The van was getting that road trip stink: unwashed bodies, peanut butter sandwiches, crushed crackers, spilled soda, Boyd hated to think what was growing underneath the seats. The kids were singing that stupid song for the thousandth time and the trip had barely started. Another day and a half of this and Margie would be back in charge, she knew how to settle them down, get them studying in their rooms while she and Boyd had their own reunion, grownups time, he could make it that long. He pulled up to the pump and hopped down to fill up the tank, popped his head back into the van to call back, "Okay, nobody get out, I'm just getting gas, we'll stop for dinner in about an hour," before padding around the back to unhook the nozzle, shove it home.
Boyd saw his reflection in the window, hair sticking up, wrinkled shirt, puffy eyes. He thought about Margie, her skin under his hand, her round bottom, belly tight with pregnancy, another person moving around in there, Boyd on the outside pressing his hand against the creature inside, pressing back, Margie one of those women who got bigger and brighter when pregnant, like the kid's personality got added to hers for nine months, or something.
"Everybody here?" Boyd fell into the driver's seat with the automatic question, "count off," and started the engine while they counted, "One. Stop it, Jared!" "Two," piping up from under a towel, "Three," "I'm not touching you I'm not touching you I'm not..." "Four," "Da-ad, make him stop," "Five. Shutup, twerp."
Five. It stopped at five. Boyd killed the engine and threw an arm over the seat to look into the back.
"Okay, who's missing?"
"Not me," said a sleepy voice, followed by a chorus of giggles and "not me"s.
"Very funny. Okay, I see Darryl, Ashley, Jared, Brianna, Andrew. Wait, that's only five. Who'm I forgetting?"
"That's all of us, Dad," yawned Darryl.
"Yeah right." Boyd sighed and grabbed at his hair. Margie would freak. No, she'd be rational about this, if she were here. "Count off again."
"One." "Two, I'm two." "Three." "Four."
A Mercedes waiting behind them honked. Boyd poked his head out the window and waved him to another pump, then got out of his seat so he could face the back of the van square, crouching between the two front seats.
"This is not the time to play tricks on Dad. Okay? Okay. I see Darryl, Jared, Brianna, Andrew." No, this is wrong this is wrong this is wrong. There were five a minute ago. Why can't he remember the fifth one's name?
"I swear dumbhead, if you poke me one more time..."
"Don't call your brother dumb, Andrew." Boyd rubbed his eyes. None of the doors to the van had opened while they were sitting there, the others had to be here somewhere. "Look under the blankets, maybe someone's asleep under there."
"Ow, hey..."
"Leave your sister alone, Jared," Boyd was losing it. There was Jared, there was Brianna, there was Andrew. That was only three. Oh Jesus, oh Jesus God help me now. What was the name of the missing one? How could he forget his own kid's name? He wasn't even sure if it was boy or a girl.
"Look, look, sit still, for just one minute!"
The kids stopped wrestling for a second and looked up at him. Jared and Andrew. His sons. He thought there were more than two, but he wasn't sure now.
"Goddamnit, you come sit up here next to me okay?"
The Mercedes honked again, and Boyd saw, out the back window, the driver flip him off. "Yeah, fuck you too," he muttered, still holding on to Jared's arm, Jared, his son Jared, Boyd looked at him, this kid staring back at him, and kind of laughing, and there was a pop, an actual - pop - and Boyd was holding nothing.
Boyd lurched forward, crouched awkwardly, and felt the van dip with his movement. It was empty, Boyd the only one here. He knew something was missing, something important, he felt sick deep in his stomach like he'd fucked up something big, but he couldn't, couldn't bring it into his head.
He turned to look out the front windshield then sat in the driver's seat, looking out, down the road that ran past the gas station. Where am I going, wondered Boyd.
Sunday, July 17, 2005
Friday, July 15, 2005
What's it doing way over there?
My expectations for medical tests have been lowered in recent months. Once upon a time, I would walk into the ultrasound room with an idea that the technician would turn on the machine, point her wand at me and exclaim, "Well, there's your problem!" and turn the monitor so I can clearly see a tiny demon hammering away at my gut with a pickaxe. He would peer over his shoulder at me and grin maliciously before taking a hefty swing.
"Wipe that smug grin off his face," I would announce, standing on the bed in my paper gown, shaking my fist at the monitor, "Vaporize the bastard!"
Too many times, though, the tech would prod me and gaze glumly at the monitor, clicking her mouse to bracket off bits of sludge from other bits of sludge, muttering to herself, "hmm...that could be...but I don't know..." like she was reading tea leaves. Any questions I asked would be answered with "You'll have to ask your doctor," or even a weary gesture toward the printed sign that scolded any patients who might expect answers from the technician.
Today, however, was different.
Ron the technician has a soft lamp set up in the lab, and a mobile of whales overhead, but I'm much more interested in that grainy gray sludge moving around on the monitor. He's prodding at me with the wand, when suddenly those beautiful words are spoken:
"Well, that's what's causing your problem. And it's a big 'un, too. Look at that!"
And I do, and yup, there it is. No demon, but...something. That's definitely a...thing.
"But what's it doing way over there?" adds Ron.
You got me there, Ron.
"Wipe that smug grin off his face," I would announce, standing on the bed in my paper gown, shaking my fist at the monitor, "Vaporize the bastard!"
Too many times, though, the tech would prod me and gaze glumly at the monitor, clicking her mouse to bracket off bits of sludge from other bits of sludge, muttering to herself, "hmm...that could be...but I don't know..." like she was reading tea leaves. Any questions I asked would be answered with "You'll have to ask your doctor," or even a weary gesture toward the printed sign that scolded any patients who might expect answers from the technician.
Today, however, was different.
Ron the technician has a soft lamp set up in the lab, and a mobile of whales overhead, but I'm much more interested in that grainy gray sludge moving around on the monitor. He's prodding at me with the wand, when suddenly those beautiful words are spoken:
"Well, that's what's causing your problem. And it's a big 'un, too. Look at that!"
And I do, and yup, there it is. No demon, but...something. That's definitely a...thing.
"But what's it doing way over there?" adds Ron.
You got me there, Ron.
Thursday, July 14, 2005
Meat suit
Been spending too much time in medical complexes, not enough time on the bus lately, gotten tardy in my posting. Strange how the whole howling world wants to focus down to a single point when the animal envelope - the meat suit I put on every morning at the end of dreamtime wandering - malfunctions.
Tomorrow I get to spend a day inside darkened rooms, dully illuminated by glowing displays of my innards, breathing and seething and going about their innardly business, charcoal-edged light glinting off shining surfaces.
Yesterday I sat in a hard plastic chair on Institutional Green carpet, not enough to hide the unspeakable stain of something liquid splashed under my feet. A woman stands behind a little podium and calls names, a ninety-year-old woman in a wheelchair and her fatuous seventy-year-old daughter, "Joyce called me a pistol today. A pistol! Well, I guess I do have a sort of energy, you know, I think people are attray-acted to something like that..." I could just about hear the old woman's eyes rolling around in her head at her idiot-child, her own comments dry and and spare.
Another plastic chair in another waiting room, an hour earlier. A giant man, massive head, thick lips, Central European accent, also in a wheelchair, and dark blue hospital jammies. "Not a milyon dollarss - a milyon dollarss over twenty yearss, not like you have it all right now."
"...but it's good to have money when you need it, for healt' reasons, or whadever," his mantis wife leans forward reaching one emaciated arm out to lay a hand on her husband's knee. Sitting next to her is a young woman in scrubs, Our Daughter the Doctor, smoothing the way for Daddy in this trying time.
"But the house, beaudiful things, I have a wife who likes fine things, I work hard all my life to give her those things, it makes me happy, people come to the house, they can' believe the beaudiful things..."
Different chair, in the hall this time, earlier yet in the day, reception area renovation, plastic sheeting, dot-matrix printed signs directing patients back through a dark inner hallway, receptionist squeezed in behind her desk, edging out past patients in line to use the copier, laughter bubbling out from behind the door of the break room.
It's too quiet, everyone too submerged in their own broken-down meat suits, no-one meets your eyes, no-one talks, except to their own family, to the receptionist, the nurses, only to say help me, help me.
I'll be back on the bus soon.
Tomorrow I get to spend a day inside darkened rooms, dully illuminated by glowing displays of my innards, breathing and seething and going about their innardly business, charcoal-edged light glinting off shining surfaces.
Yesterday I sat in a hard plastic chair on Institutional Green carpet, not enough to hide the unspeakable stain of something liquid splashed under my feet. A woman stands behind a little podium and calls names, a ninety-year-old woman in a wheelchair and her fatuous seventy-year-old daughter, "Joyce called me a pistol today. A pistol! Well, I guess I do have a sort of energy, you know, I think people are attray-acted to something like that..." I could just about hear the old woman's eyes rolling around in her head at her idiot-child, her own comments dry and and spare.
Another plastic chair in another waiting room, an hour earlier. A giant man, massive head, thick lips, Central European accent, also in a wheelchair, and dark blue hospital jammies. "Not a milyon dollarss - a milyon dollarss over twenty yearss, not like you have it all right now."
"...but it's good to have money when you need it, for healt' reasons, or whadever," his mantis wife leans forward reaching one emaciated arm out to lay a hand on her husband's knee. Sitting next to her is a young woman in scrubs, Our Daughter the Doctor, smoothing the way for Daddy in this trying time.
"But the house, beaudiful things, I have a wife who likes fine things, I work hard all my life to give her those things, it makes me happy, people come to the house, they can' believe the beaudiful things..."
Different chair, in the hall this time, earlier yet in the day, reception area renovation, plastic sheeting, dot-matrix printed signs directing patients back through a dark inner hallway, receptionist squeezed in behind her desk, edging out past patients in line to use the copier, laughter bubbling out from behind the door of the break room.
It's too quiet, everyone too submerged in their own broken-down meat suits, no-one meets your eyes, no-one talks, except to their own family, to the receptionist, the nurses, only to say help me, help me.
I'll be back on the bus soon.
Sunday, July 03, 2005
The pigs
(Just one more and I will finally let this go. I think.)
Sharon rummaged in the closet for her sweater, the pink one with the wide neckline, it showed off her collarbones. Gary was taking her out for dinner, first night home after visiting her parents in Wisconsin, clothes all jumbled around, suitcase hanging open like a mouth on the bed, earrings brushing against her neck.
"...it took 'em days to get the whole thing cleaned up, and the stink, baby, was un-fucking-believable."
"-what?" Sharon pulled her head out of the closet to look at Gary, in his boxer shorts, standing in the middle of the room like he'd forgotten what he was doing, blue shirt half-buttoned, one sock on.
"The pigs, you remember I told you about the pigs, I - ?" Gary broke off, and lifted his head to one side, like he could almost hear something, not quite, he pushed his brows together, listening harder.
"Oh yeah," Sharon spotted the pink sweater and yanked it out of the pile, grinning that she didn't disturb the rest of the stack, "the drowned pigs. Weird."
"A-" said Gary.
Sharon was pulling the sweater on over her head when Gary said something else she didn't quite catch, and then she heard another voice, a deeper one, one she didn't recognize, did someone else come in, dear god she's half-naked, skin prickling up she yanks the sweater quick hard down over her head her hair all in her face now and panicking she brushes it out of her eyes someone else is here.
"Who's there?"
Gary is standing right where he was a second before, but now he's half-crouching like he just ducked something that whizzed over his head, eyes open wide.
"Who is it?" Sharon hears her voice whine, can't see anyone but she knows she heard a voice, not Gary's.
"My name is Legion," said Gary, or, Gary moved his mouth in the shape of those words, but like he was dubbed, someone else's voice came out, not someone's, a hundred, a thousand someones, millions, the whole world spoke out of Gary's mouth and Sharon felt the chill crawling up her neck, running on million-insect feet, up into her hairline, Gary still ducking something she couldn't see, eyes big, looking toward the ceiling, like a cartoon he was frozen in his boxer shorts and Sharon knew the universe had shifted and any minute, any minute now the earth would dissolve out from under her feet and she and Gary would fall forever.
Sharon rummaged in the closet for her sweater, the pink one with the wide neckline, it showed off her collarbones. Gary was taking her out for dinner, first night home after visiting her parents in Wisconsin, clothes all jumbled around, suitcase hanging open like a mouth on the bed, earrings brushing against her neck.
"...it took 'em days to get the whole thing cleaned up, and the stink, baby, was un-fucking-believable."
"-what?" Sharon pulled her head out of the closet to look at Gary, in his boxer shorts, standing in the middle of the room like he'd forgotten what he was doing, blue shirt half-buttoned, one sock on.
"The pigs, you remember I told you about the pigs, I - ?" Gary broke off, and lifted his head to one side, like he could almost hear something, not quite, he pushed his brows together, listening harder.
"Oh yeah," Sharon spotted the pink sweater and yanked it out of the pile, grinning that she didn't disturb the rest of the stack, "the drowned pigs. Weird."
"A-" said Gary.
Sharon was pulling the sweater on over her head when Gary said something else she didn't quite catch, and then she heard another voice, a deeper one, one she didn't recognize, did someone else come in, dear god she's half-naked, skin prickling up she yanks the sweater quick hard down over her head her hair all in her face now and panicking she brushes it out of her eyes someone else is here.
"Who's there?"
Gary is standing right where he was a second before, but now he's half-crouching like he just ducked something that whizzed over his head, eyes open wide.
"Who is it?" Sharon hears her voice whine, can't see anyone but she knows she heard a voice, not Gary's.
"My name is Legion," said Gary, or, Gary moved his mouth in the shape of those words, but like he was dubbed, someone else's voice came out, not someone's, a hundred, a thousand someones, millions, the whole world spoke out of Gary's mouth and Sharon felt the chill crawling up her neck, running on million-insect feet, up into her hairline, Gary still ducking something she couldn't see, eyes big, looking toward the ceiling, like a cartoon he was frozen in his boxer shorts and Sharon knew the universe had shifted and any minute, any minute now the earth would dissolve out from under her feet and she and Gary would fall forever.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Demons and swine
Monkey 0's been indulging in a little bible study today, particularly the story of Jesus casting devils into swine.
Which is kind of funny, because I've been thinking about the story, too. And so I had to dig out a somewhat different version I recently came across, which I excerpt for you here:
Courtesy of José Saramago, The Gospel According to Jesus Christ, excerpted and italics added by me.
Note: when I mentioned to Mr. Billy how Monkey 0 got me rolling on this particular subject, he said, "If all your writer friends wrote about jumping off a cliff, would you write about jumping off a cliff, too?"
Well, if it was interesting, I would.
Which is kind of funny, because I've been thinking about the story, too. And so I had to dig out a somewhat different version I recently came across, which I excerpt for you here:
He asked the spirit, What is your name, and the spirit answered, Legion, for we are many. In commanding tones, Jesus said, Leave this man, unclean spirit. And no sooner had he spoken than a chorus of infernal voices went up, some reedy and shrill, others deep and hoarse, some as gentle as a woman's, others as harsh as the sound of a saw cutting through stone, some mocking and taunting, others pleading with the humility of paupers, some arrogant, others whining, some prattling like children learning their first words, others crying out like ghosts in distress, but all begging Jesus to allow them to remain, one word from him could drive them from this man's body, For pity's sake, the evil spirits begged, do not expel us. And Jesus asked them, Tell me, then, where do you want to go. Now as it happened, a large herd of pigs was grazing on the slopes of the mountain nearby, and the spirits implored Jesus, Allow us to enter the pigs. [...] In great excitement the evil spirits made bets, awaiting Jesus' reply, and when he said, Yes, giving them permission to pass into the pigs, they cheered in triumph and inhabited the animals instantly. The pigs, either because of the shock of it or because they hated being possessed by demons, went wild and threw themselves over the cliff, all two thousand of them, and into the lake, where they drowned. The wrath of the swineherds tending these innocent animals was indescribable. [...] They ran down the slope to the water's edge, jumped into their boat, and rowing at top speed, were soon out of danger. [...] Some pigs were lost, a soul was saved, the winner is God said James. Jesus looked at him, his thoughts elsewhere, on something the two brothers watching him wished to hear about and discuss, the strange revelation by the demons that Jesus was the son of God, but Jesus turned to the bank from which they had escaped, gazed at the water, the pigs floating and rolling with the waves, two thousand innocent animals, and he felt an uneasiness rising within him, searching for an outlet, until he could no longer contain himself and exclaimed, The demons, where are the demons, and then he sent up a roar of laughter to heaven, Listen Lord, either You chose poorly this son who must carry out Your plans...or there is something missing in Your powers, for otherwise You would be able to defeat the devil. What are you saying, asked John, appalled by this unthinkable challenge, I'm saying that the demons who possessed the man are now free, for demons as we know don't die, my friends, not even God can kill them, and for all the good I did there I might as well have struck the lake with a sword.
