full credit) and how he had been going there for years. He was
crying by the time the manager he knew showed up and did the refund for him,
helping him out of the store by his arm and telling him to come back the next
day when he felt better. It was warm in a good way inside. He always felt good
here. The lighting, the smell of the coffee he never drank but loved to
breathe, the rows of all those books, all those stories. You can never get a
friend as good as a book, one of his bookmarks said. But he thought dog’s were
man’s best friends? In the store he liked looking at the back of the DVD’s,
too, but he couldn’t bring them back like the books if he opened them, and plus
they were too expensive and he didn’t have a player anyway. The checks he got
from Chrysler each month were enough to get by but not enough for DVD’s, and he
liked his VCR anyway because he heard the DVD one couldn’t record. He made his
way to the front counter and, using his receipt, did the return.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Was
there anything wrong with the book?” the girl had to ask.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It
just upset me.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,”
she said. “We can only give you a gift card, though.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
great. You can combine it with this one if you want,” he said smiling. She was
pretty but not pretty like the pretty girl. He came here with Mom one time
hoping she could meet the pretty girl but she was off that day, is what Tim
told him. Tim worked with the pretty girl in the café section, and he knew
Tim’s name but not the pretty girl’s. Since he had been coming here he never
knew any of the girl’s names because none of them wore nametags. Some of the
boys wore nametags, though. Like Tim. He liked Tim alone but he didn’t like how
Tim was sometimes when the pretty girl was there. How Tim would sometimes touch
her arm or say something quiet in her ear and make her laugh. One time Tim said
something in her ear and they both looked at him and then the pretty girl’s
mouth fell open and she hit Tim in the arm. He knew Tim had said something he
shouldn’t have about him and that the pretty girl had defended him. He wanted
to be mad at Tim but he knew he had to forgive and forget so he let go. Even if
Tim wasn’t being nice he knew not to let unkind individuals break his spirit. He
wondered if she loved him too. It was hard to know. She was the only girl he
had ever loved, he thought. Maybe before there was one but he couldn’t remember
and it made him feel sick when he tried and gave him headaches. He didn’t like
the idea that there could have been anyone else. He was saving himself for the
pretty girl and her alone, and he didn’t like it when other girls would look at
him or touch him. Love is a two-way street. Like last month when Mom brought
Jan and Casey over. Jan and Casey were Mom’s young friends, sisters, and they
loved him very much and he loved them too. They would come over with Mom and
talk sometimes and even play card games or look at a picture. But last month
one night when they were over he started feeling strange again and had to lie
down. He must have fallen asleep but when he woke up Jan was sitting on the bed
next to him in the dark and she was touching his head, smoothing the hair back by
his scar. She was breathing funny and it scared him that she was touching him. No
one can touch you if you don’t want them to he’d heard on Dr. Phil. He rolled
over real quick and Jan jumped up and left the room and then left the apartment.
Mom wasn’t there when he got out of bed, and neither was Casey.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The pretty girl was working today. He
never knew when because she didn’t seem to work every day and it was only in
the middle of the day and on some days he had to see Dr. Sylvia Hui at that
time. He wished he didn’t have to go there but it is important to see your
doctor on a regular basis and both Mom and Dr. Sylvia Hui insisted. They said
it would help with his headaches and when he felt strange. It is important to
remember, Mom always told him. He had to get his courage up before talking to
her so he went to the section called Relationships and Marriage and looked at
the spines of the books. He found the one he liked most and opened it to page
76: “Navigating the single world, we know, is never easy, and dating can be
scary! But God did not put us here to be afraid of one another; he put us here
to love one another. And sometimes we meet a person randomly and feel a
connection. It’s important of course to be aware of just what that connection
is, though. God wants us to love each other, but he wants us to love each other
first and foremost with our hearts, rather than our bodies.” He breathed deeply
and closed his eyes and counted to ten. He kept reading: “So when you meet a
stranger that might be that special someone you must first decide that it is
with your heart that you want to love them. Once this is established you can
use without fear these following techniques:</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">1)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Strike
up a conversation. It’s important to do this only if convenient for both
persons. Especially if they are in a situation that requires focus, like a
workplace, or with other people.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">2)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Be
confident. If you have love in your heart you can be assured that you have a
home in His heart. And if you have the Savior in your heart, and have ensured
yourself saved for access to His Eternal Kingdom of Heaven, what have you to be
afraid of? The answer is nothing. BE CONFIDENT.</span></div>
<div class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .75in; mso-add-space: auto; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">3)<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Be
honest. No love can be built on lies, no matter how unappealing or even boring
the truth may seem. Do not make yourself something you are not. You are perfect
the way you are, as long as you act according to His rules and scriptures.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He
stopped reading there. He felt good, strong, ready, confident. Be the change
you want to see. He walked to the café.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">It all happened so fast, just like they
always say on TV. One minute everything was great and he was talking to the
pretty girl and he finally asked her her name and she told him it was
Carrie—Carrie!—and then he told her about the book and she said it was okay and
that it isn’t for everyone and he said thanks and that he’d like to see her
outside of work sometime because he only ever saw her at work and Carrie said
that sounded nice and so he waited outside for her and she told him she was
going to the bench nearby and he asked if he could come and she said it was
okay but that she wouldn’t be there that long and so they walked to the bench
together and it was the best time he ever had and he asked how old she was and
she said twenty-three and he said he was forty-eight but he knew deep down it
didn’t matter because age ain’t nothing but a number and when they sat down he
said he wanted to know her and understand her and she said that was nice of him
and so when she took out a cigarette and started smoking it he didn’t know why
because tobacco is a tumor causing, teeth staining, smelling, puking habit and he
told her and she laughed and said that’s what she heard too but that she had
just worked all day and she needed to relax and the cigarette helped. And then
she said it was an eight-hour day and this cigarette feels like Heaven, put
yourself in my shoes and she stared at him and he didn’t know what to do
because she looked so serious and she didn’t say anything else. And he
remembered that this is what Dr. Sylvia Hui had said, too, that to understand
someone you need to put on their shoes and so that’s what he tried to do. But
when he pulled off the first of Carrie’s shoes and started to try to force it
onto his foot, which was much too big, she jumped up and asked him what he was doing
and he told her he was trying to be her and then she started to walk away
before he even got to her other shoe and he didn’t know why so he got up, one
of her pink shoes pulled halfway onto his foot, and tried to follow her but she
walked fast back toward the bookstore and he didn’t know why so he ran after
her but tripped and when he got to the Barnes and Noble a minute later a cop
came out and told him to stop right there and then Carrie came out behind the
cop with Tim. And so he took the pink shoe off his foot and when we he went to
give her shoes back the cop blocked him and when he twisted away he fell onto
the ground and he hurt his arm and he was scared and then he was running and
the cop was chasing him and knocked him down again and he hurt his arm more and
he was crying and yelling and then he was at the police station and it seemed
like forever before Mom and Jan and Casey were there and they all hugged and
cried and then they took him to the hospital, because it is important to see
your doctor on a regular basis, and then home.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Mom told him he was too old to do
things like that. They were sitting at the table together, all four of them,
and Mom and Jan and Casey were drinking coffee and he had some green tea, the
healthiest drink you can have: 4,000 years of Chinese history can’t be wrong.
He told Mom he was only going to try to do what he was told by Dr. Sylvia Hui
to do and then Casey asked him if he’d been taking his medicine every day and
he told her yes. Then she looked at Jan and Jan looked like she was going to
cry and said she was going to go to the bathroom. Mom asked him if he’d been
trying to remember and he said he had but didn’t know for sure because she
wouldn’t tell him what to remember because it was something he had to do on his
own. When Jan came back she asked him if they could look at a picture again and
though he didn’t like to do it he said okay because sometimes it’s important to
forget about what you want and do what will make others happy, even though the
pictures only seemed to make everyone feel worse. Jan opened her bag and took
out a big photo and put it on the table. It was one he’d seen before and he
didn’t like it. He clenched and unclenched his hands and Jan slid the picture
over to in front of him and no one said anything. The picture was a red truck,
a Chrysler!, and in front of it he saw himself standing there. He was younger
than he was now and it was strange to see him look like that. But that’s not
what bothered him. What bothered him was the woman standing next to him and
that he had his arm around her and that he was holding a girl that looked like
Jan and the woman was holding another baby bundled in pink.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What
do you see?” asked Casey.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
me,” he said.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good,”
said Casey. “Anything else?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This,”
he said, pointing at the girl he held. “It looks like you, Jan.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good,”
said Jan smiling. “It is me.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Anything
else?” asked Casey.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He
looked at the woman and the baby and the red truck, shining. His stomach
started to hurt more and his hands hurt from clenching them and then it started
in his head and he closed his eyes and moaned. Mom said that’s enough for now
and then she helped him to the room and put a wet rag on his head and rubbed
his arm. Casey and Jan watched him from the doorway and their eyes were so blue
and heavy. Mom told him to close his eyes and rest and he did and he fell
asleep.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman";">He woke up sometime in the night and
went into the living room. Under the couch he found his favorite tape and put
it in the VCR. It was a tape by Chrysler, and it is, after Carrie, the mot
beautiful thing in the world. In has a man with a beautiful voice, a strong
voice, walking down a dark tunnel. The man seems familiar to him, reminds him
of something long ago about guns but he can’t remember. He talks about the teams
in locker rooms and what will happen in the second half. He says It’s half-time
in America, too and there are beautiful images of the city and the country, and
the country looks so pretty and the city does too in a scary way. He says we’re
all scared because this isn’t a game. He says it seems we’ve lost our heart at
times and we have. Sometimes he feels so sad and like there’s nothing good,
even with his Good Thoughts. There are beautiful pictures of families in black