Courtesy of José Saramago, The Gospel According to Jesus Christ, excerpted and italics added by me.
Note: when I mentioned to Mr. Billy how Monkey 0 got me rolling on this particular subject, he said, "If all your writer friends wrote about jumping off a cliff, would you write about jumping off a cliff, too?"
Well, if it was interesting, I would.
Sunday, June 26, 2005
Far enough
Sun rising over the desert, Alice stumbles out the employee entrance, the little door in back of Ceasar's Palace, around and out of sight from the moving walkways, the pillars the white tigers the recorded voice-over Willie made must have been, what, ten years ago now.
Jeans and a t-shirt on after a long night, headdress on the rack back in the dressing room, a quick cold-cream wipedown, but you can still see the fading black around her eyes, trace of blue above, last trails of lipstick, blush.
This is the best time of day, the Strip asleep as it gets, desert that washed-out clean white, Alice parks at a friend's motel down the street instead of Ceasar's employee lot, this walk is what matters, she can see straight down the road for miles and all the crazy fantasy-casinos look smaller in the early morning light, the colors evened out, they're not the whole world anymore like it seems at night, just some toys a giant kid dropped in the middle of the clean, bright desert.
Maybe today she won't drive home to the double-wide just yet, maybe turn right out onto the freeway, in only forty-five minutes, maybe less this early, she could be in Valley of Fire, her own private Martian world, pull over to the side of the road, engine kicking before it dies out, she could walk out of the car, door hanging open, keys dangling from the ignition, just walk out into the desert, red rocks piled on either side, walk straight ahead while the sun rises, how far could she get before Randall fought out of his hangover and missed her, how far before someone noticed the car hanging open by the side of the road, before one thing matched the other and people came looking, how far out into the middle of big nowhere, big everywhere, sun hot above and clean dry desert dirt at her feet?
Far enough, thought Alice, maybe just far enough.
Jeans and a t-shirt on after a long night, headdress on the rack back in the dressing room, a quick cold-cream wipedown, but you can still see the fading black around her eyes, trace of blue above, last trails of lipstick, blush.
This is the best time of day, the Strip asleep as it gets, desert that washed-out clean white, Alice parks at a friend's motel down the street instead of Ceasar's employee lot, this walk is what matters, she can see straight down the road for miles and all the crazy fantasy-casinos look smaller in the early morning light, the colors evened out, they're not the whole world anymore like it seems at night, just some toys a giant kid dropped in the middle of the clean, bright desert.
Maybe today she won't drive home to the double-wide just yet, maybe turn right out onto the freeway, in only forty-five minutes, maybe less this early, she could be in Valley of Fire, her own private Martian world, pull over to the side of the road, engine kicking before it dies out, she could walk out of the car, door hanging open, keys dangling from the ignition, just walk out into the desert, red rocks piled on either side, walk straight ahead while the sun rises, how far could she get before Randall fought out of his hangover and missed her, how far before someone noticed the car hanging open by the side of the road, before one thing matched the other and people came looking, how far out into the middle of big nowhere, big everywhere, sun hot above and clean dry desert dirt at her feet?
Far enough, thought Alice, maybe just far enough.
Monday, June 20, 2005
The King of Walgreen's
Walgreen's drugstore on Fillmore Street, where the Fillmore Auditorium and Boom Boom Room crowd splash up against Pacific Heights trust-fund babies and romance-novel millionaires. Where the Joad-faced guy slouches on the real estate news box and murmurs for change, "...spare some change?" not convincing even himself, but keeping at it, a job's a job.
From inside the drugstore, waiting in the checkout line, I see Joad straighten up before the King even comes into view, he lifts himself out of permanent slump, I was never sure he could stand straight but he's taller now than I imagined, and he nods to someone just out of frame, a glint in his eye, something shared, a respect, an understanding, and now at last he appears, the door framing him like a stage, the sun hot behind him, he walks in slowly, majesterially: a tall man with blue-black skin, nose aristocratically smashed flat, a grave countenance, and his crown, red velvet and gold-colored tin, a proper crown, a crown from a storybook, a fairytale crown.
But the man is real enough. And not a laugh, not a giggle, even from the teenage girls cutting school, the way he carries that crown forestalls it; this man belongs in a crown, nobody avoids his eyes like a street-crazy, they look up, into his face, everyone in that store, all of us see him, and lift our heads, the current of his pride carrying us along.
The King of the Fillmore Walgreen's takes it as his due, and goes on about his day.
From inside the drugstore, waiting in the checkout line, I see Joad straighten up before the King even comes into view, he lifts himself out of permanent slump, I was never sure he could stand straight but he's taller now than I imagined, and he nods to someone just out of frame, a glint in his eye, something shared, a respect, an understanding, and now at last he appears, the door framing him like a stage, the sun hot behind him, he walks in slowly, majesterially: a tall man with blue-black skin, nose aristocratically smashed flat, a grave countenance, and his crown, red velvet and gold-colored tin, a proper crown, a crown from a storybook, a fairytale crown.
But the man is real enough. And not a laugh, not a giggle, even from the teenage girls cutting school, the way he carries that crown forestalls it; this man belongs in a crown, nobody avoids his eyes like a street-crazy, they look up, into his face, everyone in that store, all of us see him, and lift our heads, the current of his pride carrying us along.
The King of the Fillmore Walgreen's takes it as his due, and goes on about his day.
Kuhio
(Sunday scratch fiction bleeding over into Monday, now...)
Nothing nothing nothing is better than this, thought Kuhio, shoving home another cartridge and lifting the gun to his shoulder.
There in his sights the other, guy like him, perfect shot in the upright at the end of the muzzle, square frame showing him where the bullets will go, the chute they will ride along, pure and hot to their place. Just wait, wait while the other swings the gun off his back, let him almost bring it round to his shoulder, now, now.
Nobody back home will understand this, working the drive-thru at the Wahi'awa Mickey D's, Kuhio won't be able to talk to them after months in the Sandbox, they can't know, they think it's important who's going with who, who served long rice at the beach, or warm beer, who's gone Mainland, who's going Townside for a night out, none of them can know this, stripped down, everything down to this: gun, bullets, sun. Quick pop and a whole life done, too fast even to notice, not like the movies, not drawn out slo-mo, so quick it's done before you half know it started.
Maybe the old men, he can talk to the old men, and Auntie, who told him never forget he was named for a Prince, he can sit out back and talk story with the old guys, they know from Korea, and Nam, and even some guys, real old ones, were there when Japanese planes came in from Windward, tearing in low over the harbor, they know.
Never forget you were named for a Prince, Kuhio.
A pop, and the guy is on his knees, looking into Kuhio's eyes, he recognizes something, is that a smile? Kuhio wonders when he hears a buzz and his knees stop doing their job, they fold up, he can't help smiling too, he gets the joke, the guy in front and the other, the one he didn't see all share the joke no-one else would get, it isn't his life flashing by, it's this, this Now, this that it all led up to, he was named for a Prince and he is falling, he is a Prince now and always, Auntie would hold her chin up, she would understand, he takes his place, stepping (falling) into the light.
Nothing nothing nothing is better than this, thought Kuhio, shoving home another cartridge and lifting the gun to his shoulder.
There in his sights the other, guy like him, perfect shot in the upright at the end of the muzzle, square frame showing him where the bullets will go, the chute they will ride along, pure and hot to their place. Just wait, wait while the other swings the gun off his back, let him almost bring it round to his shoulder, now, now.
Nobody back home will understand this, working the drive-thru at the Wahi'awa Mickey D's, Kuhio won't be able to talk to them after months in the Sandbox, they can't know, they think it's important who's going with who, who served long rice at the beach, or warm beer, who's gone Mainland, who's going Townside for a night out, none of them can know this, stripped down, everything down to this: gun, bullets, sun. Quick pop and a whole life done, too fast even to notice, not like the movies, not drawn out slo-mo, so quick it's done before you half know it started.
Maybe the old men, he can talk to the old men, and Auntie, who told him never forget he was named for a Prince, he can sit out back and talk story with the old guys, they know from Korea, and Nam, and even some guys, real old ones, were there when Japanese planes came in from Windward, tearing in low over the harbor, they know.
Never forget you were named for a Prince, Kuhio.
A pop, and the guy is on his knees, looking into Kuhio's eyes, he recognizes something, is that a smile? Kuhio wonders when he hears a buzz and his knees stop doing their job, they fold up, he can't help smiling too, he gets the joke, the guy in front and the other, the one he didn't see all share the joke no-one else would get, it isn't his life flashing by, it's this, this Now, this that it all led up to, he was named for a Prince and he is falling, he is a Prince now and always, Auntie would hold her chin up, she would understand, he takes his place, stepping (falling) into the light.
Saturday, June 18, 2005
Fire
I'm dreaming about Imperial Stormtroopers, about sirens, trucks, aliens in firetrucks, sirens, sirens.
Mr. Billy gets up on his knees in bed and gaps the blinds with his fingers, looking out the window. We hear one, two, three, more sirens going around the corner.
"That's smoke," he says.
We get out of bed and walk fast to the living room, not saying anything, pulling open the drapes. Firetrucks and police cars are stopping outside our flat, lights going around, flashing off the buildings. It looks like thick thick fog, but up above, the moon is bright and sharp.
Mr. Billy points. There's a bright orange reflection in a house across the street. One of the houses on our side of the street is all flames. We can't tell if it's two houses away or seven; all of them are connected, an unbroken line to ours.
We're quiet, dressing quickly, marking where the cats are, thinking how fast can we get them out. We open our door just as our downstairs neighbor opens his. We exclaim at each other and start up the hill. I come back down to lock the door, and as I cross the street again, water starts washing down the gutter, I jump the gutter just ahead of it.
It's several houses away, one of the buildings that was renovated in the '70's, aggregate facade, almost nothing left of it, flames as high as two men lick out the windows of both floors. The whole neighborhood is out on the street, watching. I wonder about helping, feeling extavagantly useless, thinking of the bucket brigades we'd start to put out fires when I was growing up, but I hear the roar; this is a whole other order of fire, all I can do is stay out of the way.
We hear a saw at work - Mr. Billy tells me they're cutting through the roof. A slender ladder is propped on the side of the building, no way that could work, I think, it's too fragile, it'll go up in a second, but there goes a fireman, clawing up the building, there's his flashlight on the roof, my heart is pounding for him, for anyone close to those flames.
It's everything you know about fire. Terrifying. Beautiful. Dazzling. I can only look away for a few seconds at a time, to see the faces around me lit from the glow, before my eyes are pulled back. Nobody says much.
It doesn't look like they're making any progress. The wind shifts, and I can see into the top floor, flames like scarves draping the ceiling.
I wonder about the people who live there. Just one woman is rolled down the street on a stretcher, she looks okay, conscious anyway, not burned.
I think about smoke inhalation, burns, firemen falling or trapped or hit on the head, babies trapped, someone asleep in the back room, unconscious.
I think about everything you have gone.
They've kept the fire from spreading. The glow on the top floor dies, a dull black corpse now, but still flames below, flare-ups in back. Steam rises into the sky, smoke billows out. Streams of water from inside shoot out onto the street.
Still more firetrucks, ambulances, police cars. A large family stands together near me, grandfather holding a sleeping kid, a fireman asks them if everyone got out. They nod, eyes wide, reflecting the light.
I don't know any of these people, my neighbors.
The building is black now, dead. The cold white of flashlights bouncing around inside.
We stop and talk to our next-door neighbors for awhile. Their 2-year-old is still asleep inside. They're renovating. We talk about houses, about living different places, about tsunamis and earthquakes. Not about fires. Smoke rolls down the hill, the gutters full, neighbor J says it seems like it should be more.
A lot went up in steam, we say.
It's all over, more or less, we're back inside, but still more sirens. The arson squad, cop cars, more cop cars, a cop SUV.
"Management's arrived," says Mr. Billy.
Quieting down, now. The firemen did their job, we did ours, gaping, staying out of their way. Mr. Billy's gone back out to see the aftermath, see if he can find out what happened. I hear a policeman outside talking down a woman who talks and talks, the fear pulled out of her with every word. I look out the window, from above I see a firewoman holding her helmet, talking to a cop. The flares blocking off our street are right outside, right below our window.
Truck #12's insignia is the Grateful Dead skull on a gold background. "S.F.P.D" above the shield, "The Haight" beneath it.
I pet the cats. Their eyes are big and they hold still, listening.
My hands are shaking.
Mr. Billy gets up on his knees in bed and gaps the blinds with his fingers, looking out the window. We hear one, two, three, more sirens going around the corner.
"That's smoke," he says.
We get out of bed and walk fast to the living room, not saying anything, pulling open the drapes. Firetrucks and police cars are stopping outside our flat, lights going around, flashing off the buildings. It looks like thick thick fog, but up above, the moon is bright and sharp.
Mr. Billy points. There's a bright orange reflection in a house across the street. One of the houses on our side of the street is all flames. We can't tell if it's two houses away or seven; all of them are connected, an unbroken line to ours.
We're quiet, dressing quickly, marking where the cats are, thinking how fast can we get them out. We open our door just as our downstairs neighbor opens his. We exclaim at each other and start up the hill. I come back down to lock the door, and as I cross the street again, water starts washing down the gutter, I jump the gutter just ahead of it.
It's several houses away, one of the buildings that was renovated in the '70's, aggregate facade, almost nothing left of it, flames as high as two men lick out the windows of both floors. The whole neighborhood is out on the street, watching. I wonder about helping, feeling extavagantly useless, thinking of the bucket brigades we'd start to put out fires when I was growing up, but I hear the roar; this is a whole other order of fire, all I can do is stay out of the way.
We hear a saw at work - Mr. Billy tells me they're cutting through the roof. A slender ladder is propped on the side of the building, no way that could work, I think, it's too fragile, it'll go up in a second, but there goes a fireman, clawing up the building, there's his flashlight on the roof, my heart is pounding for him, for anyone close to those flames.
It's everything you know about fire. Terrifying. Beautiful. Dazzling. I can only look away for a few seconds at a time, to see the faces around me lit from the glow, before my eyes are pulled back. Nobody says much.
It doesn't look like they're making any progress. The wind shifts, and I can see into the top floor, flames like scarves draping the ceiling.
I wonder about the people who live there. Just one woman is rolled down the street on a stretcher, she looks okay, conscious anyway, not burned.
I think about smoke inhalation, burns, firemen falling or trapped or hit on the head, babies trapped, someone asleep in the back room, unconscious.
I think about everything you have gone.
They've kept the fire from spreading. The glow on the top floor dies, a dull black corpse now, but still flames below, flare-ups in back. Steam rises into the sky, smoke billows out. Streams of water from inside shoot out onto the street.
Still more firetrucks, ambulances, police cars. A large family stands together near me, grandfather holding a sleeping kid, a fireman asks them if everyone got out. They nod, eyes wide, reflecting the light.
I don't know any of these people, my neighbors.
The building is black now, dead. The cold white of flashlights bouncing around inside.
We stop and talk to our next-door neighbors for awhile. Their 2-year-old is still asleep inside. They're renovating. We talk about houses, about living different places, about tsunamis and earthquakes. Not about fires. Smoke rolls down the hill, the gutters full, neighbor J says it seems like it should be more.
A lot went up in steam, we say.
It's all over, more or less, we're back inside, but still more sirens. The arson squad, cop cars, more cop cars, a cop SUV.
"Management's arrived," says Mr. Billy.
Quieting down, now. The firemen did their job, we did ours, gaping, staying out of their way. Mr. Billy's gone back out to see the aftermath, see if he can find out what happened. I hear a policeman outside talking down a woman who talks and talks, the fear pulled out of her with every word. I look out the window, from above I see a firewoman holding her helmet, talking to a cop. The flares blocking off our street are right outside, right below our window.
Truck #12's insignia is the Grateful Dead skull on a gold background. "S.F.P.D" above the shield, "The Haight" beneath it.
I pet the cats. Their eyes are big and they hold still, listening.
My hands are shaking.
Thursday, June 16, 2005
Burlingame safari
His jackets must all have been made when he was larger, younger. He's shrunk inside them, the shoulders standing a half inch, more, past where his shoulders stop. Ears and nose never stop growing, his ears are heroic scale, sprouting rich tufts of pure white hair, long enough to dance lightly in the wind. Close-trimmed white beard, missed stubble trailing down his neck. I couldn't possibly mistake him.
I'm BARTing to a meeting in Burlingame, and an old guy from my neighborhood is sitting across the aisle, with a round-faced old woman. I whisper to MB, sitting beside me, that I swear I know him, I see him everywhere.
"Maybe he's a hallucination," reasons MB.
"Do you see him?" I ask.
"Yes."