and white and strong-looking firefighters. He says that’s what we do. We find
our way through tough times and when we can’t find our way we make one. Then
there’s a beautiful road and a girl in a car that looks like the pretty girl,
looks like Carrie, and he says all that matters now is what’s ahead. And it’s
true. He doesn’t feel it completely right now but he knows it’s true. There are
more beautiful things like pristine machines and gleaming cars and this is when
he usually has to fight the tears, but tonight they’ve already come flowing
down his face and his eyes burn and he has to wipe them away and his nose
begins to run. Then the man comes out of the shadows finally and you see his
face, a strong face, and he says Yeah. It’s half-time, America. And our second half’s
about to begin. And it’s true. Our second half. It’s something we share,
something we’re all together in. Maybe this is what You’re Them really means. And
then the strong and familiar man walks away and the music fades and the picture
goes black and the tape ends and the static comes on. And then he rewinds it.</span></div>
james granatowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06738623957460850599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-79418498501502745672014-01-08T21:52:00.000-07:002014-01-08T21:52:52.880-07:00My Winter<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />RiKenna Elle http://www.blogger.com/profile/15599544592811512366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-475109566698166562013-10-23T13:55:00.003-07:002013-10-23T14:16:21.072-07:00Glow, The Tupi, Getting Out, Lead, Line Up, Directions<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z8Vq0-UOupo/Umg4uchN7dI/AAAAAAAADGo/6ldqm5ix60o/s1600/Line+Up.web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Z8Vq0-UOupo/Umg4uchN7dI/AAAAAAAADGo/6ldqm5ix60o/s200/Line+Up.web.jpg" width="198" /></a><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D0dL7wA4M9A/Umg2qj9vHeI/AAAAAAAADGM/CSQKRdd1e0s/s1600/Directionsweb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="198" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-D0dL7wA4M9A/Umg2qj9vHeI/AAAAAAAADGM/CSQKRdd1e0s/s200/Directionsweb.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ByUhTdir_nM/Umg2nz0mCkI/AAAAAAAADGE/vTNum5J-nYI/s1600/Glow.web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><br /></div>
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bobbihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11121784054534145914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-50337865512569502862013-09-20T11:39:00.001-07:002013-09-20T11:39:42.178-07:00untitled<br />
is bundled pink gentler than what<br />
communing with misery calling<br />
black river<br />
green<br />
wafting<br />
two bats in the eves an organ at its center<br />
you'll say you're sorry too<br />
for what they look like<br />
night thoughts glancing away from it<br />
triptych<br />
even if she were out of a place<br />
with natural relatives<br />
and relatives<br />
would there be room enough thirst for thirst<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-8195341824018290532013-08-06T12:38:00.000-07:002013-08-06T12:38:11.189-07:00untitled 1
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
She stared at the glass of wine, which
she drank simultaneously with a glass of water. The water was for
sobering up, and the wine was for getting drunk, both of which she
wished to do in equal parts, it seemed. Getting drunk(er) would take
the edge off things (but that was a cliché wasn't it? What did it
actually mean to take the edge off? The truth was, likely, that she
simply enjoyed being drunk) and the water would clear her thoughts as
well as that tiny headache that was slowly <i>pound pound</i><span style="font-style: normal;">ing
in the front of her skull, the tempo building. If she drank more she
could fall asleep soon, and maybe even be up early, in time to read
or practice before work. But if she went with the water, she could
try and sober up now, and maybe read or practice, then sleep in
tomorrow before work. Debating the issue didn't matter, since she
knew she would have both anyway.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> It
should've rained but a didn't. A lot of things </span><i>should've</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
happened that day. She was upset about it earlier, but now it didn't
matter so much. All those stresses were simply </span><i>things that
happened</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> now, and she wished she
could have always felt this way. But she hadn't. She'd paced and
opened the door over and over looking for the package and the mail
man. Her heart rate increased. Her breathing increased. She had
several cigarettes. She ate more than usual. And surely, her heart
took damage, and she inched closer to the cardiac arrest that would
end her life. All for something that now, with the hours passed and
the wine almost gone didn't even matter.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> In
their room, her girlfriend slept. She always stayed up later than
her, and it was a good thing. At night, it was quiet, which was nice
if you didn't concentrate on it or think about it. The night-time was
her time, and she could read or practice or watch things she was
ashamed to watch. Things like sex and bills and money and what she
would do next weren't a concern. It was a sort of formula: sit on the
couch in a minimal amount of clothing, drink beer/wine/rum, do what
you want. There was always a blanket, and sometimes the dog would
join her, nuzzling his cold wet nose (which grew dryer everyday)
against her bare thigh, a slight trail of snot slashing across like
windshield-wipers and then drying away into nothing. It was great to
be alone. She blew her nose repeatedly into the same napkin, farted,
picked at her cuticles and nail-polish, ate junk food. She would
sneeze sometimes and leave it wherever it landed. She would
absent-mindedly pick at body hairs and pimples. No one saw, and it
made her wonder what would happen if she were always alone. </span><i>Always</i><span style="font-style: normal;">.
Would she tear her skin away, bit by bit, until there was nothing
left but scabs and scars? Would she pull out hair by the tuft, like a
documentary she saw about some sort of African ritual where girls
beginning puberty were stripped bald by the women of their community?