A shared hallucination, then. It seems fitting, today is one of those bright, windy days that fuzzes the edges of things, the weather strange and sharp, like a dream.
"I've never seen the woman before," I say.
"Maybe they're having an affair," says MB. The train pulls into the station, and the round-faced woman moves to another seat, a few rows on and facing the man. She puts her little hands on the seat in front of her and smiles at him, her eyes big and cartoony. "They meet on the BART to Burlingame every Sunday," MB continues, "where they share a table at the Elephant Walk and moon at each other."
It seems more than plausible. She's glowing at him across the train.
We get off the train, wind thrashing at us. Our meeting is at a Mexican place, where they make guacamole right at the table. We crowd the table with papers and talk. A party is being set up in the room. Not just a party - a wedding party. The place is filling up. We're moved, with all our papers (the guacamole left behind) to another part of the restaurant. Crying babies, bickering siblings, polyester waitresses pushing past.
A table fills with squeaky clean youth wearing name tags. I edge closer to read the slogan, "Godly obedience."
The meeting over, we stumble out into the bright noise of the wind. A Godly obedience girl's skirt is whipped up around her thighs.
On the train back, a spoiled four-year-old with his father makes enough noise - random, chaotic noise - to fill the train and scatter conversation. They get off at an underground stop.
"Oh. My. God," says MB.
I look out the window to see the kid standing proudly on a bench, little god of the BART station, his pants down, pissing a graceful arc onto the tracks. A sunbeam filters down from the upper level, the droplets shining, the kid's father holding his shoulders, and the train pulls slowly away from the station.
I'm BARTing to a meeting in Burlingame, and an old guy from my neighborhood is sitting across the aisle, with a round-faced old woman. I whisper to MB, sitting beside me, that I swear I know him, I see him everywhere.
"Maybe he's a hallucination," reasons MB.
"Do you see him?" I ask.
"Yes."
A shared hallucination, then. It seems fitting, today is one of those bright, windy days that fuzzes the edges of things, the weather strange and sharp, like a dream.
"I've never seen the woman before," I say.
"Maybe they're having an affair," says MB. The train pulls into the station, and the round-faced woman moves to another seat, a few rows on and facing the man. She puts her little hands on the seat in front of her and smiles at him, her eyes big and cartoony. "They meet on the BART to Burlingame every Sunday," MB continues, "where they share a table at the Elephant Walk and moon at each other."
It seems more than plausible. She's glowing at him across the train.
We get off the train, wind thrashing at us. Our meeting is at a Mexican place, where they make guacamole right at the table. We crowd the table with papers and talk. A party is being set up in the room. Not just a party - a wedding party. The place is filling up. We're moved, with all our papers (the guacamole left behind) to another part of the restaurant. Crying babies, bickering siblings, polyester waitresses pushing past.
A table fills with squeaky clean youth wearing name tags. I edge closer to read the slogan, "Godly obedience."
The meeting over, we stumble out into the bright noise of the wind. A Godly obedience girl's skirt is whipped up around her thighs.
On the train back, a spoiled four-year-old with his father makes enough noise - random, chaotic noise - to fill the train and scatter conversation. They get off at an underground stop.
"Oh. My. God," says MB.
I look out the window to see the kid standing proudly on a bench, little god of the BART station, his pants down, pissing a graceful arc onto the tracks. A sunbeam filters down from the upper level, the droplets shining, the kid's father holding his shoulders, and the train pulls slowly away from the station.
Monday, June 13, 2005
Billy comes clean - author bio
(the meme started here, was pronounced meme-worthy by Joss, and was last seen in the grimy paws of monkey 0.)
Chemical Billy began her writing career in a Turkish prison, where guards were so moved by her prose poem, Monkey Fresh/Failed Binge - written in hummus on the cell wall - that she was released early. Banned forever from the entire Indian subcontinent after the infamous Noodle Incident, Billy went on to be knighted for training MI5 agents in her mysterious technique of emitting a noxious body odor at will. The stench is said to be so transcendantly foul, it can clear a room or scatter a violently ill crowd in less than 23 seconds.
Ms. Billy lives in a secure, undisclosed location, somewhere deep beneath the plains of North Dakota. There are no reliable accounts of her physical description, and even her numerous lovers claim to have been blindfolded or only permitted to interact through colored plastic sheeting. There are rumors, however, that she is over seven feet tall, and one spurned lover's (failed) suicide note mentions her "penetrating kneecaps".
Ms. Billy's autobiography, And Yet It Has Eyebrows, has been translated into 17 languages (including Haitian Creole), and is an upcoming musical starring James Earl Jones as the reclusive author.
Chemical Billy began her writing career in a Turkish prison, where guards were so moved by her prose poem, Monkey Fresh/Failed Binge - written in hummus on the cell wall - that she was released early. Banned forever from the entire Indian subcontinent after the infamous Noodle Incident, Billy went on to be knighted for training MI5 agents in her mysterious technique of emitting a noxious body odor at will. The stench is said to be so transcendantly foul, it can clear a room or scatter a violently ill crowd in less than 23 seconds.
Ms. Billy lives in a secure, undisclosed location, somewhere deep beneath the plains of North Dakota. There are no reliable accounts of her physical description, and even her numerous lovers claim to have been blindfolded or only permitted to interact through colored plastic sheeting. There are rumors, however, that she is over seven feet tall, and one spurned lover's (failed) suicide note mentions her "penetrating kneecaps".
Ms. Billy's autobiography, And Yet It Has Eyebrows, has been translated into 17 languages (including Haitian Creole), and is an upcoming musical starring James Earl Jones as the reclusive author.
Sunday, June 12, 2005
God speed hairy little fella
Leo snapped the buckle closed, cinched down the belt, Dobo's brown eyes looking up at him, forehead wrinkled.
Dobo knew something was up.
Eleven months ago and more, back when Lucy took sick and had to be replaced, Dobo was her brother, brought in holding the trainer's hand, Leo could see the monkey wanted to reach out and grab at the shiny knobs, his trainer holding him firm, whispering in his ear, monkey eyes throwing back the light bouncing off thousands of surfaces in the lab.
"Don't call him a monkey," said the trainer. "Dobo is a chimpanzee."
First day, Leo hated the trainer. But he and Dobo got along fine, Dobo got the import, right away, reining in his urges, gravely going through the tasks Leo assigned, flip this switch, release this lever, Dobo would see things, go places no human being has, and he knew, Dobo wrinkling up his forehead before hopping into the simulator capsule, looking up at Leo while he strapped him in, like he looked at Leo now.
Leo squatted down and nodded one last time at Dobo, swallowing back a trickle of bile, it should have been Leo, it should have been him, nobody at the lab knew that Leo was short for Leonid, this was his destiny, he should be hurtling through the dark, farther than even his parents imagined, sending back data to move in the deep subconscious of every human walking on the thin crust of this planet, in their dreams they would be Leo, Leo among the stars, Leo never to see the earth again, flaming out at the end of the mission, the capsule never designed to return, a martyr to his science, a saint taking his place in the only heaven he knew.
Leo swung the hatch closed.
God speed, hairy little fella.
Hat tip to monkey 0
Dobo knew something was up.
Eleven months ago and more, back when Lucy took sick and had to be replaced, Dobo was her brother, brought in holding the trainer's hand, Leo could see the monkey wanted to reach out and grab at the shiny knobs, his trainer holding him firm, whispering in his ear, monkey eyes throwing back the light bouncing off thousands of surfaces in the lab.
"Don't call him a monkey," said the trainer. "Dobo is a chimpanzee."
First day, Leo hated the trainer. But he and Dobo got along fine, Dobo got the import, right away, reining in his urges, gravely going through the tasks Leo assigned, flip this switch, release this lever, Dobo would see things, go places no human being has, and he knew, Dobo wrinkling up his forehead before hopping into the simulator capsule, looking up at Leo while he strapped him in, like he looked at Leo now.
Leo squatted down and nodded one last time at Dobo, swallowing back a trickle of bile, it should have been Leo, it should have been him, nobody at the lab knew that Leo was short for Leonid, this was his destiny, he should be hurtling through the dark, farther than even his parents imagined, sending back data to move in the deep subconscious of every human walking on the thin crust of this planet, in their dreams they would be Leo, Leo among the stars, Leo never to see the earth again, flaming out at the end of the mission, the capsule never designed to return, a martyr to his science, a saint taking his place in the only heaven he knew.
Leo swung the hatch closed.
God speed, hairy little fella.
Hat tip to monkey 0
The metamorphosis
Martha pulled at the wrapper, carefully separating tape from paper, not leaving a single tear, ready to fold it up and place it neatly in her wrapping paper organizer to reuse later.
Any day now, she was ready, any day now she would know how to use it, that little chemical switch in her brain, she knew it was there, that switch that would let her change her shape at will, like the Ayahuasca dreams of Amazon tribes, only it would be real, she would walk into the bedroom one night and Brad would look up at her gaping, he'd know it was her, it was Martha, but not the same woman he'd said could stand to lose a few, whose nose he'd called lumpy, he'd tremble at her terrible beauty, she would stand above Brad and he'd fall on his knees at her feet and beg her forgiveness, dedicate his life to the Worship of Martha, but it would be too late, too little, she would watch him shaking and sobbing at her feet, just for a minute, then turn and walk away, not even pack, she wouldn't have any use for those dull things anymore, left behind like Brad, like a suit jacket outgrown, lying empty on a chair.
Martha looked up, past Brad and into the mirror behind him, it was starting already, the woman in the glass wasn't the grotesque Brad saw but someone else, someone new and strong.
"Whaddya think?"
The paper fell away to show her present, a silk blouse with a bow at the neck, she almost laughed, she'd never even try it on.
"It's fine, honey."
She kissed him on the forehead and glanced up again at the mirror.
It was starting.
Any day now, she was ready, any day now she would know how to use it, that little chemical switch in her brain, she knew it was there, that switch that would let her change her shape at will, like the Ayahuasca dreams of Amazon tribes, only it would be real, she would walk into the bedroom one night and Brad would look up at her gaping, he'd know it was her, it was Martha, but not the same woman he'd said could stand to lose a few, whose nose he'd called lumpy, he'd tremble at her terrible beauty, she would stand above Brad and he'd fall on his knees at her feet and beg her forgiveness, dedicate his life to the Worship of Martha, but it would be too late, too little, she would watch him shaking and sobbing at her feet, just for a minute, then turn and walk away, not even pack, she wouldn't have any use for those dull things anymore, left behind like Brad, like a suit jacket outgrown, lying empty on a chair.
Martha looked up, past Brad and into the mirror behind him, it was starting already, the woman in the glass wasn't the grotesque Brad saw but someone else, someone new and strong.
"Whaddya think?"
The paper fell away to show her present, a silk blouse with a bow at the neck, she almost laughed, she'd never even try it on.
"It's fine, honey."
She kissed him on the forehead and glanced up again at the mirror.
It was starting.
Monday, June 06, 2005
"...I knocked the candy out of her panties"
I don't remember the beginning of the story. It all got lost, brain skidded to a halt, splashing the inside of my skull with grey matter at this:
"I hit her so hard, I knocked the candy out of her panties."
Now, we always knew Miss Y was not somebody to piss off, and really nothing she said should have been a surprise, but all the same, a story that begins in Catholic girls' school doesn't usually, well - stop thinking what I know you're thinking, stop stop stop la la la I'm not listening - my eyes must have gone wide and glassy while I stared at dust motes in the air trying to parse this image.
"I hit her so hard, I knocked the candy out of her panties."
Was this a euphemism for...what? Did she literally kick the shit out of her? I looked blankly at Miss Y's husband. He shrugged back at me. No help there.
"What?" says Miss Y. She looks at me. "What?"
"Um," I say, articulately, "Candy...?"
"What, you didn't carry candy in your panties in grade school? You know, we weren't allowed to have candy, so we'd hide it in our panties, you didn't do that?"
"Um," I say, brilliantly, "Nope."
"Oh. Well, we did."
That must have been a hell of a hit.
"I hit her so hard, I knocked the candy out of her panties."
Now, we always knew Miss Y was not somebody to piss off, and really nothing she said should have been a surprise, but all the same, a story that begins in Catholic girls' school doesn't usually, well - stop thinking what I know you're thinking, stop stop stop la la la I'm not listening - my eyes must have gone wide and glassy while I stared at dust motes in the air trying to parse this image.
"I hit her so hard, I knocked the candy out of her panties."
Was this a euphemism for...what? Did she literally kick the shit out of her? I looked blankly at Miss Y's husband. He shrugged back at me. No help there.
"What?" says Miss Y. She looks at me. "What?"
"Um," I say, articulately, "Candy...?"
"What, you didn't carry candy in your panties in grade school? You know, we weren't allowed to have candy, so we'd hide it in our panties, you didn't do that?"
"Um," I say, brilliantly, "Nope."
"Oh. Well, we did."
That must have been a hell of a hit.
Sunday, June 05, 2005
Fifty
Edson looks at the backs of his hands, big bones, skin that looked like it would tear if he pulled it.
"I have old man hands, when did that happen?"
He said it before remembering she wasn't there. How many times a day did that happen? Months now, and still he turns to tell her something, still thinks how she'll laugh when she hears what the kid down the block did, still asks nobody if this sweater goes with these pants.
Edson rubs his hands up and over his head. He needs a haircut. His daughter does that for him now, moving around behind him with the clippers, she doesn't know that he forgets it's her, that when he talks, he's talking to her mother, her fingers resting lightly on his neck, the clippers buzzing in his ear, she's in her black slip, her perfume riding lightly on top of the steam and soap from her shower, the kids rocketing down the hall outside the bathroom door, they're jungle beasts, flinging themselves against the walls, shouting and laughing, how will they ever grow up into useful adults? but she's leaning down to whisper in his ear, they still have time before church, and he covers her hand with his, the tiny bones, that smooth skin, he circles her little wrist easily with two fingers.
Edson wishes they wouldn't call today, his kids all grown up, he can see their eyes big with concern, they all have their ideas what he should be feeling, it would have been their anniversary and the whole world expects tears or I don't know what, but this doesn't belong to them, this is his, none of them knew her at nineteen, how her waist fit into his hands, hair falling across one eye, her smile didn't change in fifty years, the same up to the very last day, after all the poisonous fights and betrayals and makeups and silences, she could swipe the heart right out of his chest between one breath and the next with that smile.
"You remember Danny, that basketball player you liked so much," he started, then remembered again, each remembering a hammer, this is his, this belongs completely to him.
"I have old man hands, when did that happen?"
He said it before remembering she wasn't there. How many times a day did that happen? Months now, and still he turns to tell her something, still thinks how she'll laugh when she hears what the kid down the block did, still asks nobody if this sweater goes with these pants.
Edson rubs his hands up and over his head. He needs a haircut. His daughter does that for him now, moving around behind him with the clippers, she doesn't know that he forgets it's her, that when he talks, he's talking to her mother, her fingers resting lightly on his neck, the clippers buzzing in his ear, she's in her black slip, her perfume riding lightly on top of the steam and soap from her shower, the kids rocketing down the hall outside the bathroom door, they're jungle beasts, flinging themselves against the walls, shouting and laughing, how will they ever grow up into useful adults? but she's leaning down to whisper in his ear, they still have time before church, and he covers her hand with his, the tiny bones, that smooth skin, he circles her little wrist easily with two fingers.
Edson wishes they wouldn't call today, his kids all grown up, he can see their eyes big with concern, they all have their ideas what he should be feeling, it would have been their anniversary and the whole world expects tears or I don't know what, but this doesn't belong to them, this is his, none of them knew her at nineteen, how her waist fit into his hands, hair falling across one eye, her smile didn't change in fifty years, the same up to the very last day, after all the poisonous fights and betrayals and makeups and silences, she could swipe the heart right out of his chest between one breath and the next with that smile.
"You remember Danny, that basketball player you liked so much," he started, then remembered again, each remembering a hammer, this is his, this belongs completely to him.
Saturday, June 04, 2005
Like a rolling stone
Wind kicked up tonight, while we were climbing our local knoll to see the sunset. The neighborhood, lilliputian faux-haciendas, mini-deco houses. The house with bougainvillea growing over the door. The house with tiny square windows, and a mysterious square door cut into the side - where the trolls live.
Up the stairs and turning back, we can see downtown San Francisco, the Trans-America pyramid, the parks, the synagogue in Pacific Heights, St. Ignatius, two golden-tipped towers, the spires burning bright against the twighlight. Windows flashing back the sun, fiery sheets of glass all the way across the bay in Albany, and I wonder if anybody stands behind, looking out.
We top the knob and the wind beats at us, I can lean backward into it and feel it pushing me upright. Below us Golden Gate Park, a dark mass of green spilled into the city, 19th Avenue cutting through, pale headlights, the tops of the bridge towers beyond, Marin hills barely visible through a haze, to our left houses fall into rows and squares, broad streets leading to the ocean, the heavy ball of sun, dropping into the water, wind pushing us, sand picked up and thrown into our eyes, hair.
I look right, back towards the city, and the sky is a luxe, immodest violet. My ears whining from wind-freeze, we start back down the stairs, I can feel the wind, like a hand, shoving at my back, I balance over the long flight of stairs and feel myself cut loose, like gravel kicked free, the first drop stopping my breath but I ball up, rolling down the stairs, faster and madder down, rolling and flailing, my edges sheared smooth, a sleek center of movement, faster still, glowing with heat and motion, burning, shining back at the sun.
Up the stairs and turning back, we can see downtown San Francisco, the Trans-America pyramid, the parks, the synagogue in Pacific Heights, St. Ignatius, two golden-tipped towers, the spires burning bright against the twighlight. Windows flashing back the sun, fiery sheets of glass all the way across the bay in Albany, and I wonder if anybody stands behind, looking out.
We top the knob and the wind beats at us, I can lean backward into it and feel it pushing me upright. Below us Golden Gate Park, a dark mass of green spilled into the city, 19th Avenue cutting through, pale headlights, the tops of the bridge towers beyond, Marin hills barely visible through a haze, to our left houses fall into rows and squares, broad streets leading to the ocean, the heavy ball of sun, dropping into the water, wind pushing us, sand picked up and thrown into our eyes, hair.
I look right, back towards the city, and the sky is a luxe, immodest violet. My ears whining from wind-freeze, we start back down the stairs, I can feel the wind, like a hand, shoving at my back, I balance over the long flight of stairs and feel myself cut loose, like gravel kicked free, the first drop stopping my breath but I ball up, rolling down the stairs, faster and madder down, rolling and flailing, my edges sheared smooth, a sleek center of movement, faster still, glowing with heat and motion, burning, shining back at the sun.
Friday, June 03, 2005
Mass in transit
The T into downtown Boston, Friday night. Gum chewing girls in spike heels and jeans, earrings glinting, brushing their white shoulders, eyeliner and blue shadow streaked over baby skin. A boy with long, thick lashes, eyes downlooking, dark clothes, beautiful magenta manicure. A drunk couple kissing, the woman recognizes K, my guide for the evening. She is Roman, holding onto her midwestern hippie boyfriend, apologizing for her drunkenness, eyes shining up at her date.
Emerging into the Commons, figures sharp and vertical against the sky, and I drag K over to see.
I put my hand in the horse's mouth, waiting for the teeth to come snapping down on my fingers.
The New York subway, Saturday night, with my dad. The light is yellow, we are miles underground, the people inside alive and bubbling, taut men staring ahead in frozen trance, tired women on the way home, a rasta family sharing gum, warming with laughter. The doors close and an old white man begins his speech.
"Ladies and Gentlemen. I am not used to this, I am a man who has fallen on hard times, I am not practiced with words, this is hard for me, but I have no choice..."
He goes on, carefully rehearsed, years of practice making it into a song, a performance, a thing of itself. Dad pulls a bill out of his pocket when we reach our stop, and hands it over, the man beginning his gratitude refrain, Dad tells him, "well done."
He is offended. "This is not a performance!" But he keeps the cash.
Back home in San Francisco, another Friday night, another train. MUNI light hard on the cheeks of a dragged-out woman, black eyemakeup, eyes terrified from a shock no-one can see but her, glittering dress hanging from handlebar shoulders, on and off again at the next stop. Swedish brothers, full shopping bags from the grocery store. A Native American, hair over his collar, overhears our conversation and joins in, a distant smile growing on his face as we talk about traffic tickets in Finland.
We come to our stop and he waves us goodbye.
Emerging into the Commons, figures sharp and vertical against the sky, and I drag K over to see.
I put my hand in the horse's mouth, waiting for the teeth to come snapping down on my fingers.
The New York subway, Saturday night, with my dad. The light is yellow, we are miles underground, the people inside alive and bubbling, taut men staring ahead in frozen trance, tired women on the way home, a rasta family sharing gum, warming with laughter. The doors close and an old white man begins his speech.
"Ladies and Gentlemen. I am not used to this, I am a man who has fallen on hard times, I am not practiced with words, this is hard for me, but I have no choice..."
He goes on, carefully rehearsed, years of practice making it into a song, a performance, a thing of itself. Dad pulls a bill out of his pocket when we reach our stop, and hands it over, the man beginning his gratitude refrain, Dad tells him, "well done."
He is offended. "This is not a performance!" But he keeps the cash.
Back home in San Francisco, another Friday night, another train. MUNI light hard on the cheeks of a dragged-out woman, black eyemakeup, eyes terrified from a shock no-one can see but her, glittering dress hanging from handlebar shoulders, on and off again at the next stop. Swedish brothers, full shopping bags from the grocery store. A Native American, hair over his collar, overhears our conversation and joins in, a distant smile growing on his face as we talk about traffic tickets in Finland.
We come to our stop and he waves us goodbye.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Steve's in love (scratch fiction)
Steve shook his head, his jaw throbbing, the blood pulsing through painfully with every pump of his heart. He opened his mouth and closed it, slowly, but Jules was still in front of him, still hopping foot to foot, her little hands fisted in front of her face, "c'mon, c'mon," she was almost whispering, almost seductive, she wheedled him to take a swing at her.
How did it get this far? All he'd wanted was her digits, she seemed so sweet and she fluttered those big blue eyes at him. He shook his head again, Jules bobbing and weaving like the featherweight she'd be in the ring.
How long had she lived in his head before he took this baby step, just asking for her number? How many times had he laughed at her jokes, stolen glances at her out of the corners of his eyes all gritty from his swingshift, he's done with a hard day's work and all he wants is some suds and Jules' digits, it's taken him all these weeks to get up the guts, his big hands clenching and letting go beside his hips.
What had he said?
What did he always do wrong? Was it is smell, the way he walked, wasn't he saying the same things all the other guys said?
Steve tasted his own blood in his mouth, and knew there was something different about him, his tone, his look, something that put women on their guard around him, but she was the first one who ever popped him.
All Steve knew was, this was love.
How did it get this far? All he'd wanted was her digits, she seemed so sweet and she fluttered those big blue eyes at him. He shook his head again, Jules bobbing and weaving like the featherweight she'd be in the ring.
How long had she lived in his head before he took this baby step, just asking for her number? How many times had he laughed at her jokes, stolen glances at her out of the corners of his eyes all gritty from his swingshift, he's done with a hard day's work and all he wants is some suds and Jules' digits, it's taken him all these weeks to get up the guts, his big hands clenching and letting go beside his hips.
What had he said?
What did he always do wrong? Was it is smell, the way he walked, wasn't he saying the same things all the other guys said?
Steve tasted his own blood in his mouth, and knew there was something different about him, his tone, his look, something that put women on their guard around him, but she was the first one who ever popped him.
All Steve knew was, this was love.
"...and the stars, and the cars, and the bars, and the barmen"
(Not scratch fiction)
Y picked me up at the airport, one arm hanging out the car window, cig between two fingers, head cocked to one side while he talks, driving with one hand, eyes half-closed, lanes and traffic signals bare suggestions to Y, we progress like water through a stream bed, stream of water stream of consciousness, the car following the conversation, you might think I'm white-knuckling it, but I'm lulled, tranced into a fatalistic calm by the meditative near-misses that wash off our backs like water, we're fish in the stream.
I gape at the narrow Boston streets, my first time here, not bothering to hang a jaded indifference on my face, letting it glow bare out the passenger window, brick buildings that would have been piles of rubble after the first California quake, standing for a hundred years and more here, wooden shutters, cobblestone streets, pubs, churches, the Commons all swimming by.
I drop my bags and we pick up people and it's on to Harvard Square, smokers all crowded around the outside steps of the first pub, it's Karl's birthday, he's been celebrating already for hours, eyes drowning, and we sing to him - I've never seen him before and probably never will again, but I sing to him with the rest - we down our beers & then crawl to the next pub. The Brit woman has been drinking too much, and keens to us, one foot in the taxi, "C'mon, c'mon," but after she disappears into the belly of the cab we convince Y to take us straight to another place, we want to dance. Y's driving no more impaired than usual with cig, and phone, mumbling to the Brit that we're not following her, we can hear her digitized whine through the phone.
We set ourselves up with mojitos after fighting past the dancers struggling in the front of the bar: it's Latin dancing, we can't wait to finish our drinks before getting out on the floor, bodies bumping up against us, passing around a drink, I dance with my colleagues, all of us work in translation, the languages shifting as we shout in each other's ears, I let A lead; she's far stronger than me, K is Brazilian & I mimic her samba, dancing the perfect antidote to six hours in a metal tube hurtling through the sky.
Two a.m. comes too quickly, we're out on the sidewalk talking to the band, rumors of the party moving on to Someone's apartment die when we learn that Someone has nothing to drink there. A plastered Bostonian in painter's whites is talking up A and K, insulting Y, and when he starts a vaguely racist rant that begins, "when I was in the joint..." we fade warily back to the car, out on the road, and into the night.
Y picked me up at the airport, one arm hanging out the car window, cig between two fingers, head cocked to one side while he talks, driving with one hand, eyes half-closed, lanes and traffic signals bare suggestions to Y, we progress like water through a stream bed, stream of water stream of consciousness, the car following the conversation, you might think I'm white-knuckling it, but I'm lulled, tranced into a fatalistic calm by the meditative near-misses that wash off our backs like water, we're fish in the stream.
I gape at the narrow Boston streets, my first time here, not bothering to hang a jaded indifference on my face, letting it glow bare out the passenger window, brick buildings that would have been piles of rubble after the first California quake, standing for a hundred years and more here, wooden shutters, cobblestone streets, pubs, churches, the Commons all swimming by.
I drop my bags and we pick up people and it's on to Harvard Square, smokers all crowded around the outside steps of the first pub, it's Karl's birthday, he's been celebrating already for hours, eyes drowning, and we sing to him - I've never seen him before and probably never will again, but I sing to him with the rest - we down our beers & then crawl to the next pub. The Brit woman has been drinking too much, and keens to us, one foot in the taxi, "C'mon, c'mon," but after she disappears into the belly of the cab we convince Y to take us straight to another place, we want to dance. Y's driving no more impaired than usual with cig, and phone, mumbling to the Brit that we're not following her, we can hear her digitized whine through the phone.
We set ourselves up with mojitos after fighting past the dancers struggling in the front of the bar: it's Latin dancing, we can't wait to finish our drinks before getting out on the floor, bodies bumping up against us, passing around a drink, I dance with my colleagues, all of us work in translation, the languages shifting as we shout in each other's ears, I let A lead; she's far stronger than me, K is Brazilian & I mimic her samba, dancing the perfect antidote to six hours in a metal tube hurtling through the sky.
Two a.m. comes too quickly, we're out on the sidewalk talking to the band, rumors of the party moving on to Someone's apartment die when we learn that Someone has nothing to drink there. A plastered Bostonian in painter's whites is talking up A and K, insulting Y, and when he starts a vaguely racist rant that begins, "when I was in the joint..." we fade warily back to the car, out on the road, and into the night.
Saturday, May 28, 2005
Billy gets interviewed (or, be careful what you ask for)
Monkey 0 has interviewed me. And may I just say, monkey - yeesh, thanks for the softballs. So, here's to it:
1a. why do bad things happen to good people?
Because the gods are irrational savages, more like the immature, bickering gods of Greek myth than the all-knowing, all-compassionate, all-powerful God of monotheistic traditions. Just for example: Gary, the god of blowdryers, is jealous of any mortal with better hair than his, and regularly sends freak gusts of wind to ruin your perfect hair day. Jealousy of mortals in general is a major motivator for these gods, so good people are a natural target.
1b. why do good things happen to bad people?
See 1a above. Also, the gods are easily bored, so they like to fuck with us, just to see what happens. And everyone knows it's the bad people (see also: The Godfather, Boogie Nights, Bonnie & Clyde, and Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid, just to name a few) who are by far the most entertaining.
Either that, or the world and its ways make no more sense than your morning bowl of cereal. One might as well ask why the good Cheerios always get eaten first, because, after all, we all get eaten in the end.
Unless we get Raptured first.
2. the Russians have just been faking all this time and finally they launch a massive all-out attack by hovercraft and take over San Francisco along with most of the western seaboard. you escape capture and retreat to the hills. what is your plan?
Along with my fellow escapees, I organize a matriarchal society in which each female gets her pick of several husbands (or wives, in the case of lesbians; and we necessarily have to share our spouses, as, sadly, women still outnumber men). Our peaceful, Utopian culture thrives in the rich farmland of Mendocino county. Rather than foment rebellion, we lure the Russian settlers to our community one by one with our excellent marijuana crop. Eventually, under the tutelage of the new members of our society, we perfect our vodka output and soon convert the remainder of the invaders to our way of life. This becomes a political wave that sweeps the country and finally sets us on the path to peace on earth and bounty for all its inhabitants.
Or, I take along a stack of Tarkovsky movies and practice my Russian in anticipation of my eventual capture.
3. we all have memories of an unforgettable teacher, someone who came along during our formative years and brought something really special and unique into our lives and now occupies a warm, sepia-toned corner of our memory. equally inevitable, sadly, is the teacher burned into our psyche in flaming letters of hate as high as the very outer reaches of our imagination. share with us, if you would, a story of the latter.
You caught me off guard with this one, monkey 0. I've been dredging up long-lost school memories for a teacher worthy of my hatred, and I fail. I can only surmise that this is due to my highly-developed talent for forging my parents' signatures, allowing me to simply avoid the teachers I didn't care for.
There was one legendary harridan who presided over 5th grade in my elementary school. Mrs. J was a classic Wicked-Witch-of-the-West type, complete with bird's nest hair, warts, and obscene flaps hanging from her upper arms (which she displayed in sleeveless shirts even in the dead of nasty Mountain West winters). She tormented my older brother for a year (she was known to despise boys even more than girls, and was rumored to have thrown a pair of scissors at one unfortunate kid), sending him home every afternoon with a stack of math problems on mimeographed sheets half-an-inch high.
The year before 5th grade, my family lived abroad, so when I returned to school on the first day of 5th grade, I was no longer on school rolls, and therefore wasn't assigned to a teacher. What twisted instinct was it that caused me, then, to voluntarily sit in Mrs. J's classroom? Her beady eyes instantly divined my family resemblance to my detested, beaten brother, and she smelled new blood. What lust for Dickensian drama burned within my 10-year-old breast in anticipation of a year of gothic conflict?
Whatever it was, I recall keen disappointment at learning I'd been assigned to Mr. F's class instead. That dispersed quickly, however, as I gazed at Mr. F's dark skin and flashing teeth. His faintly accented English danced me deliciously through 5th grade, and my perverse attempt at self-immolation was mercifully foiled.
4. there are certain animals you're not allowed to have as pets without a special license from the feds. jaguars, for instance. which one's at the top of your list?
Humans. Followed closely by - coincidentally enough - jaguars.
5. and finally, just because I know you have mad skills, give me:
5a. love in ten words,
5b. hate in five,
5c. confusion in three,
5d. and, finally, perfection in one.
Oh, monkey, slipping me the shiv wrapped in flattery. You will not see my revenge coming. But it will be sweet.
5a. Honey, see that giant zit on my ass? Could you...?
(Or, for the more romantically inclined, Antigone's reason to Hémon for choosing death in Anouilh's version, "Do anything for you except change my essential beloved self.")
5b. Ecstatic desire for _____'s humiliation.
5c. What the fuck? (Oh, that was too easy, wasn't it? How about "Football players' stats?")
5d. Rebellion.
interview game official rules: offer void in IN, LA, CO, AL, and HI, and where prohibited by law. leave a comment if you want to be interviewed. if you do, I'll ask you five questions. you update your blog with the answers, and you'll explain the rules and include an offer to interview others in the post. when someone asks you to interview them, you ask them five questions. and if you press the button that gives you a million dollars but kills someone you've never met, then the creepy guy in the suit comes and gives you the money but then he takes the button away and gives it to someone else you've never met.
1a. why do bad things happen to good people?
Because the gods are irrational savages, more like the immature, bickering gods of Greek myth than the all-knowing, all-compassionate, all-powerful God of monotheistic traditions. Just for example: Gary, the god of blowdryers, is jealous of any mortal with better hair than his, and regularly sends freak gusts of wind to ruin your perfect hair day. Jealousy of mortals in general is a major motivator for these gods, so good people are a natural target.
1b. why do good things happen to bad people?
See 1a above. Also, the gods are easily bored, so they like to fuck with us, just to see what happens. And everyone knows it's the bad people (see also: The Godfather, Boogie Nights, Bonnie & Clyde, and Butch Cassidy & the Sundance Kid, just to name a few) who are by far the most entertaining.