Maybe.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> But
she wasn't always alone, and that was a good thing. She took a gulp
of wine and followed it with water, instantly rinsing the taste from
her mouth and leaving her teeth slightly less purple. Running her
tongue across her lips she could taste the previous bottle of wine,
which she'd shared with her girlfriend before she went to bed. She
yawned and drank more wine and water and thought about mixing them
together. A toe itched so she scratched it. She yawned again. She
rubber her belly. She burped softly. She thought about a friend she
hadn't called in a while and wondered whose fault it was. She
wondered if she was good or bad at telling stories, and if the bad
things she heard about herself were true and if so, if there was any
chance for change. She rubbed at her eyes and felt tired. She hated
sleep, but she loved sleeping in. She stretched her arms above her
head and felt the cartilage stretching in her shoulders and back. She
wondered if she had good posture. She thought about being a kid and
watching a bad horror movie at someone's house during a hot day in
the summer. She finished the wine and took another drink of water,
which splashed into her eye and she winced and felt foolish and then
she felt cold, so she decided to go to bed.</span></div>
james granatowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06738623957460850599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-58870964146446150272013-05-07T18:34:00.005-07:002013-05-07T18:35:24.943-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v1LI66O3nBA/UYmrdtUWxJI/AAAAAAAAAuE/U9rSTBcQuFU/s1600/bobs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-v1LI66O3nBA/UYmrdtUWxJI/AAAAAAAAAuE/U9rSTBcQuFU/s400/bobs.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
RiKenna Elle http://www.blogger.com/profile/15599544592811512366noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-77821308270772243692013-04-08T10:41:00.004-07:002013-04-08T10:41:42.618-07:00Copper, Zinc<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PUAK0lFAbeE/UWMAkGW_SlI/AAAAAAAADCw/PKraEYRozbQ/s1600/Copper.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-PUAK0lFAbeE/UWMAkGW_SlI/AAAAAAAADCw/PKraEYRozbQ/s640/Copper.jpg" width="452" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zI4oaU_dUuU/UWMApX3fK2I/AAAAAAAADC4/io_8xfMig2Q/s1600/Zinc.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-zI4oaU_dUuU/UWMApX3fK2I/AAAAAAAADC4/io_8xfMig2Q/s640/Zinc.jpg" width="456" /></a></div>
<br />bobbihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11121784054534145914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-52912384210511343882013-01-25T20:20:00.000-07:002013-01-25T20:20:02.632-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jkGjYyNvbPo/UQNLCdhntVI/AAAAAAAAAL0/92bWWWI5KaU/s1600/photo+(48).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-jkGjYyNvbPo/UQNLCdhntVI/AAAAAAAAAL0/92bWWWI5KaU/s640/photo+(48).jpg" width="478" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-10210946021720360022013-01-19T14:15:00.001-07:002013-01-19T14:15:41.940-07:00Screaming Like Kids Do
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He's
trying to read this damn book Talia gave him, but the plot is like a
maze and he's lost. Every story is interrupted and another one starts
and they never seem to resolve until later when the conflict and the
people involved aren't even the same anymore because time has passed
and everything's different now. It's giving him a headache. He does
some exercise, trying to keep it up, at least daily, for the first
time in his life, and once the smell of his sweat is palpable, once
it outweighs the incense he burned this morning, he sits down on the
couch and picks the book up and tries again, his heart pounding. But
he can't concentrate. Now there are kids outside playing and
screaming like kids do. He keeps getting up and looking out the
window, making sure things are okay, because sometimes it sounds
serious, but it's always just kids playing. He keeps at the book.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
plot that's been happening for a while (and will therefore soon fade
away) is kind of disturbing. From what he can gather it involves a
brother and sister who, separated as infants, meet again and fall in
love, not knowing of course that they're related. They've been dating
a few months and are even thinking about moving in together when,
through some weird coincidence involving a letter from someone he
can't figure out, either because they were introduced a long time ago
and he's forgotten or they haven't been introduced at all, the girl
gets the idea that she has a long lost brother. What she doesn't know
is that her lover/brother also received the letter, saying he has a
long lost sister. This stirs up strange emotions in both of them, and
so neither brings it up to the other., but instead goes about trying
to find this long lost sibling.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
There
are many trials involved, but eventually—and at about the same
time, of course—they both find out, separately, through some
genealogy records or something, that their significant other is, in
fact, their sibling. Both are disgusted with themselves, but out of
love they continue their relationship, consumed with guilt and shame
and even desire.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Weeks
pass and their relationship seems to strengthen. They begin plans to
move in together, and even pick out an apartment. They've slowly let
go of some of the self-hatred, and each has in some sense
rationalized their decision with the love they felt not only
beforehand but now, a love that seems to build every day, and
sometimes they're even able to forget for a moment their horrible
secret, and laugh together like they used to. Shortly before the
move-in date, while packing, one of them—it never says which—finds
the letter from the genealogy website addressed to the other, and
they realize that they've both been in the know for months now. For
some unknown reason, the knowledge of the complicity in the other
brings about such an extreme disgust, that the one immediately calls
the other on their phone and ends the relationship, barely able to
contain the feelings of revulsion. The story cuts off here, providing
no additional satisfaction to the reader. The point has, he guesses,
already been made, and now something else is happening.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The
kids outside are screaming again, louder this time, and Donald sets
the book down, annoyed, and looks through the blinds outside. The
children are running in every direction. Two men are fighting in the
street while two women look on screaming. He can't tell if they're
trying to break up or encourage the fight, but it doesn't matter.