Either that, or the world and its ways make no more sense than your morning bowl of cereal. One might as well ask why the good Cheerios always get eaten first, because, after all, we all get eaten in the end.
Unless we get Raptured first.
2. the Russians have just been faking all this time and finally they launch a massive all-out attack by hovercraft and take over San Francisco along with most of the western seaboard. you escape capture and retreat to the hills. what is your plan?
Along with my fellow escapees, I organize a matriarchal society in which each female gets her pick of several husbands (or wives, in the case of lesbians; and we necessarily have to share our spouses, as, sadly, women still outnumber men). Our peaceful, Utopian culture thrives in the rich farmland of Mendocino county. Rather than foment rebellion, we lure the Russian settlers to our community one by one with our excellent marijuana crop. Eventually, under the tutelage of the new members of our society, we perfect our vodka output and soon convert the remainder of the invaders to our way of life. This becomes a political wave that sweeps the country and finally sets us on the path to peace on earth and bounty for all its inhabitants.
Or, I take along a stack of Tarkovsky movies and practice my Russian in anticipation of my eventual capture.
3. we all have memories of an unforgettable teacher, someone who came along during our formative years and brought something really special and unique into our lives and now occupies a warm, sepia-toned corner of our memory. equally inevitable, sadly, is the teacher burned into our psyche in flaming letters of hate as high as the very outer reaches of our imagination. share with us, if you would, a story of the latter.
You caught me off guard with this one, monkey 0. I've been dredging up long-lost school memories for a teacher worthy of my hatred, and I fail. I can only surmise that this is due to my highly-developed talent for forging my parents' signatures, allowing me to simply avoid the teachers I didn't care for.
There was one legendary harridan who presided over 5th grade in my elementary school. Mrs. J was a classic Wicked-Witch-of-the-West type, complete with bird's nest hair, warts, and obscene flaps hanging from her upper arms (which she displayed in sleeveless shirts even in the dead of nasty Mountain West winters). She tormented my older brother for a year (she was known to despise boys even more than girls, and was rumored to have thrown a pair of scissors at one unfortunate kid), sending him home every afternoon with a stack of math problems on mimeographed sheets half-an-inch high.
The year before 5th grade, my family lived abroad, so when I returned to school on the first day of 5th grade, I was no longer on school rolls, and therefore wasn't assigned to a teacher. What twisted instinct was it that caused me, then, to voluntarily sit in Mrs. J's classroom? Her beady eyes instantly divined my family resemblance to my detested, beaten brother, and she smelled new blood. What lust for Dickensian drama burned within my 10-year-old breast in anticipation of a year of gothic conflict?
Whatever it was, I recall keen disappointment at learning I'd been assigned to Mr. F's class instead. That dispersed quickly, however, as I gazed at Mr. F's dark skin and flashing teeth. His faintly accented English danced me deliciously through 5th grade, and my perverse attempt at self-immolation was mercifully foiled.
4. there are certain animals you're not allowed to have as pets without a special license from the feds. jaguars, for instance. which one's at the top of your list?
Humans. Followed closely by - coincidentally enough - jaguars.
5. and finally, just because I know you have mad skills, give me:
5a. love in ten words,
5b. hate in five,
5c. confusion in three,
5d. and, finally, perfection in one.
Oh, monkey, slipping me the shiv wrapped in flattery. You will not see my revenge coming. But it will be sweet.
5a. Honey, see that giant zit on my ass? Could you...?
(Or, for the more romantically inclined, Antigone's reason to Hémon for choosing death in Anouilh's version, "Do anything for you except change my essential beloved self.")
5b. Ecstatic desire for _____'s humiliation.
5c. What the fuck? (Oh, that was too easy, wasn't it? How about "Football players' stats?")
5d. Rebellion.
interview game official rules: offer void in IN, LA, CO, AL, and HI, and where prohibited by law. leave a comment if you want to be interviewed. if you do, I'll ask you five questions. you update your blog with the answers, and you'll explain the rules and include an offer to interview others in the post. when someone asks you to interview them, you ask them five questions. and if you press the button that gives you a million dollars but kills someone you've never met, then the creepy guy in the suit comes and gives you the money but then he takes the button away and gives it to someone else you've never met.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Barbarians at gate 34
The Ugandan cab driver asked where I was born, but hadn’t heard of Las Vegas. I told him the desert, the Mojave, and he asked, “Are people civilized there?”
I knew what he meant - he talked about the nomadic tribes in Uganda – for him, civilization is a simple thing, wearing suits, driving cars, hospitals and schools and toothpaste and macaroni and cheese in a box, but I thought about his question while I watched the mother and daughter in the airport.
Mom’s sunglasses cost more than a month’s rent on a two-bedroom flat in the city, engorged jewels (w)ring her neck, weighing down fingers and wrists, belly and breasts smashed and mangled into a white suit, mouth gaping and chomping, yogurt doesn’t require mastication but her glittering lips worked and twisted like she was tearing raw flesh from bone, mouth wide open tongue sliding out. Daughter beside her with the flat belly of the young, jeans around her hips, an inch of skin showing, you might believe in redemption for her, seeing that tender belly exposed to the world, if you don’t raise your eyes further you could believe in heat and life and guts in the girl, but let your eyes drag up to her face, more gaudy, vicious jewelry along the way, and there the mother’s face twenty-five years younger, there the same open-mouthed barbaric chewing, same eyes floating dead and jaded, her mother didn’t teach her child civilization, what she learned is money can excuse anything.
My Ugandan cab driver in his neat black suit and quiet voice asked me if the people in the Mojave were civilized.
Not really, I said.
I knew what he meant - he talked about the nomadic tribes in Uganda – for him, civilization is a simple thing, wearing suits, driving cars, hospitals and schools and toothpaste and macaroni and cheese in a box, but I thought about his question while I watched the mother and daughter in the airport.
Mom’s sunglasses cost more than a month’s rent on a two-bedroom flat in the city, engorged jewels (w)ring her neck, weighing down fingers and wrists, belly and breasts smashed and mangled into a white suit, mouth gaping and chomping, yogurt doesn’t require mastication but her glittering lips worked and twisted like she was tearing raw flesh from bone, mouth wide open tongue sliding out. Daughter beside her with the flat belly of the young, jeans around her hips, an inch of skin showing, you might believe in redemption for her, seeing that tender belly exposed to the world, if you don’t raise your eyes further you could believe in heat and life and guts in the girl, but let your eyes drag up to her face, more gaudy, vicious jewelry along the way, and there the mother’s face twenty-five years younger, there the same open-mouthed barbaric chewing, same eyes floating dead and jaded, her mother didn’t teach her child civilization, what she learned is money can excuse anything.
My Ugandan cab driver in his neat black suit and quiet voice asked me if the people in the Mojave were civilized.
Not really, I said.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Music for airports
Mr. Billy is a fan of putting that album on the iPod where it was meant to be heard: in the airport. And I agree, usually, all that air and space within the score gives the whole experience an outworldly sensation, quiets an obsessing brain, brings a circle of peace in close around me.
But this trip, I chose Prokoviev's Romeo & Juliet, and all the draggled travellers became tragic heros. There were Lord & Lady Capulet, in their polo shirts for vacation, there Tybalt, earrings crawling up his left ear. Romeo with hair brushing past his collar, trying to look like he wasn't with his parents.
There Mercutio, the lithe black guy dancing down the concourse, eyes alive, ready to laugh.
Juliet was on my flight, mouth carefully closed over braces. Expensive black leather jacket, Mom's hair dyed to match hers, Dad too loud for them both.
But this trip, I chose Prokoviev's Romeo & Juliet, and all the draggled travellers became tragic heros. There were Lord & Lady Capulet, in their polo shirts for vacation, there Tybalt, earrings crawling up his left ear. Romeo with hair brushing past his collar, trying to look like he wasn't with his parents.
There Mercutio, the lithe black guy dancing down the concourse, eyes alive, ready to laugh.
Juliet was on my flight, mouth carefully closed over braces. Expensive black leather jacket, Mom's hair dyed to match hers, Dad too loud for them both.
Amazing grace
Pair at the airport: fastidious, effeminate white man, all the blood civilized right out of this one, beside him a woman - maybe Filipina - perfectly beautiful. Perfectly coiffed, perfectly attired, perfectly bored. She lounges with perfect grace, perfect disdain, moving with a strange, slow languor, as though suspended by invisible wires.
They're on my flight, across the aisle from each other a few rows ahead of me. I can only see him, as he fishes wetnaps out of his jacket pocket and businesslike wipes down his seat, the armrests, headrest, breaks out a fresh one and sets to work on the tray table, bottom and top, including the latch. Now he offers an array of wetnaps to his invisible companion across the aisle, sorts through them, apparently to choose the correct variety, opens it and pulls out a wetnap, crumples it precisely before handing it across the aisle to her.
Late in the flight I head to the toilet, and she emerges, posing for a moment, narrow hips cocked, before delicately holding open the door for me, a wetnap protecting her oddly large but elegantly placed hand from door microbes. I enter, and the seat is up. Oh. Huh.
Oo-oo-oh.
They're on my flight, across the aisle from each other a few rows ahead of me. I can only see him, as he fishes wetnaps out of his jacket pocket and businesslike wipes down his seat, the armrests, headrest, breaks out a fresh one and sets to work on the tray table, bottom and top, including the latch. Now he offers an array of wetnaps to his invisible companion across the aisle, sorts through them, apparently to choose the correct variety, opens it and pulls out a wetnap, crumples it precisely before handing it across the aisle to her.
Late in the flight I head to the toilet, and she emerges, posing for a moment, narrow hips cocked, before delicately holding open the door for me, a wetnap protecting her oddly large but elegantly placed hand from door microbes. I enter, and the seat is up. Oh. Huh.
Oo-oo-oh.
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Chemical Billy East
On Friday I'm off to Boston, for a week and a half.
I will be relying on the doubtful connection at my host's apartment, so posting may be spotty, but I trust I will have New and Different things to write about there.
I will be relying on the doubtful connection at my host's apartment, so posting may be spotty, but I trust I will have New and Different things to write about there.
"Nothing happened today"
...wrote King George on July 4th, in his 18th century blog.
I'm not so confident that nothing happened, or even that nothing happened to me, but maybe you will thank me for not considering My Flu or My Day at Work blogworthy, maybe forgive me for the long days with no post.
What I can say is not much of interest penetrated the flu-induced fug, except maybe the crying girl tonight, who made for the back of the bus with her red nose, mouthing her grief to the air, tears running down her pink cheeks.
So, this entry is for her - bless you, crying girl.
I'm not so confident that nothing happened, or even that nothing happened to me, but maybe you will thank me for not considering My Flu or My Day at Work blogworthy, maybe forgive me for the long days with no post.
What I can say is not much of interest penetrated the flu-induced fug, except maybe the crying girl tonight, who made for the back of the bus with her red nose, mouthing her grief to the air, tears running down her pink cheeks.
So, this entry is for her - bless you, crying girl.
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Curiously, George
...became aware of something solid, vast, and fast-moving above his head. The sky was cement. At his feet, the sky, and, and, something else.
An enormous canine had its jaws clamped around George's foot, slavering and panting around his foot, George hanging helpless, upside down, watching the sidewalk overhead. Pant, pant, click of obscenely huge toenails.
Where was the man in the yellow hat?
Why couldn't he move his arms, twist around and free himself from this ridiculous position? His eyes felt flat, like discs, like buttons. Pant, pant, click, click.
Was it something he drank?
A creeeping dread invaded George's consciousness, washing up the back of his mind like a swarm of ants. Was he, like Gregor Samsa, metamorphosed? Don't be surprised that George should know Kafka, the explorations of a curious mind can take one down many paths, you didn't read about George's adventures in alchemy, in philosophy, in nuclear physics.
Never again to feel his limbs stretch on their own, mouth stitched on, stitched closed, eyes shining buttons, never again to be seen, to be heard, un-Pinocchioed, from real monkey to facsimile, monkey scent gone, golden retriever slobber in its place, curiosity forever passive, a thing, a toy, a doll.
(for Sylvana)
An enormous canine had its jaws clamped around George's foot, slavering and panting around his foot, George hanging helpless, upside down, watching the sidewalk overhead. Pant, pant, click of obscenely huge toenails.
Where was the man in the yellow hat?
Why couldn't he move his arms, twist around and free himself from this ridiculous position? His eyes felt flat, like discs, like buttons. Pant, pant, click, click.
Was it something he drank?
A creeeping dread invaded George's consciousness, washing up the back of his mind like a swarm of ants. Was he, like Gregor Samsa, metamorphosed? Don't be surprised that George should know Kafka, the explorations of a curious mind can take one down many paths, you didn't read about George's adventures in alchemy, in philosophy, in nuclear physics.
Never again to feel his limbs stretch on their own, mouth stitched on, stitched closed, eyes shining buttons, never again to be seen, to be heard, un-Pinocchioed, from real monkey to facsimile, monkey scent gone, golden retriever slobber in its place, curiosity forever passive, a thing, a toy, a doll.
(for Sylvana)
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Signs & symbols
To my right on the bus yesterday, an old woman with one wrinkled palm open, writing invisible words on skin with her finger. To my left, an elderly man makes tiny chops at the air with his open hands.
Across the aisle, a young Indian woman, exquisitely dressed and made up, an expectation of deference in her look. She pouts her ruby lips, pushes her brows together, and shakes her head minutely. I look around, is she talking to someone else? No, her eyes look inward. She mouths silent words; piety, disgust, shock, seduction, in miniature expression across her face.
The doors open, and I get off. A man sitting alone at the bus stop claps his hands together, loudly, deliberately. Once, twice, three times.
The signal has been given.
Across the aisle, a young Indian woman, exquisitely dressed and made up, an expectation of deference in her look. She pouts her ruby lips, pushes her brows together, and shakes her head minutely. I look around, is she talking to someone else? No, her eyes look inward. She mouths silent words; piety, disgust, shock, seduction, in miniature expression across her face.
The doors open, and I get off. A man sitting alone at the bus stop claps his hands together, loudly, deliberately. Once, twice, three times.
The signal has been given.
A blog quiz has finally gotten me.
I have a commitment to my dear readers, not to fill your days with meaningless shit, unless it's my (homegrown) meaningless shit. But I have finally come across a blog quiz that I could not resist:
You're Prufrock and Other Observations.
by T.S. Eliot
Though you are very short and often overshadowed, your voice is poetic
and lyrical. Dark and brooding, you see the world as a hopeless effort of people trying
to impress other people. Though you make reference to almost everything, you've really
heard enough about Michelangelo. You measure out your life with coffee spoons.
Take the Book Quiz at the Blue Pyramid.
You're Prufrock and Other Observations.
by T.S. Eliot
Though you are very short and often overshadowed, your voice is poetic
and lyrical. Dark and brooding, you see the world as a hopeless effort of people trying
to impress other people. Though you make reference to almost everything, you've really
heard enough about Michelangelo. You measure out your life with coffee spoons.
Take the Book Quiz at the Blue Pyramid.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Teeth
Boyle looked at his knuckles, opening and closing his hands.
That little guy on the other side of the counter would go down in a second under these hands, thought Boyle. He could feel it, see it, the weasel's teeth biting into the skin on his knuckles, then giving way like bowling pins, like marbles, like pearls around a woman's neck, the bones around his eye giving, going soft. He knew how it felt to deliver a punch to the kidneys, to hear the breath foosh out of a guy, you watch a fight and it only takes a second, you can look away at your beer and it's all over but when you're in there it's hours days years the sounds coming out of his mouth with the teeth and spit, he's wound all around your feet and you're standing it's all yours, everybody knows to be afraid of you, they get out of your way when you walk away, the girls looking at you out of the sides of their eyes, their cheeks pink and you're all of it, you're everything in that moment.
It was almost enough just to know it, almost enough today for Boyle as he took the deposit slip from the little guy. Give him the receipt or take a shot, dole out the cash or go, launch across the counter and into the light, no going back.
That little guy on the other side of the counter would go down in a second under these hands, thought Boyle. He could feel it, see it, the weasel's teeth biting into the skin on his knuckles, then giving way like bowling pins, like marbles, like pearls around a woman's neck, the bones around his eye giving, going soft. He knew how it felt to deliver a punch to the kidneys, to hear the breath foosh out of a guy, you watch a fight and it only takes a second, you can look away at your beer and it's all over but when you're in there it's hours days years the sounds coming out of his mouth with the teeth and spit, he's wound all around your feet and you're standing it's all yours, everybody knows to be afraid of you, they get out of your way when you walk away, the girls looking at you out of the sides of their eyes, their cheeks pink and you're all of it, you're everything in that moment.