Barefoot, he runs outside, shutting the door behind him.</div>
james granatowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06738623957460850599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-77520491291612101542012-12-02T09:55:00.000-07:002012-12-02T09:55:40.149-07:00All Together Now<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F3bkiL52POs/ULuGOjbwK6I/AAAAAAAAC_E/79EoXEmTvjE/s1600/Jaw+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-F3bkiL52POs/ULuGOjbwK6I/AAAAAAAAC_E/79EoXEmTvjE/s200/Jaw+web.jpg" width="155" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O6EnjVcd3WE/ULuGLtTyT7I/AAAAAAAAC-0/C3pHSF-f-B0/s1600/Bony+Fish+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-O6EnjVcd3WE/ULuGLtTyT7I/AAAAAAAAC-0/C3pHSF-f-B0/s200/Bony+Fish+web.jpg" width="155" /></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DtlCjl40IZM/ULuGNRqFXPI/AAAAAAAAC-8/jsAXffcA5Zs/s1600/Fishing+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-DtlCjl40IZM/ULuGNRqFXPI/AAAAAAAAC-8/jsAXffcA5Zs/s200/Fishing+web.jpg" width="156" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H3HovsROYkE/ULuGQUOFZxI/AAAAAAAAC_M/eg-U8QDZGZw/s1600/Mason+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-H3HovsROYkE/ULuGQUOFZxI/AAAAAAAAC_M/eg-U8QDZGZw/s200/Mason+web.jpg" width="157" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WiV5Q6mQ0WY/ULuGTdDQOYI/AAAAAAAAC_c/ln9LXowEHTc/s1600/Vegas+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-WiV5Q6mQ0WY/ULuGTdDQOYI/AAAAAAAAC_c/ln9LXowEHTc/s200/Vegas+web.jpg" width="154" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-43B2AXU0yhQ/ULuGRtvJF6I/AAAAAAAAC_U/UhUYpf4pw58/s1600/Places+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-43B2AXU0yhQ/ULuGRtvJF6I/AAAAAAAAC_U/UhUYpf4pw58/s200/Places+web.jpg" width="157" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
bobbihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11121784054534145914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-29224793242039299472012-11-15T12:28:00.001-07:002012-11-15T12:28:20.185-07:00This is His Job
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Just
before noon Donald changes into the uncomfortable suit (it's too
tight) and black dress shoes. Checks his reflection in the cabin
bathroom and makes his way to the boarding area, where there's a long
line already formed, throngs of tourists backed up in sunglasses and
hats, families and couples and big groups of schoolchildren of all
ages. He fixes his smile and maintains it as they board, all
ninety-six of them. The fog is mostly gone by now, lucky for them,
the customers. Once they get their sodas, their popcorn, their
memorabilia, their seats, and with the boat departed, he begins:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Good
afternoon, everyone, how are we doing today? (pause for response) Welcome
aboard the Sea Otter, one of the many ships owned by the Silver and
Gold Fleet based here in the beautiful Bay Area. My name is Donald,
though Don is fine too, and I'll be your audio guide today for the
duration of the trip. I was born right here in the Golden Gate City
thirty-five years ago, and nothing nor no one can convince me to
leave, so don't waste your time (pause for laughs). By the end of
this trip, I'm sure you'll see why that is. We've got a lovely trip
ahead of us today, and that Bay Area fog you've heard so much about
seems to be finally giving us a break. We're going to be here on the
Sea Otter for just over two hours this afternoon, so please take
advantage of the restrooms located on the lower deck, and feel free
to stand and stretch your legs if needed. If you'd like to remain
standing during the trip, we ask that you please make your way to the
boat's rear on the lower deck, where there is ample standing room for
those interested.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> “As
of noon it's exactly seventy degrees in the Bay Area, with only a ten
percent chance of rain, lucky for you (pause for laughs). If you have
any additional questions or concerns not covered by myself, feel free
to flag down any Sea Otter employee at any time. You can identify us
by our Silver and Gold hats. In the event of an emergency we ask that
you please remain calm and orderly. Below each seat you will find
flotation devices that can be applied by placing your head through
the center hole here, and after adjusting to fit your chest, buckled
with the clasps on each side. There are emergency rafts to the Sea
Otter's rear on both sides. But I wouldn't worry folks, in twenty
years of business the Silver and Gold Fleet hasn't had a single
accident, and we're not gonna start now.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“One
more reminder: drinks, including soda, sparkling and mineral water,
and even beer can be purchased in the lower deck's concession area,
along with snacks like salted pretzels, hot dogs while they last,
candy and candy bars, popcorn, and much more. With that being said,
allow the Silver and Gold Fleet to thank you once again for choosing
us, as well as the staff of the Sea Otter. Now, let's get started,
folks.”</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
tells the history of San Francisco, of Alcatraz, the bridges, the
earthquakes, the sports teams. He mentioned the hippies of the city
and the Berkeley sixties and Oakland with it's long-gone Black
Panthers. He speaks of the weather, the fog and winter rain and
summer droughts. The cable cars and BART and the Pyramid building and
Treasure Island. He mentions the big players, the companies, the
famous celebrities and, briefly, a couple tragedies. Every emotion,
carefully written, carefully delivered in radio personality eloquence
and timing, are covered. Thousands of photos are taken, including—as
usual—a few of Donald with his big silly nice guy grin. Still, some
children keep their distance. After dropping them off, they pick up
more and he does it again. And then again.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Then
he goes home and watches TV and falls asleep. This is his job and
these are his days.</div>
james granatowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06738623957460850599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-72568832474217642672012-10-19T16:44:00.000-07:002012-12-02T09:55:24.320-07:00Animals<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DUd5Gvjng2s/UIHlQw_t0TI/AAAAAAAAC-k/hQQ0E6q8Ll0/s1600/animals+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DUd5Gvjng2s/UIHlQw_t0TI/AAAAAAAAC-k/hQQ0E6q8Ll0/s640/animals+web.jpg" width="496" /></a></div>
<br />bobbihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11121784054534145914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-52187560441968157842012-09-11T01:45:00.000-07:002012-09-11T01:45:29.067-07:00If We Went on Forever
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He doesn't want to
spend money so he goes back home and cleans up, starts doing some
laundry, that kind of stuff. He's too fast though, too organized, and
it doesn't take long. There's not much. In every relationship he's
been in he's the clean one, the tidy one. Girls have too many
clothes, shoes, too much makeup, accessories, toiletries, vegetables
and spices and snacks and magazines. Girls have gum wrappers and
purses and trunks filled with pieces of paper that remind them of
someone or something that happened some time ago, and these trunks
and purses grow and grow until they're too heavy to move, and then
the girls sit in front of them for hours with grey sunsets filling
the window behind them, the lid of the trunk open, inspecting pieces
of paper with a strange half-smile, and separating the different
colored scraps into huge piles of importance and one small pile of
trash, that they sift through at least twice before removing to a bin
outside. If we went on forever, there'd be storage sheds of these
memories.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Gunshots outside,
three or four, though it's a few blocks away. He sits on the couch
and surveys the cleanliness, inhales the fresh pine scented air. He
tries not to look at the clock. All the motion has lifted dust
particles into the air, which are moving every direction through the
window light. What of those moving upward? How do they do it?</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He peeks through
the blinds; a police car is leaving the street, heading toward the