It was almost enough just to know it, almost enough today for Boyle as he took the deposit slip from the little guy. Give him the receipt or take a shot, dole out the cash or go, launch across the counter and into the light, no going back.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Night walk
A Russian market we'd never seen before ("Piroshki!" handwritten on the window); beautiful old brick service station that had survived at least one major earthquake; café advertising HAMBURGERS and SUSHI in neon; shiny red brick Chinese joint, the big round tables packed to the gills, a hundred families eating out, the waiters tripping from table to table, we stood outside in the dark, light from glittering chandeliers edging our faces; Aladdin Radio, open by appointment only, dark recesses full of depression-era cabinet radios, a crystal microphone, the walls papered with ancient ads.
A full moon behind the radio tower, clouds dragging across its face.
Tired men bent over the counter at the all-night donut shop, the smell of sugar and grease heavy on the street.
A full moon behind the radio tower, clouds dragging across its face.
Tired men bent over the counter at the all-night donut shop, the smell of sugar and grease heavy on the street.
What stinking writer's block?
Mr. Billy framed this picture for me, and put it on my writing desk:
Where's my gun, dammit?
Where's my gun, dammit?
The Yosemite Sam Effect
So, you know in cartoons, when someone like Yosemite Sam would get whacked in the face with a frying pan? He'd vibrate from the impact for minutes afterward.
Or, like the Ball Thing in I Heart Huckabees?
This week I got smacked in the face by my Day Job, and I'm still feeling like a dish of mold. So, to all you lovely readers, my apologies, I should be as close to human as I get...soon.
Or, like the Ball Thing in I Heart Huckabees?
This week I got smacked in the face by my Day Job, and I'm still feeling like a dish of mold. So, to all you lovely readers, my apologies, I should be as close to human as I get...soon.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
George plays the concertina
George played the concertina. Don't call it an accordion. Dad's lessons came out for something, anyway, he could pick up maybe $40 on a sunny afternoon, George squeezing out the tunes, eyes half-closed, he's back in his old room, red rugs and dark lavendar wallpaper, Edith Piaf on the record player, George is eight, his hair slicked back, suit with short pants, squeezing along with Edith, Uncle Toots slapping his knee, sour cigar smoke drifting to the brown ceiling, drink on the little table, Mom clapping along in her Sunday dress, flowered hat in her lap, Dad just nodding, yes, lessons were going well, George played along with Edith.
A fire truck passed.
George didn't know how old he was, now. His fingers black on the keys. He lifted a knee and hopped in time to the music.
George played the concertina.
A fire truck passed.
George didn't know how old he was, now. His fingers black on the keys. He lifted a knee and hopped in time to the music.
George played the concertina.
Thursday, April 14, 2005
What Shondelle doesn't know
Teenagers on the bus.
One girl sits beside me, then pops up onto the seat, I can feel all her muscles jump at once, she hauls the window open and screams.
"Tiff! I'm gonna fuck Shondelle up! I'm going to her school!
She plops back down in the seat for only two seconds before getting up and moving to the very back seats. I have a good view of her pugnacious expression as it fades. She shifts, primly, and picks invisible lint off her knee. She's wearing black tights with big, round holes cut in careful randomness, her skin showing through. A neat mini-skirt. Sweet little pink slippers and matching purse. Hair straightened and held with a scarf. I call her Pinky.
Shondelle can't know what's coming her way on the 43 bus.
Pinky checks her purse, then checks it again. Her certainty is ebbing away. She licks her lips and brushes at her knee again. She gets up and stands at the back door, and I think she's going to get off at this stop.
Instead, a pack of boys push on, four midgets and a giant, they're all the same age, but one got hit with hormone roulette early. Pinky sticks to them and follows them to the back of the bus, working herself up. She's talking a hundred miles a minute, but I can only pick up bits, "Shondelle," and "Shut the fuck up."
The boys are in slow motion, blinking their eyes and looking at their shoes. Pinky's volume grows. She's back on her feet, moving toward the door again.
"I said, Shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up, bitch."
At the next stop, they all empty out onto the sidewalk, and as the bus pulls away, I can see the giant has taken his coat off and raised his arms, slapping his chest, he's a whole person taller than Pinky, but she dances around him like she's going to take a shot.
And then I can't see them anymore.
I get off and walk toward work. In the sidewalk, someone carved this in the wet cement:
"I love you anyway"
I love you anyway, Pinky.
One girl sits beside me, then pops up onto the seat, I can feel all her muscles jump at once, she hauls the window open and screams.
"Tiff! I'm gonna fuck Shondelle up! I'm going to her school!
She plops back down in the seat for only two seconds before getting up and moving to the very back seats. I have a good view of her pugnacious expression as it fades. She shifts, primly, and picks invisible lint off her knee. She's wearing black tights with big, round holes cut in careful randomness, her skin showing through. A neat mini-skirt. Sweet little pink slippers and matching purse. Hair straightened and held with a scarf. I call her Pinky.
Shondelle can't know what's coming her way on the 43 bus.
Pinky checks her purse, then checks it again. Her certainty is ebbing away. She licks her lips and brushes at her knee again. She gets up and stands at the back door, and I think she's going to get off at this stop.
Instead, a pack of boys push on, four midgets and a giant, they're all the same age, but one got hit with hormone roulette early. Pinky sticks to them and follows them to the back of the bus, working herself up. She's talking a hundred miles a minute, but I can only pick up bits, "Shondelle," and "Shut the fuck up."
The boys are in slow motion, blinking their eyes and looking at their shoes. Pinky's volume grows. She's back on her feet, moving toward the door again.
"I said, Shut the fuck up shut the fuck up shut the fuck up, bitch."
At the next stop, they all empty out onto the sidewalk, and as the bus pulls away, I can see the giant has taken his coat off and raised his arms, slapping his chest, he's a whole person taller than Pinky, but she dances around him like she's going to take a shot.
And then I can't see them anymore.
I get off and walk toward work. In the sidewalk, someone carved this in the wet cement:
"I love you anyway"
I love you anyway, Pinky.
Running
This morning a tiny woman ran for the bus, skinny legs wrapped tight in high heeled boots, face above them a floating calm, zen meditation, eyes downlooking, not a foot wrong, exquisite rhythm clip clip clip, a perfect score in the Running-for-the-bus-in-high-heel-boots Olympics.
Monday, April 11, 2005
Screaming chihulys
We went out for dinner, Mr. Chemical Billy and me, that's Out for Dinner, to a fancy-eatin' place, not our usual fare, but a save-up-and-dress-up kind of Dinner Out. This because we also had tickets to a Play, so it was the whole show, dinner and a play, (where later we would meet an Armenian playwrite and his Russian travel agent wife, the playwrite disappointed in the American stage, but that's for another blogpost).
The restaurant - which was supposed to have some kind of a deal with the theater, so if you had tickets to the play, you got a break on the bill, which was attractive to us - suffered from an affliction we like to refer to as the "screaming chihulys", (best exemplified by the lobby at the Bellagio), though actual Chihuly sculptures are not required, the aspiration, the stench of chihuly is quite enough.
There is something about a place like this, I told Mr. C B after the host seated us at a tiny half-table in the waitstaff thoroughfare, that inspires rebellion in me, but I tried to keep it down, not to make a scene. I did try.
We looked around the room and saw acres of old white men in black suits, everywhere old white men in black suits, one or two glossed-up women but everything was about the old white men, and one might say we stuck out.
If you were there, had looked around the room at the OWM making their deals over dainty little plates of food, you would have stopped at Mr. & Mrs. Chemical Billy, Dressed Up to Go Out, bright colors where the OWM were white and black, laughing while the OWM chortled or scowled. You would have seen Chemical Billy reach for her scarf - they keep these places frigid - but the scarf had fallen to the floor, and under the chair, and Billy, rather than standing up to retrieve the scarf, keeps reaching for it, really an impossible contortion but she keeps at it, bravely, stupidly, the chair tipping, and you might have even seen her face, that half-second when she thought, "Fuck it," and let the chair go while she tumbles ass over head into the path of the oncoming waiter, who loses his own composure and cracks up.
It was worth it, just for that.
But the bastards, the poor, sad OWM, didn't crack a smile.
The restaurant - which was supposed to have some kind of a deal with the theater, so if you had tickets to the play, you got a break on the bill, which was attractive to us - suffered from an affliction we like to refer to as the "screaming chihulys", (best exemplified by the lobby at the Bellagio), though actual Chihuly sculptures are not required, the aspiration, the stench of chihuly is quite enough.
There is something about a place like this, I told Mr. C B after the host seated us at a tiny half-table in the waitstaff thoroughfare, that inspires rebellion in me, but I tried to keep it down, not to make a scene. I did try.
We looked around the room and saw acres of old white men in black suits, everywhere old white men in black suits, one or two glossed-up women but everything was about the old white men, and one might say we stuck out.
If you were there, had looked around the room at the OWM making their deals over dainty little plates of food, you would have stopped at Mr. & Mrs. Chemical Billy, Dressed Up to Go Out, bright colors where the OWM were white and black, laughing while the OWM chortled or scowled. You would have seen Chemical Billy reach for her scarf - they keep these places frigid - but the scarf had fallen to the floor, and under the chair, and Billy, rather than standing up to retrieve the scarf, keeps reaching for it, really an impossible contortion but she keeps at it, bravely, stupidly, the chair tipping, and you might have even seen her face, that half-second when she thought, "Fuck it," and let the chair go while she tumbles ass over head into the path of the oncoming waiter, who loses his own composure and cracks up.
It was worth it, just for that.
But the bastards, the poor, sad OWM, didn't crack a smile.
Sunday, April 10, 2005
Cranes
Stan said that's how to find a job, just look for the cranes, Verl, wherever you see a crane, you know there's a job site.
Verl drove around with his face scrunched up to the windshield, There! There's one, just one crane, but you never know, they might need someone, they're always looking for labor, Verl was a good worker, his ma always said he was a good worker, she could give him anything to do and he'd keep at it until he was done, no matter how long it took, or how many blisters he got.
Yep, Verl was a good worker. He just needed to walk up to the trailer, there, where the supervisor is, and tell him what a good worker he is, and he could have a job, just like that, and money to walk around with, money in his pocket that he didn't have to ask ma for. That's all, just knock on the trailer door, it would be easy, Stan said they were always looking for good workers.
Verl sat in the car, looking up at the crane, bouncing his fingertips on the steering wheel.
Just knock on that door. They were always looking for good workers.
Tomorrow, Verl thought, turning the car around. He'll come back tomorrow.
Verl drove around with his face scrunched up to the windshield, There! There's one, just one crane, but you never know, they might need someone, they're always looking for labor, Verl was a good worker, his ma always said he was a good worker, she could give him anything to do and he'd keep at it until he was done, no matter how long it took, or how many blisters he got.
Yep, Verl was a good worker. He just needed to walk up to the trailer, there, where the supervisor is, and tell him what a good worker he is, and he could have a job, just like that, and money to walk around with, money in his pocket that he didn't have to ask ma for. That's all, just knock on the trailer door, it would be easy, Stan said they were always looking for good workers.
Verl sat in the car, looking up at the crane, bouncing his fingertips on the steering wheel.
Just knock on that door. They were always looking for good workers.
Tomorrow, Verl thought, turning the car around. He'll come back tomorrow.
Sunday scratch fiction
Monkey 0 started it; fragments of fiction written about as fast as one can type. Sounds like fun to me. So, on Sundays I'll try my hand at it too.
Most of my fiction juice goes into longer projects, but this might be a way to gas up, who knows.
Most of my fiction juice goes into longer projects, but this might be a way to gas up, who knows.
Saturday, April 09, 2005
I am my own character
Some nights on the bus, there's entirely too much material.
The boy sitting behind me, on the phone in a luxe voice, "I was makeup artist for 3 weddings today. My fake-smile muscles are worn out, darling..."
The stoner chick next to me, dangerously beautiful, eyes spinning in her head she's so high. Giant earphones plugged into nothing. She talks to a girl in the seat in front of her, fried hipster voice spilling out of cherrry lips, punctuated at random points with a fatuous giggle, "Yeah, hehehehe, a job, that's an idea heheheh, employment, I should hehe get one of those...I'm just heheheh couch-surfing right heheh now.."
And the guy who stepped out of a Daumier poster, and the man with the grave, mature voice who walks like a three-year-old girl needing to pee.
The bus descends into a rough-ish neighborhood, and a crowd gets on, these are people not to piss off, I could swear they're all giants, six feet tall and more, scars and burnt-out cigarillos hanging out the sides of their mouths, thirty-year-old leather jackets and thousand-yard stares, men and women, black and brown and white, don't mess with these people as they squeeze their way in to the bus, packing in tight around me.
The girl on the inside seat needs to get off, so I get up to let her off, book in one hand, backpack in the other, but then I realize I'm getting off at the next stop, I offer the seats to two of the standing crowd and now I'm standing, my hands are full and it slips through my brain that the bus is about to move & I have no hands to reach out and grab a rail, & just as I think it, the bus lurches ahead & I'm going down, no balance no purchase, I'll be laid out flat.
But.
I never touch floor. It feels like fifty hands catch me, softly, gently, those rough characters helping me up & laughing with me, the whole bus laughing & asking if I'm all right, they right me and hold me steady, see me safely off at my stop, and one man gets off at the same time, saying, "One advantage of a crowded bus, huh?"
He moves his cigarillo to the other corner of his mouth, and saunters away down the street.
The boy sitting behind me, on the phone in a luxe voice, "I was makeup artist for 3 weddings today. My fake-smile muscles are worn out, darling..."
The stoner chick next to me, dangerously beautiful, eyes spinning in her head she's so high. Giant earphones plugged into nothing. She talks to a girl in the seat in front of her, fried hipster voice spilling out of cherrry lips, punctuated at random points with a fatuous giggle, "Yeah, hehehehe, a job, that's an idea heheheh, employment, I should hehe get one of those...I'm just heheheh couch-surfing right heheh now.."
And the guy who stepped out of a Daumier poster, and the man with the grave, mature voice who walks like a three-year-old girl needing to pee.
The bus descends into a rough-ish neighborhood, and a crowd gets on, these are people not to piss off, I could swear they're all giants, six feet tall and more, scars and burnt-out cigarillos hanging out the sides of their mouths, thirty-year-old leather jackets and thousand-yard stares, men and women, black and brown and white, don't mess with these people as they squeeze their way in to the bus, packing in tight around me.
The girl on the inside seat needs to get off, so I get up to let her off, book in one hand, backpack in the other, but then I realize I'm getting off at the next stop, I offer the seats to two of the standing crowd and now I'm standing, my hands are full and it slips through my brain that the bus is about to move & I have no hands to reach out and grab a rail, & just as I think it, the bus lurches ahead & I'm going down, no balance no purchase, I'll be laid out flat.
But.
I never touch floor. It feels like fifty hands catch me, softly, gently, those rough characters helping me up & laughing with me, the whole bus laughing & asking if I'm all right, they right me and hold me steady, see me safely off at my stop, and one man gets off at the same time, saying, "One advantage of a crowded bus, huh?"
He moves his cigarillo to the other corner of his mouth, and saunters away down the street.
Thursday, April 07, 2005
A hotbed of badminton
Tonight I learned that Denmark is a hotbed of badminton.
Downton at night, tag-ends of conversations riding on mild air currents.
A single brick wall, like the rib of Jonah's whale, standing high over the leavings of the building it once supported. Next door, a slick metal neighbor watches its last days through two hundred window eyes.
A friend explains why he's moving back home to New Orleans.
"...people are atomised here. You see people on their own, or couples, but no families, San Francisco hasn't been around long enough to grow those generations.
"...and yet, and yet, I love the musicians in the subways, the freaks and the hippies, but their ways are dying. You have to work hard, people have to work hard to survive here.
"...my brother in New Orleans is unemployed...he spends his days at the coffee shop, talking with all the curmudgeons that gather there, about art, and living, and all the unexplored universes..."
I can read what's playing at the movies in mirror writing, the marquis running backward in the shop window across the street.
A girl grooves down the road to the music in her head.
"I love San Francisco," says my New Orleans-bound friend, "It is, clearly, easily, the second best city in the U.S."
Downton at night, tag-ends of conversations riding on mild air currents.
A single brick wall, like the rib of Jonah's whale, standing high over the leavings of the building it once supported. Next door, a slick metal neighbor watches its last days through two hundred window eyes.
A friend explains why he's moving back home to New Orleans.
"...people are atomised here. You see people on their own, or couples, but no families, San Francisco hasn't been around long enough to grow those generations.
"...and yet, and yet, I love the musicians in the subways, the freaks and the hippies, but their ways are dying. You have to work hard, people have to work hard to survive here.