sounds. The neighbor upstairs is moving furniture. He needs to leave
the house.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's not a house,
it's an apartment.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Grabs a light
jacket and gets out. It's cooled down, feels good. Walks up the
street, gets food, eats it.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A woman comes up
the sidewalk, dragging a leg. He can't tell if it's put on, but
before she's there he's taken out a dollar she accepts with a God
Bless and keeps moving on, crossing the street in the distance and
holding up the cars, several of which honk, and soon she's faded from
view. He's still sipping his soda from the food truck, sitting in
their plastic chairs along the road, tonguing some piece of taco
between his teeth.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He walks back home,
kicking at pieces of trash, and after some TV on the couch his day
off is over.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
* </div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Up early because he
fell asleep early, and it's nice to have some time to get his head
together before he has to leave for work. Showers and then turns on
the radio news while he shaves. There's an argument going on, about
politics, but he can't follow it exactly, something to do with
whether or not some senator's remarks about the President were
unfair, and if this sort of “nasty behavior” should be allowed in
our political arena, especially when televised. “You're missing the
point,” says one man, “It's not just an issue of disrespect, or
bad behavior. We have to consider the message this sort of conduct is
sending not only to other politicians but to the American people
themselves. If the people that represent us, that we look up to,
speak this way, why shouldn't we? That's what I'm primarily concerned
about here; their accountability as role models.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I'm not
downplaying your concern on this angle,” says another man. “It's
valid. But it goes hand-in-hand with what I'm saying, which I believe
is far more significant, and that is whether or not the critique is
true. All this talk of conduct is important, to some degree, but we
can't let it obstruct our ability to see the bigger picture of the
Senator's claim: <i>is</i> the President lying about his past
relationships? And does this “divorce issue” imply a morally
defunct commander in chief? That's the real pressing moral issue
here, as far as I can see.”</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The bus is
relatively full, given the hour. He finds a clean seat near the back,
above what must be the motor or something, because it's warmer than
elsewhere. He likes the bus more than the train, especially during
the morning, when it goes over the bridge and he can see the outline
of the city in the early light. It's beautiful. It's hopeful and
exciting and could be anything when you get there, though it never
is. For the most part it's just like home, never better or worse. The
skyline sure is beautiful, though.</div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
From this bus he
takes another bus, on which he has to stand, since the city is awake
now and it's crowded. He doesn't mind too much, though. The morning
crowded is different than the late night crowded. No one's drunk, no
one's yelling. There's no vomit or piss or blood, no danger. The late
night buses can be <i>bad</i><span style="font-style: normal;">, and
it's the real reason he keeps in shape. Health comes secondary. He
feels bad for the skinny guys and mostly for the girls, though
sometimes a young guy will see a bit of softness in his eyes and try
to provoke him anyway. He lets them win, lets them feel big or
whatever they need to feel. He knows not to start trouble on public
transportation. Chance is he'll get arrested too, regardless of who
said/did what. He's seen it happen.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Gets
off and walks the last few blocks to the pier, then up it to the
boat. It's colder out on the water, with the fog and all, which is
usually thick in the morning, lifts during the afternoon, disappears
altogether by sunset, and collects again overnight. Repeat. Repeat.
It's only just ten, so he gets a coffee from the dining room and
reads parts of one of the free weekly papers. The main story is about
a farm nearby where they kill animals. Last week, someone burned
their office down, and with the help of the wind it spread and burned
down some other things too. No one got hurt, thank God, but it caused
quite a buzz, especially when they caught the girl they think did it,
a pretty twenty-five year old wrapping up her PhD in something
environmental. Some people called her a terrorist and the paper's
wondering if that's true or not. After a bit he checks his watch
again and it's showtime, as they say.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
He
starts out the shift in the cabin's sound-room, where he checks the
current weather report and tests the microphone, walking out onto the
far end of the deck and testing the remote he uses to balance the
volume. Both seem fine, but he puts an extra set of batteries in his
pocket, just in case.</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> Back
in the cabin he checks the day's schedule. Two tours for sure, at
noon and three, with a possible six if he wants the overtime, which
he does. With Jon on unpaid paternity leave he's the only guide, so
not only is the six o’clock completely up to him, but if he keeps
this shit up they'll </span><i> have </i><span style="font-style: normal;">to
give him a raise, or make him a senior guide. The drawback is a lot
of hours pacing back and forth, telling the same story over and over,
a story he can't care about anymore, a story that has nothing to do
with him, or anyone like him. He his him. Calls the main office,
tells Carrie to tell Bill he'll do the six. “Don't know how you do
it,” says Carrie, and he can feel her shaking her head that way she
does. He likes Carrie. She's a lot like him.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; line-height: 100%; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“I
do it for the money,” says Donald, and he hangs up to finish his
tasks.</div>
james granatowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06738623957460850599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-77859388512477626982012-09-05T16:41:00.001-07:002012-09-05T16:41:27.151-07:00Predators<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T1LPqk5suDs/UEfi-FBietI/AAAAAAAAC-E/fCxvQIRBkCE/s1600/Predators+web.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-T1LPqk5suDs/UEfi-FBietI/AAAAAAAAC-E/fCxvQIRBkCE/s320/Predators+web.jpg" width="251" /></a></div>
<br />bobbihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11121784054534145914noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-83224031679146533682012-08-28T16:02:00.001-07:002012-08-28T16:02:13.519-07:00untitledinside you<br />
a lone you<br />
<br />
you're<br />
that kind<br />
of guy<br />
in your<br />
sleep<br />
<br />
before i <br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-79142394145947768092012-08-15T19:23:00.002-07:002012-08-15T19:27:24.419-07:00photos<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And there's a
picture of you shooting a gun, and another of you eating ham and
cheese and another of you posing with your brother and sister. And
then there's another of you posing with your mother and you look sort
of sad because it's just you and her and you never had any brothers
and sisters and dad left a long time ago. And there's another picture
of you panting and breathing and dripping by the lake. Your
hair's wet. There's one of you looking offended, which is shocking,
since you're so educated. There are lots of you pretending you're not
being photographed, and some where you definitely had no idea. You
look possessed in this one, beautiful in that one. Here's one of you
nude, your breasts sagging, your penis small and blue from the cold
(it was your idea to pose in the snow). You crouched over a desk. You
putting on make-up. You riding a bike. Your eyes in the review
mirror, the angle and light and all that somehow superimposing your
mouth on your forehead. None of you crying, because I wouldn't do
that. Your thumb jutted in accidentally next to the Grand Canyon.
Your dog that died, whose name I feel guilty for having forgotten.</div>
james granatowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06738623957460850599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-84549544504992176772012-07-18T16:57:00.000-07:002012-07-18T16:57:21.760-07:00forestingcome up to<br />
just chip away<br />
down to<br />
more<br />
<br />
to this<br />
way of knowing<br />
any<br />
between those two<br />
and a very quiet<br />
<br />
if i did<br />
if i did i'd like to wear a mask<br />
yes yes<br />
<br />
how still but being<br />
so here at now<br />
a dark place<br />
sometimes<br />
<br />
i'll start first by sharing my feelings<br />
<br />
too windy to<br />
light them all<br />
i am now immune to it<br />
<br />
i stepped outside that circle<br />
until it was time to see somebody <br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-76835747863048690822012-07-09T12:23:00.002-07:002012-07-11T11:24:00.271-07:00Nothing Doing<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Up then out then down the streets and
over the bridge then around the coast then down the pier and onto the
boat. Then into the cabin then down the upper aisle then into the
cabin then down the lower aisle then into the cabin and down the
upper aisle then into the cabin then down the lower aisle. Then into
the cabin. Then down the lower aisle and onto the peer then down the
pier then around the coast then under the bridge and through the
streets then in then down.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Down he watches TV beat. Feet up on
the couch's broken arm and hot bowl placed on chest and before it's
finished he's asleep. Pain the next day from having slept so poorly,
in back and neck, feet cold because he forgot a blanket and left them
propped all night, the blood pooling somewhere down near his ass he
guesses. His toes, which he tries to move, move poorly from lack of
circulation, like hands cold. Hands cold from holding a cold beer in
the cold night on a cold rock above where he goes sometimes to look
at the lights below, and on days off he—only he—can even see the
boats, their triage of red lights so faint in the nightly fog. It's
hard, it is, to think of himself down in that boat, on a work night,
standing there telling the same story three times, always having to
act it out, the highs and lows, to get the laughs and sighs. Many
more laughs than sighs, of course. It's hard to think about because
he's way up here, on this cold rock, drinking this cold beer, trying
to light a cigarette but the circulation's gone out of his thumb so
bad he can hardly click the lighter, each stroke a struggle like some
physical therapy session.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It sure is cold. The wind blows up
here unlike down there and he always forgets it. Always thinks a
light jacket will be fine. But he doesn't have it as bad as the
couple on the date here for the first time, the guy giving his
obligatory jacket but it's not much use when she's got that skirt and
those high heels on, her painted toes sticking out, looking sad and
pale in the city glow moonlight. At least he's not her; he's got his
thin jacket and button up and black denim jeans and boots, always
boots, since back when he was a kid.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
But now, right now, he's getting off
the couch and he's got the whole day ahead of him. Maybe he'll go to
the rock tonight after all, ain't got no plans, and he'll be sure to
bring a jacket. He him his. But for now, right now, he's got to eat,
and so he dresses and brushes his teeth.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Outside it's sunny-cold, not uncommon.
It's early because he slept so early. Not the first up though,
already there are some about staggering and pushing carts of cans, so
loud he's surprised others are sleeping. Nods at one and continues up
the block, his block, feeling okay, feeling feeling in the toes
again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The whole day off. Only one this week.
He eats eggs and bacon and potatoes with syrup on all but no pancakes
or waffles or nothing like that, which he is why after the waitress
brings his food he gets a strange look asking for that syrup, and she
walks off not angry but more likely tired. She has a tattoo on her
arm, a face and under it there are two years with a dash between
them. He does the math: twenty years. Before breakfast is over he's
thinking about the rock again, about being up there, but he should be
down here, figuring out today, so he opens a paper someone left on
the table nearby and, drinking his coffee, tries to read the news,
but it's not news, because none of it is new to him, just different.