"...my brother in New Orleans is unemployed...he spends his days at the coffee shop, talking with all the curmudgeons that gather there, about art, and living, and all the unexplored universes..."
I can read what's playing at the movies in mirror writing, the marquis running backward in the shop window across the street.
A girl grooves down the road to the music in her head.
"I love San Francisco," says my New Orleans-bound friend, "It is, clearly, easily, the second best city in the U.S."
Monday, April 04, 2005
Paleface
I often see the guy at my bus stop; he must work in the same neighborhood I do.
I think he dropped in from New York, circa 1985.
He's pale, big and fleshy, with that unhealthy green tinge that makes me think he toils in the sub-sub-basement of some big money firm, shoveling wads of cash into a large, wet mouth. He has to work fast, the mouth is always hungry, and if he gets behind, it'll be his hand next. He wears a suit of a color -- an un-color really -- that makes no impression beyond highlighting that greenish cast to his skin.
I've never seen anything but a blank, monotonous panic in his face.
Waiting for the bus, morning bagel in hand, he takes a bite, walks three steps out into the street, checks for the bus, looks at his watch, three steps back to the curb, and another bite. Same thing, every morning. Bite, step step step, check for bus, check the time, step step step, bite. Over and over, not quite precise, but with an oppressive religiosity, as though if he doesn't do this ritual correctly, if he fails to check for the bus between bites, the bus will not come.
And, maybe he's right.
I think he dropped in from New York, circa 1985.
He's pale, big and fleshy, with that unhealthy green tinge that makes me think he toils in the sub-sub-basement of some big money firm, shoveling wads of cash into a large, wet mouth. He has to work fast, the mouth is always hungry, and if he gets behind, it'll be his hand next. He wears a suit of a color -- an un-color really -- that makes no impression beyond highlighting that greenish cast to his skin.
I've never seen anything but a blank, monotonous panic in his face.
Waiting for the bus, morning bagel in hand, he takes a bite, walks three steps out into the street, checks for the bus, looks at his watch, three steps back to the curb, and another bite. Same thing, every morning. Bite, step step step, check for bus, check the time, step step step, bite. Over and over, not quite precise, but with an oppressive religiosity, as though if he doesn't do this ritual correctly, if he fails to check for the bus between bites, the bus will not come.
And, maybe he's right.
Saturday, April 02, 2005
Fish don't blink
A good friend, let's call him Quigley, was in town last weekend.
That meant cabs.
Ripping around town, rattling in the back seat of several different taxis, we learned that there are opium poppies in a public place (no, I'm not telling where) from a driver whose window we broke. Another told us that driving is only part time for him (he has another job as well), that he'd go completely insane if he had to do it full time.
But the king of the cabbies picked us up on Market Street, on the corner where the check cashing place is, where people on the ragged edge of the economy hang out, share a smoke, get an egg roll for 50 cents. Where we'd seen a halfassed fight in progress between two hulking men, one of them a bare, demoralized idea of a drag queen. Dancers trying to get to class in the nearest building edged around the crowd that collected around the combatants, a circle of crush space following them around as they flailed out into the street (dancers scurrying in the door), then back on the sidewalk. Finally the tiny elevator man from the dance building appears, shooing the fighters away with utter confidence, a shopkeeper sweeping his stoop.
The cabbie was monologuing from the minute we landed in his car. I heard only bits and pieces, remember even less, but it was all heroic in scale, how to bring the whole world together - did he suggest soccer broadcasts? - to when he worked at IBM, how the top executives weren't from here, you could notice, if you met with any of them, they didn't blink.
We roared bouncing up the streets toward Telegraph Hill.
Alien races, levitation, telepathy. "You can always tell the aliens, I mean, it makes sense, you come from a place with no sun you don't gotta blink.
"I mean, fish don't blink."
And you know, we couldn't argue with that.
That meant cabs.
Ripping around town, rattling in the back seat of several different taxis, we learned that there are opium poppies in a public place (no, I'm not telling where) from a driver whose window we broke. Another told us that driving is only part time for him (he has another job as well), that he'd go completely insane if he had to do it full time.
But the king of the cabbies picked us up on Market Street, on the corner where the check cashing place is, where people on the ragged edge of the economy hang out, share a smoke, get an egg roll for 50 cents. Where we'd seen a halfassed fight in progress between two hulking men, one of them a bare, demoralized idea of a drag queen. Dancers trying to get to class in the nearest building edged around the crowd that collected around the combatants, a circle of crush space following them around as they flailed out into the street (dancers scurrying in the door), then back on the sidewalk. Finally the tiny elevator man from the dance building appears, shooing the fighters away with utter confidence, a shopkeeper sweeping his stoop.
The cabbie was monologuing from the minute we landed in his car. I heard only bits and pieces, remember even less, but it was all heroic in scale, how to bring the whole world together - did he suggest soccer broadcasts? - to when he worked at IBM, how the top executives weren't from here, you could notice, if you met with any of them, they didn't blink.
We roared bouncing up the streets toward Telegraph Hill.
Alien races, levitation, telepathy. "You can always tell the aliens, I mean, it makes sense, you come from a place with no sun you don't gotta blink.
"I mean, fish don't blink."
And you know, we couldn't argue with that.
Saturday, March 26, 2005
Free band name
Got a hard-core band? Looking for a name? Here you go, free of charge: Persistent Vegetative State
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Pacific Heights
Today on the street I passed a man with a shaved head, black stubble just starting to poke through the skin, and an enormous, heroic scar running from just above his left eyebrow, arcing all the way up and over to the back of his head, the lips just held together with crude black whipstictching. It was spectacular! I'd never seen anything like it. His left eyelid drooped, but otherwise he had a friendly, Anthony Quinn-ish face. What on earth could have happened to this man that he could look like that and still be walking around? And this was in Pacific Heights, where most people look so pretty you want to check for the zipper. I wanted to stop him right there and ask him, What the hell happened to you? but I decided against it. His girlfriend looked pretty upset. She was having a bad day, but he seemed all right. Imagine that! Yeah, somebody took a cleaver to my head, but I'm feeling okay, how about you? What a conversation piece!
Imagine the stories he can tell his grandkids!
Imagine the stories he can tell his grandkids!
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Neal Stephenson, above the fray
Neal Stephenson states on his web site that "...artists often make fools of themselves, and begin to produce bad art, when they decide to get political." He does have a point, political art is often bad, but does that mean we shouldn't become involved in politics? Or, (since I take everything personally) does that mean I, as a writer, shouldn't become involved in politics?
On reflection, it seems an odd manner of quarantining politics from other aspects of life. And taken to the logical extreme (if artists should stay out of politics, should bakers and plumbers, too?), it essentially means that politics should be left to the politicians. Which, to me, seems a particularly dangerous proposition.
In a participatory democracy, politics is everybody's business. This is true in other parts of the world, where political discussion is as common as sports chat is here in America. The only way to keep our political arena healthy and honest is if every one of us pays attention, says what she thinks, and joins in the bloody fray. Blogging is showing itself to be a great method for this. If you disagree with my political view, you can comment on my post, and maybe I'll end up being convinced. How do I know if we don't open the discussion?
True, as Stephenson (whose writing I quite like) points out, I could easily make a fool of myself by exposing my political views, but I risk making a fool of myself every time I lay my fingers on a keyboard. If I fear looking foolish, I'll never write a word.
As for his last reason for avoiding politics:
I wasn't under the impression, Mr. Stephenson, that your imagination was so limited! Surely you are capable of saying "murder is wrong," and yet portraying a murderer with compelling empathy.
I can understand a wish to deflect readers from assuming particular political bent in his work, and it is his prerogative to do so. But I reserve the right, respectfully, to disagree with his blanket statement, and dive into the nasty fray, teeth sharpened.
On reflection, it seems an odd manner of quarantining politics from other aspects of life. And taken to the logical extreme (if artists should stay out of politics, should bakers and plumbers, too?), it essentially means that politics should be left to the politicians. Which, to me, seems a particularly dangerous proposition.
In a participatory democracy, politics is everybody's business. This is true in other parts of the world, where political discussion is as common as sports chat is here in America. The only way to keep our political arena healthy and honest is if every one of us pays attention, says what she thinks, and joins in the bloody fray. Blogging is showing itself to be a great method for this. If you disagree with my political view, you can comment on my post, and maybe I'll end up being convinced. How do I know if we don't open the discussion?
True, as Stephenson (whose writing I quite like) points out, I could easily make a fool of myself by exposing my political views, but I risk making a fool of myself every time I lay my fingers on a keyboard. If I fear looking foolish, I'll never write a word.
As for his last reason for avoiding politics:
A novelist needs to be able to see the world through the eyes of just about anyone, including people who have this or that set of views on religion, politics, etc. By espousing one strong political view a novelist loses the power to do this.
I wasn't under the impression, Mr. Stephenson, that your imagination was so limited! Surely you are capable of saying "murder is wrong," and yet portraying a murderer with compelling empathy.
I can understand a wish to deflect readers from assuming particular political bent in his work, and it is his prerogative to do so. But I reserve the right, respectfully, to disagree with his blanket statement, and dive into the nasty fray, teeth sharpened.
Saturday, March 19, 2005
"We are not a merciful nation"
If you're dirt poor, single, and homeless and you get pregnant, you must keep your baby, even though the overwhelming chance is that you and your baby will be hungry, cold, and miserable for the rest of both of your lives. Despite the fact that virtually every competent medical person who has walked into Schiavo's room and smelled the shit-scent of death has declared Schiavo a cabbage or, on a good day, a pea pod, the right smells opportunity to distract people from the gutting of programs that actually do good for the living.(Emphasis mine.)
Courtesy of The Rude Pundit.
The Chauncey Gardiner hypothesis
Jonathan Chait of The New Republic always assumed (as did many of us), that Ari Fleischer was a "diabolical genius," but maybe not:
While I was slogging through [Fleischer's] book, I happened to be e-mailing with a conservative I know. My correspondent thought my Ari-as-virtuoso theory was silly: "When Ari worked on the Hill he was widely considered to be a moron even by other press secretaries, who are mostly a bunch of ignorant dolts themselves." But how, I asked, could he have run circles around the Washington press corps? "Ari is a genius like the [Peter] Sellers character in Being There," he replied. "He was too stupid and too ignorant to know he was telling lies."(Registration required, I think.)
Friday, March 18, 2005
MUNI, unplugged
I wondered what I might be missing in my daily commute, with my iPod and book, so tonight on the bus home, I unplugged.
Two women and a man stood near me, my eyes level with their belts. The first woman was speaking a language I couldn't identify, maybe Tagalog?
Woman #1: [Unidentifiable language]
Man: Poltergeist, cemetery.
Woman #1: [Language blah blah] ...friends from medical school, and I went for my interviews. [more language - is it Spanish?] So, the night before [blah blah, nope, not Spanish, maybe an Asian language, but not one I know] it's a voice, & I can see down by the foot of the bed, & rising up [language - wait, did she say niño?] and I'm like, scared...
Woman #2: Eeeee!
I look up at them, and we all break out laughing. They're much younger than I expected, Woman #1 is wearing braces.
Man (to me): Scary story, huh?
I nod.
Man (to Wo #1): Next day, next day.
Wo #1: So the next day [blah blah now I'm thinking Tagalog again] across the street, this little cemetery...
I wait for the second bus at Fillmore & Haight, across the street from Whole Foods. There's a flat above the store, its window open, light on, they've been painting a rich red, hint of pink. I've seen the boys that live there on sunny days, leaning on the sill, smoking. Tonight it's dumping rain. Two white boys set a boom box on top of the garbage can and turn it on.
The driver looks me up and down. I think some of the people on this bus rode in with me this morning.
We pass the Vapor Room, Golden Triangle, Dreams of Kathmandu, Pipe Dreams. A hipster with mutton chops, soul patch, rolling his own. A grandly fat woman, a hundred smooth braids, opens her kid-size umbrella, it just covers her head. A tall brown boy with painfully sweet eyes.
UCSF medical center. A woman is wheeled out strapped tight on a gurney, her face turned up, casually chatting with the orderly.
It's dusk. Blue cell phone glow, flowered umbrella, rain slicker.
I love this city, I love this city, I love this city.
Two women and a man stood near me, my eyes level with their belts. The first woman was speaking a language I couldn't identify, maybe Tagalog?
Woman #1: [Unidentifiable language]
Man: Poltergeist, cemetery.
Woman #1: [Language blah blah] ...friends from medical school, and I went for my interviews. [more language - is it Spanish?] So, the night before [blah blah, nope, not Spanish, maybe an Asian language, but not one I know] it's a voice, & I can see down by the foot of the bed, & rising up [language - wait, did she say niño?] and I'm like, scared...
Woman #2: Eeeee!
I look up at them, and we all break out laughing. They're much younger than I expected, Woman #1 is wearing braces.
Man (to me): Scary story, huh?
I nod.
Man (to Wo #1): Next day, next day.
Wo #1: So the next day [blah blah now I'm thinking Tagalog again] across the street, this little cemetery...
I wait for the second bus at Fillmore & Haight, across the street from Whole Foods. There's a flat above the store, its window open, light on, they've been painting a rich red, hint of pink. I've seen the boys that live there on sunny days, leaning on the sill, smoking. Tonight it's dumping rain. Two white boys set a boom box on top of the garbage can and turn it on.
The driver looks me up and down. I think some of the people on this bus rode in with me this morning.
We pass the Vapor Room, Golden Triangle, Dreams of Kathmandu, Pipe Dreams. A hipster with mutton chops, soul patch, rolling his own. A grandly fat woman, a hundred smooth braids, opens her kid-size umbrella, it just covers her head. A tall brown boy with painfully sweet eyes.
UCSF medical center. A woman is wheeled out strapped tight on a gurney, her face turned up, casually chatting with the orderly.
It's dusk. Blue cell phone glow, flowered umbrella, rain slicker.
I love this city, I love this city, I love this city.
Thursday, March 17, 2005
The possibility of the impossible
Many years ago, my wonderful mother-in-law mentioned a writer I might like: José Saramago. She reads him in the original Portuguese; I have to make do with English translation, but his prose (and the excellent translation) comes through with living clarity.
The first book of his I read was Blindness. Since then, I save his books, parcel them out as special treats so I don't run out of them too quickly; I wait until I can bring to each book the active attention it asks.
The latest book, which I just finished, is called The Double, and I see that his power continues to grow. I laughed at the following exhange early in the book (Saramago doesn't use quotation marks--you know it's a different speaker because the phrase begins with a capital--sounds odd & clunky, but it flows, inside his books it's almost as though the voices are speaking inside my own head). The speakers are two high school teachers, talking about individual responsibility for the state of the world:
And so succinctly does he bring about what I was trying to say.
In the same book, one of the most romantic bits of dialogue I've ever read. Earlier the main character's beloved leaves a message on his answering machine:
Three pages later he calls her:
If I am doomed to live until I'm ninety-five years old, I will be happy if only I can approach the level of his work.
The first book of his I read was Blindness. Since then, I save his books, parcel them out as special treats so I don't run out of them too quickly; I wait until I can bring to each book the active attention it asks.
The latest book, which I just finished, is called The Double, and I see that his power continues to grow. I laughed at the following exhange early in the book (Saramago doesn't use quotation marks--you know it's a different speaker because the phrase begins with a capital--sounds odd & clunky, but it flows, inside his books it's almost as though the voices are speaking inside my own head). The speakers are two high school teachers, talking about individual responsibility for the state of the world:
Contenting yourself with the music of the orchestra you play in and with the part you play in it is a common mistake..., Some people are more responsible than others, you and I for example, are relatively innocent, of the worst evils that is, Ah, the usual argument of the easy conscience...the best way to achieve a universal exoneration is to conclude that since everyone is to blame, no one is guilty, Perhaps there's nothing we can do about it, perhaps they're just the world's problems, The only problems the world has are problems caused by people...
And so succinctly does he bring about what I was trying to say.
In the same book, one of the most romantic bits of dialogue I've ever read. Earlier the main character's beloved leaves a message on his answering machine:
...I imagine how wonderful it would be if you were to phone me just because you felt like it, like someone who suddenly feels thirsty and goes and drinks a glass of water, but I know that would be asking too much of you...
Three pages later he calls her:
Maria da Paz asked, Is that you, and he replied, Yes, it's me, I was thirsty and I've come to ask for a glass of water.
If I am doomed to live until I'm ninety-five years old, I will be happy if only I can approach the level of his work.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
Lateral blogging
I came upon this blog randomly. The writer is working on her English, and the results are more poetic than she can know:
"...I will think them repeatedly to avoid forgetting them and I can't do the next thinking."
I love this blogger for bringing me new combinations of words, for sidling up to the language I've been speaking all my life. I used to toy with the idea of moving someplace where I didn't speak the language (like Stephen Vizinczey), learning to write in an unfamiliar tongue, stumbling on new ways of putting things together, free of clichés, expectations, trod and re-trod paths.
As it is, I'll have to make do in English for now, and bless Jennia for a glimpse through the murk.
"...I will think them repeatedly to avoid forgetting them and I can't do the next thinking."
I love this blogger for bringing me new combinations of words, for sidling up to the language I've been speaking all my life. I used to toy with the idea of moving someplace where I didn't speak the language (like Stephen Vizinczey), learning to write in an unfamiliar tongue, stumbling on new ways of putting things together, free of clichés, expectations, trod and re-trod paths.
As it is, I'll have to make do in English for now, and bless Jennia for a glimpse through the murk.
Monday, March 14, 2005
Eisner and comic art
My dad started collecting comics when he was a kid, and I got to grow up surrounded by the best examples of comic art from the Golden Age forward. I spent uncounted hours with Captain America, Prince Valiant, Batman, Alfred E. Neuman, anything and everything Dad had filed in cardboard boxes, tucked into the dark recesses of the basement storage room.
Any comic in a plastic bag had to be handled with care, but none were forbidden. Dad collects because he loves comic art, not because he has visions of selling high, so I got to drink in all of it, from the time I was little. I even met some classic novels first through Classic Comics: retellings of Uncle Tom's Cabin, She, and Treasure Island with words and pictures.
But nothing came close to The Spirit. A hero without any super- on the front, just a guy in a wrinkled suit and an eye mask. I came back to those stories over and over. I half-expected to grow up into one of the gorgeous women the Spirit was always tangling with: not Ellen Dolan, certainly - she was too good - and probably not P'Gell, no matter how much I might wish it. Sand Saref, though, was more like it, and Silk Satin...I could understand her. The Spirit had everything - great, absorbing stories, dimensional characters, and the most expressive artwork anywhere in the comic world.
The man who created The Spirit, Will Eisner, died on January 3rd (registration required).
If you've heard of graphic novels, Eisner's the reason. If you think comics might be something more than just junk food for pre-adolescents, you can thank Will Eisner.
And if you want to see some of his work, check out MOCCA in New York, May 21 through September 19.
Any comic in a plastic bag had to be handled with care, but none were forbidden. Dad collects because he loves comic art, not because he has visions of selling high, so I got to drink in all of it, from the time I was little. I even met some classic novels first through Classic Comics: retellings of Uncle Tom's Cabin, She, and Treasure Island with words and pictures.
But nothing came close to The Spirit. A hero without any super- on the front, just a guy in a wrinkled suit and an eye mask. I came back to those stories over and over. I half-expected to grow up into one of the gorgeous women the Spirit was always tangling with: not Ellen Dolan, certainly - she was too good - and probably not P'Gell, no matter how much I might wish it. Sand Saref, though, was more like it, and Silk Satin...I could understand her. The Spirit had everything - great, absorbing stories, dimensional characters, and the most expressive artwork anywhere in the comic world.
The man who created The Spirit, Will Eisner, died on January 3rd (registration required).
If you've heard of graphic novels, Eisner's the reason. If you think comics might be something more than just junk food for pre-adolescents, you can thank Will Eisner.
And if you want to see some of his work, check out MOCCA in New York, May 21 through September 19.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
Abortion
I've been trying for some time to get my head around the abortion debate. The willful blindness on both sides continues to bewilder me.
I grew up in a very conservative part of the country, and I was raised in the dominant religion of the area. In junior high, I can remember my Health class having a special period devoted to abortion. We were shown pictures of fetuses at different stages of development, as well as pictures of abortions (primarily late-stage procedures). I left class, as did most of my classmates, horrified that anyone would do such a thing. It was so clear to me then that this was murder, and I couldn't believe that it was legal.
So when I hear interviews with people who say, "I would have voted for John Kerry, but I just can't in good conscience vote for someone who supports abortion," I understand where they're coming from. These are people who have deep convictions on this single moral issue.
As I grew up, however, I began to see how a woman could come to such a decision. I saw friends of mine who were raped consider killing themselves to keep anyone from finding out. I saw other friends married at sixteen, or sent away to live with relatives, or disowned by their families because they became pregnant. This was in a culture that was a model of "abstinence education". My high school Biology teacher liked to tell us that the body had a natural contraceptive - the muscle in the neck that allowed the head to shake, "no". This was charming, but allow a girl to slip up just once (under pressure, or because - heaven forbid - she liked it as much as the boys did), and she had to pay for it for the rest of her life. I knew girls who took such desperate measures as jumping off high places, hitting themselves in the stomach, drinking turpentine, and even the old chestnut of the wire hanger. None of them would do something like go to an abortion clinic - none of us even knew where to begin looking for one - what if you were seen?
All this was in a culture where the majority of the citizens had enough money to live on, more or less comfortably. What about girls and women who find themselves pregnant when they can barely keep themselves fed, or safe from abuse?
I began to see that the punitive attitude of "it should be illegal" does nothing to stop abortions from happening. It only makes them so much more dangerous to women desperate enough to seek one.
However, I'm often confused by the stance of many on the pro-choice side of the fence that abortion has no moral dimension, that a fetus is nothing but a parasite until the first moment it draws breath outside the mother's body (although I defend their right to this worldview). One can argue forever about when a fetus becomes a human being - one commenter on this posting points out that in Jewish thought, ensoulment starts "when the majority of a living baby has emerged from the mother's body" - but the fact remains that we don't know, and we may never know. Leaving that question aside, then, abortion (under the best of circumstances) still takes a major toll on a woman's body, and for that reason alone it should only be undertaken as a last resort.
But to point out that the choice to have an abortion is a heavy decision does not take away from the fact that until that being exists separately from the mother, it is - of biological necessity - the woman's choice.
My deeply religious mother (who believed abortion to be a sin) once expressed it to me this way: "That choice is between a woman and God. The government should have nothing to do with it."
As a society that must live together, however, it is incumbent upon us to try to prevent abortions where we can. And that's where I think the debate should be. How do we best prevent abortions? Making them illegal won't do it. Neither will "abstinence education". Instead, we need to do everything we can to help girls and women from having to get to that point. We do this by making contraceptives available and affordable to whoever needs them. Keep the "morning after" pill legal and readily available. I've seen more than one rape victim gratefully relieved of at least one aspect of her terror thanks to that.
For those who fear to have a baby because they live in poverty, we should do all we can to create true universal health care and a genuine safety net for the poorest of our nation.
And when all of these options fail, abortion should remain legal and, above all, safe.
I grew up in a very conservative part of the country, and I was raised in the dominant religion of the area. In junior high, I can remember my Health class having a special period devoted to abortion. We were shown pictures of fetuses at different stages of development, as well as pictures of abortions (primarily late-stage procedures). I left class, as did most of my classmates, horrified that anyone would do such a thing. It was so clear to me then that this was murder, and I couldn't believe that it was legal.
So when I hear interviews with people who say, "I would have voted for John Kerry, but I just can't in good conscience vote for someone who supports abortion," I understand where they're coming from. These are people who have deep convictions on this single moral issue.
As I grew up, however, I began to see how a woman could come to such a decision. I saw friends of mine who were raped consider killing themselves to keep anyone from finding out. I saw other friends married at sixteen, or sent away to live with relatives, or disowned by their families because they became pregnant. This was in a culture that was a model of "abstinence education". My high school Biology teacher liked to tell us that the body had a natural contraceptive - the muscle in the neck that allowed the head to shake, "no". This was charming, but allow a girl to slip up just once (under pressure, or because - heaven forbid - she liked it as much as the boys did), and she had to pay for it for the rest of her life. I knew girls who took such desperate measures as jumping off high places, hitting themselves in the stomach, drinking turpentine, and even the old chestnut of the wire hanger. None of them would do something like go to an abortion clinic - none of us even knew where to begin looking for one - what if you were seen?
All this was in a culture where the majority of the citizens had enough money to live on, more or less comfortably. What about girls and women who find themselves pregnant when they can barely keep themselves fed, or safe from abuse?
I began to see that the punitive attitude of "it should be illegal" does nothing to stop abortions from happening. It only makes them so much more dangerous to women desperate enough to seek one.
However, I'm often confused by the stance of many on the pro-choice side of the fence that abortion has no moral dimension, that a fetus is nothing but a parasite until the first moment it draws breath outside the mother's body (although I defend their right to this worldview). One can argue forever about when a fetus becomes a human being - one commenter on this posting points out that in Jewish thought, ensoulment starts "when the majority of a living baby has emerged from the mother's body" - but the fact remains that we don't know, and we may never know. Leaving that question aside, then, abortion (under the best of circumstances) still takes a major toll on a woman's body, and for that reason alone it should only be undertaken as a last resort.
But to point out that the choice to have an abortion is a heavy decision does not take away from the fact that until that being exists separately from the mother, it is - of biological necessity - the woman's choice.
My deeply religious mother (who believed abortion to be a sin) once expressed it to me this way: "That choice is between a woman and God. The government should have nothing to do with it."
As a society that must live together, however, it is incumbent upon us to try to prevent abortions where we can. And that's where I think the debate should be. How do we best prevent abortions? Making them illegal won't do it. Neither will "abstinence education". Instead, we need to do everything we can to help girls and women from having to get to that point. We do this by making contraceptives available and affordable to whoever needs them. Keep the "morning after" pill legal and readily available. I've seen more than one rape victim gratefully relieved of at least one aspect of her terror thanks to that.
For those who fear to have a baby because they live in poverty, we should do all we can to create true universal health care and a genuine safety net for the poorest of our nation.
And when all of these options fail, abortion should remain legal and, above all, safe.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Learning about writing from TV
I generally consider my HBO series addiction a guilty pleasure, but "Deadwood" really is exceptional. And now I see why. In this Salon interview, David Milch beautifully articulates how a good writer allows his characters to be whole and irreducible.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
For my red-state friends (& family)
You liberals who dwell in the loving freak-embrace of San Francisco with me--or in other godless corners of the country--can skip this.
I want to talk a little about gay marriage. Or, specifically, the banning of it in 11 states around the country, and the attempt to make this a part of our constitution.
Some of you, my good friends and family, voted for these bans. I know that you are intelligent and caring people, but I don't think you understand what this means.
I have other close friends (and family) who are gay. Many of them are in strong, long-term, commited relationships. Some of them grew up in religions that considered homosexuality a sin, and they tried with open hearts to deny this essential part of who they were. Some of them didn't. They're all just people going about their lives. When I spend time with my friends in long-term relationships, I'm happy to see that they care about each other and for each other, the way couples should. It makes me happier about my own marriage, and about marriage in general.
But for some reason, a large number of people in this country voted to make it illegal for these folks to get married. Why?
Put yourself in their place, if you can, for a minute. When you were married, the whole community celebrated with you. Now imagine that, instead, the majority of the people where you live feel that a union between you and your spouse is immoral. Dead cats are left on your doorstep. Obscenities are shouted at you & your spouse in the street. Your house or car is defaced. Already, your marriage is not recognized as legally valid, but now, your neighbors vote to make it entirely illegal. Can you see how this would feel hateful, like one more obscenity hurled at you in the street? Like naked bigotry?
Yes, you have a right to worship as you choose, of course. I respect your deeply held religious beliefs. But it's one thing to adhere to certain beliefs, and another to compel others--who do not share these beliefs--to follow them.
Think about it. Does this seem Christlike to you?
I want to talk a little about gay marriage. Or, specifically, the banning of it in 11 states around the country, and the attempt to make this a part of our constitution.
Some of you, my good friends and family, voted for these bans. I know that you are intelligent and caring people, but I don't think you understand what this means.
I have other close friends (and family) who are gay. Many of them are in strong, long-term, commited relationships. Some of them grew up in religions that considered homosexuality a sin, and they tried with open hearts to deny this essential part of who they were. Some of them didn't. They're all just people going about their lives. When I spend time with my friends in long-term relationships, I'm happy to see that they care about each other and for each other, the way couples should. It makes me happier about my own marriage, and about marriage in general.
But for some reason, a large number of people in this country voted to make it illegal for these folks to get married. Why?
Put yourself in their place, if you can, for a minute. When you were married, the whole community celebrated with you. Now imagine that, instead, the majority of the people where you live feel that a union between you and your spouse is immoral. Dead cats are left on your doorstep. Obscenities are shouted at you & your spouse in the street. Your house or car is defaced. Already, your marriage is not recognized as legally valid, but now, your neighbors vote to make it entirely illegal. Can you see how this would feel hateful, like one more obscenity hurled at you in the street? Like naked bigotry?
Yes, you have a right to worship as you choose, of course. I respect your deeply held religious beliefs. But it's one thing to adhere to certain beliefs, and another to compel others--who do not share these beliefs--to follow them.
Think about it. Does this seem Christlike to you?
Starlet
Today in the metro tunnel, I saw a poster advertising some new movie, with the star in a comic-alluring pose. Fabulous smile. She was pretty, really beautiful. I can see why people like to just--look at her. Why not construct a movie around her, looking adorable--find excuses to dress her up in sexy or charming or goofy getups. People will pay just for that, men and women. Why not? It's not such a bad thing.
But some people take it a bit far. They worship her. They want to be her. There are people who will devote their lives to being an imitation of a person they've never met. They don't really know anything about her personally, as much as they buy the magazines that say "Star Tells All!" or "Learn the Real Story Behind the Fame!"
Others get offended at the sight of her. This face, belonging to someone they'll never know, showing up everywhere, on the way to work, at home, in the doctor's office. She's insipid, she's soulless, she's evil. Nobody really has teeth that white, legs that smooth, breasts that firm. They want to smash this face whenever they see it.
Hey, she's just an actress. People pay her money because she's pretty to look at, because she can play a role more or less convincingly, because some of us for a minute can fantasize about another life. And then we get on the train and off to work, home, class...and forget all about her. Poof--the fantasy is gone, and we live in ourselves again.
But some people take it a bit far. They worship her. They want to be her. There are people who will devote their lives to being an imitation of a person they've never met. They don't really know anything about her personally, as much as they buy the magazines that say "Star Tells All!" or "Learn the Real Story Behind the Fame!"
Others get offended at the sight of her. This face, belonging to someone they'll never know, showing up everywhere, on the way to work, at home, in the doctor's office. She's insipid, she's soulless, she's evil. Nobody really has teeth that white, legs that smooth, breasts that firm. They want to smash this face whenever they see it.
Hey, she's just an actress. People pay her money because she's pretty to look at, because she can play a role more or less convincingly, because some of us for a minute can fantasize about another life. And then we get on the train and off to work, home, class...and forget all about her. Poof--the fantasy is gone, and we live in ourselves again.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Next age?
Today I had a conversation about ritual and the lack of it in western society. Old rituals are dying: from lack of continuity because of mobility, because we don't stay where we were born or with the people who raised us; from the crush of time, because everything is speeding up and spare hours are eaten in the non-social diversions of this age--we're mute and lonely in front of our glowing screens. Yeah, yeah, we've heard all this before. Our social structures no longer support lengthy or dangerous or challenging--in other words, meaningful--rituals.
I'm sick to death of talking. I'm sick of sitting on my couch and complaining about where the world is going and feeling helpless to change anything.
We're only as helpless as we believe ourselves to be. What the next age of human beings will look like depends only on us. So--how should it look? Can we turn inward, away from our terribly entertaining ways of killing time--from glamorous strangers & strangely fascinating grotesques on TV, to, yeah, echo chambers on the Internet that tell us what we want to hear--can we stop sitting around with our cocks in our hands, believing we're holding salvation? Can we stop pressing our noses against store windows, thinking, like six-year-olds, if I can just have that, I'll be happy?
What would be the first step? How do we get through all the layers of righteous appearance and conscience-salving charity and prayers shouted from rooftops--to show that I am fucking holier than you--to what is good, and plain, and useful?
How should the world look? Can we begin the next age now? Tell me. If you take a step, post about it here. I want to know.
I'm sick to death of talking. I'm sick of sitting on my couch and complaining about where the world is going and feeling helpless to change anything.
We're only as helpless as we believe ourselves to be. What the next age of human beings will look like depends only on us. So--how should it look? Can we turn inward, away from our terribly entertaining ways of killing time--from glamorous strangers & strangely fascinating grotesques on TV, to, yeah, echo chambers on the Internet that tell us what we want to hear--can we stop sitting around with our cocks in our hands, believing we're holding salvation? Can we stop pressing our noses against store windows, thinking, like six-year-olds, if I can just have that, I'll be happy?
What would be the first step? How do we get through all the layers of righteous appearance and conscience-salving charity and prayers shouted from rooftops--to show that I am fucking holier than you--to what is good, and plain, and useful?
How should the world look? Can we begin the next age now? Tell me. If you take a step, post about it here. I want to know.
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