He tries to care, he does, he feels guilty too, but like with school
he didn't pay attention in the beginning and now the middles and ends
don't make much sense. But he likes how he imagines he looks, holding
the paper wide like that, and likes that the waitress, his waitress,
with the tattoo, can see him doing it.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
There's no rush, so he gets another
coffee. Free anyway, why not? How often is something free? Pretends
to read the paper and tries to listen to other conversations. Those
are free, too, but since they're free they're either too quiet or
uninteresting, so he looks for the comics which aren't there. The
waitress is reading them, drinking her own coffee because it's slow
because it's still so early. He wonders how much coffee she drinks a
day. Three cups is his limit, or else he gets shaky, nervous, even
depressed. Three tops.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>james granatowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06738623957460850599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-10789953868009747212012-05-09T17:57:00.001-07:002012-05-09T17:58:47.752-07:00for the long ride home<br />
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
stepping
my foot in,</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
out in stores now</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
their
parts glowing red together—</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
in a vehicle of sort, ineffectual,</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
pulling over on the shoulder</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
&
relishing that belief to be</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
feeling
her belly
</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
(the
one who prays “it's not greed” founded</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
on those desires) they</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
all
come out grabbing her belly</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
to work w/ the planet like some</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
w/ a
continual (warm) feeling—</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
the
night was deep w/ which</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
they sat up all night playing in it</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
w/ out
being an asshole like</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
“look
at this cute look on my face”</div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-14606438368820005462012-04-16T20:35:00.000-07:002012-05-06T15:42:25.986-07:00Fantasy<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
He's in a strange mood because he
watched a strange movie, and when he sees her walking down the street
he also sees her in his mind, and they meet by accident while walking
down this very same street, and she looks how she looks now, because
this is the only time he's seen her.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
They start out talking about something
like. . . . No, they start with a smile. That makes sense, and maybe
a quick hi, or a nod. And after a couple steps she says <i>hey</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
and he turns around and she's standing there staring at him, and then
she asks him a question—this is always the hardest part—about
something. . . . something like. . . . directions! Yeah. And she
comes closer to him and they're looking in each others eyes and it
turns out that what she's looking for is where he's going, a bar, and
they walk to the bar together, and he sees this, while he's walking
to the bar.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> He
orders a drink and sits at a dark booth near the back and he can
still see her face and he sees her order a drink too and she comes
and sits beside him. Her friend isn't here yet, and so they talk for
a while but her friend never shows and then he/they are stumbling
back to his place, and it's late, and her face is getting blurrier
and blurrier until he/they is/are home, where they sit on the red
couch in the dim light and have another drink. They don't talk during
this drink, her breasts are what he's seeing most, and it doesn't
take long but it's good and then he's done, on his back, fist
clenched tight with fluid still warm. He falls asleep but wakes after
only an hour and he sees her again, her face hidden by the darkness,
only the obvious characteristics remaining now, the hair and the
general shape of her face and of course her breasts. She looks
worried because, well, she thinks she might be pregnant.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> And
it turns out she is so they get married, right away, and it's
exciting because they're so young and could've never expected this,
this coming together from nothing and now soon there will be life.
They're scared too, of course, because they're so young and could've
never expected this, this coming together from nothing and now soon
there will be life.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> And
it happens, like they expected and they raise the child well and they
stay together until she's old enough and then they break apart,
violently, when she's gone to college and there's nothing to hold
them together anymore. And he thinks back on how he bumped into her
when she was looking for the same place he was going to and they had
those drinks. He thinks about the girl he was seeing then, a
different girl with a different future they would've had together
that never happened because he was drunk and though he now loves his
daughter immensely he can't help but wonder. He thinks about how he
thought about this other girl many times over the years, wondering
where she was, and one day hearing she too was married and she too
was pregnant. It was hard to think of her as a mother but he somehow
knew she'd be good at it, and he could imagine her staring at her own
baby with her large soft eyes, so brown, and sometimes it made his
chest hurt thinking about it and sometimes he cried.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> He
imagines what it would be like to go to her now, the other girl, and
to apologize and take her back because she'd have him back and they'd
move in together and get married like they should've so many years
ago, and their kids would be best friends, sisters, and even his
ex-wife would meet someone, her face so blurry now, and even she'd be
happy like he couldn't make her because it wasn't meant to be, was an
accident that he watched that strange movie and was in that strange
mood and saw her walking down that street so long ago.</span></div>james granatowskihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06738623957460850599noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4354612996885253561.post-71237451717134408602012-03-18T13:48:00.013-07:002012-04-10T15:19:20.962-07:00I watched a man eat a tunnelI watched a man eat a tunnel.<br />His underwear sagged,<br />Nostrils sang songs about<br />What it was.<br />What was it?<br />Was it?!<br /><br />I had forgot that when<br />Horses get impaled little<br />Girls eat arms from a<br />Worn coat. Elbow patches<br />Dripping from their mouths,<br /><br />She looked like James Joyce in that kangol hat.<br />I didn't know what it was called until right now.<br />Shirt tucked, patterned in squares, pants tight,<br />Body slimmed from all the exercise of her mouth.<br /><br />He fell in love, but know she's grown,<br />Developed, dispatched women from grief,<br />And I saw her once.<br />Gave her a good impression, know that was a<br />Lie. I'm not good. I'm not the crab scuttling,<br />But she'll never connect the cable, and I'll<br />Keep up the lies until she forgets, assuming<br />She cared enough to remember.<br /><br />Massive wheeled boxes skid<br />Into the blank cylinders<br />Left by the nostrils<br />That sang above<br />Saggy briefs.<br /><br />He poured that black sap<br />Onto the sidewalk.<br />The colt hollowed,<br />Aged women watched as<br />I lied about what<br />I saw. It couldn't<br />Be helped.<br /><br />Claws on coral,<br />Androgyny, and<br />Knowing knowledge<br />Is hopeless.S. E. Thatcherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00228537420683647869noreply@blogger.com2