Wednesday, December 30, 2009
debate
A lot of people I know say they are addicted to debate. Either they are financially, nostalgically, socially, competitively, or otherwise addicted to some degree. I too have always thought of debate as an addiction. More like a pattern of addiction. It kicks me. I kick it. Tried reading poetry out loud to people as a kind of methadone treatment. It wasn't the same at all. Poems are not good arguments. They are pretty and moving, but not good arguments most of the time. There is a difference between beautiful and correct. Its just boring. So i came back to debate again and to finish an unfinished job. To live life with debate until i am spent, confused, bored, disenchanted, losing all the time, unhealthy or dead. And along those lines, I’ve always envisioned my last moments with debate as an overdose. But man will that last hit feel good. The best. I can’t wait.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
sex tips from the town whore
Dear Lucy,
My boyfriend often wants to have sex in the doggish style position. Does this mean he doesn't like the way my face looks? Also, is barking apart of? because he does that.
Thanks,
Fredonia Black
------
Freddy,
All positions require barking. I'm not sure what you mean by doggish style. I'm guessing you mean when they just leave afterwords like dogs do. Use peanut-butter. it works for both species. The face doesn't really matter, because they're going to spit and punch it eventually anyway. this is just how sex works.
good luck
Lucy
My boyfriend often wants to have sex in the doggish style position. Does this mean he doesn't like the way my face looks? Also, is barking apart of? because he does that.
Thanks,
Fredonia Black
------
Freddy,
All positions require barking. I'm not sure what you mean by doggish style. I'm guessing you mean when they just leave afterwords like dogs do. Use peanut-butter. it works for both species. The face doesn't really matter, because they're going to spit and punch it eventually anyway. this is just how sex works.
good luck
Lucy
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
It seems appropriate that the gallery chuckled. Amidst a confrontation, the hard hearts in observation work through their own hesitation to speak. Whether they be sampling a strain in affection or a plain chord split within anger in themselves, they want not to cripple their tongues, but be limp at will, be held and still, and dynamic so that our option to rest persists. All while he shuns, i spin, and cry out to the gallery to take arms against me for him, the poor soul. I poorer still.
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Walking Stiffs
We were shuffling around the body, surveying for a reasonable entry point for his knife. “Goddam’. It stinks already.” I said, leveraging my wrist against my nose, kitchen knife in hand. Mom isn’t happy about my knife choice. It’s the only knife sharp enough to do the job. That knife, a Paula Dean collector’s edition de-boner, was meant to carve the turkey tomorrow morning; after tonight, its conversation piece.
“The longer we wait, the worse it will get. Just…just cut here and start removing whatever we can.” Stephan said, making use of his elder brother status while he still could.
We lifted the head, inspecting the neck’s girth. The knife looked more like a spoon with every attempted dead lift. How this poor creature died was beyond our understanding, but no one else had volunteered to remove it. No one else was strong enough.
“Good bye, Milky.” Said Stephan. “You were a good horse and I know little Beth Silver is going to miss you an awful lot”. We stood there wishing the horse would evaporate into the air, and knowing it wouldn’t. It was cold, and neither of us thought to put on a hat. How long could dead horse disposal take anyway? What started as a refreshing prick of cold on a well warmed nose became an impossible bite. Resolved to displace Milky, we moved.
“Jordie, that knife’s not going to do us any good. Let’s get the shovels from the barn. Bring some plastic bags, too. I’ll run and get some lye from the hardware store”. Stephan had a plan, thank god. But I’m sure Milky had plans too. Plans often fall short.
“Dummy. It’s Christmas eve. Ain’t no one in town is going to be open, ‘cept the bar.” I said. “and dad said to never go ‘round there again”.
“Well, we don’t have much of a choice, now do we? Dad ain’t here and we need lye. You get those supplies and I’ll ask around the bar for anyone with some lye. Let’s just get this done, alright?”
Stephan entered the bar and saw the usual crew: the farmers that lost everything, their women, the women that lost their precious everything and the men that stayed with them through it all. Desperate souls, useful for those willing to pay.
“10 dollars for anyone who will help bury a dead horse!” Shouted Stephan over the juke box.
“buy me 10 dollars in drinks right now and I’ll help you” slurred a man at the bar.
After the drinks, they piled themselves into the truck, mindful of the snow starting to fall. The man was disheveled and stunk of rye whiskey. His five o’clock shadow was running 3 hours fast and he broke wind with every bump in the road. The lye was at the co-op elevator. They put three bags onto the flat bed and headed towards the barn again.
“You’re Henry’s boy, Stephan, ain’t ya’?”
“Yes sir. Now, this horse has been dead a few hours. Its cold and stiff, so we figure moving it is not an option. All we need is your help with the lye and the digging and we’ll get you back to…where ever it is you’d like to go.”
I was standing next to the horse, a hat and bandanna newly adorned, waiting as the headlights swept across the barren grass field and approached. I was anxious to start digging. Stephan stepped out and approached slowly, dusting off snow that had gathered on the headlights. The man stumbled out of the car and clumsily picked up the lye. I squinted and shaded my eyes from the glare.
“This gentleman got us some lye, he’ll help us”, said Stephan. “He smells as bad as the horse, but he’s got the lye, so…”.
The further we dug, the harder the soil became. At only a foot or so deep, and after two hours of digging, all three of us sat and reassessed. The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, offering one to each of us.
“Hey mister. Why ain’t you with your family tonight? Don’t you celebrate Christmas?” I said, reaching for the offered smoke.
“Don’t you even think about it, youngin’”, said Stephan. “Grammy can’t speak because of those things. And let the man be, he’s doing us a favor”.
“This diggin’s gettin’ to my back, boys. I’m going to lay in the truck a while”. Said the man, pushing his body out of the shallow grave, wobbling into the truck.
“…we got the lye. I knew he was only good for that”, quipped Stephan. “He knows dad somehow. He mentioned him by name in the car.”
The cabin of the truck was steaming with the heat of the drunkard’s body. The windows were a matte finish and the man’s head lay tilted against the frame, mouth agape.
Stephan sighed and blew out a plume of breath into the air. “That bar is the bane of this town, I tell you. Nothing good ever comes out of there. Just a bunch of hard livers and bygones”, he said.
“That ain’t no shit, either”, I said. “Them boys get there at 11 in the morning and don’t leave until 2 in the morning. Everyday. I tried booze a couple times. I could see how someone could fall in love with it”.
That notion put Stephan at a distance. His eyes were wide and he stared for a minute while I picked at the ground with my shovel. He collected himself and pulled me close to him with one hand, yanking the collar of my coat around my neck. “Listen, Jordie. First the cigarettes and now booze. You’re talking like you and I don’t come from the same family. You remember harvest? We lost 10 grand in grain because Billy was too drunk to put out his cigarette properly. Nearly burned our entire crop. That example right there should be enough to keep you away from both.”
“Damn, steff. I just said I understood them. I didn’t say I wanted to be them. Maybe you should take a swig of that old man’s flask and fall in line”.
“Piss-ant. Let’s get this done already.”
We started to dig again and after a while made a sizable hole. Deep enough to bury Milky for a night, until we could get some of the boys down the road to help us dispose of it properly and until Beth came to know its passing. The hole was adjacent to the back of the horse, assuming we could roll it into the grave. But Milky’s weight was too much for two teenage boys to bare.
“That old drunk’s been asleep long enough. We need his help”, I said, dropping the hind legs, which struck the ground like stiffened rope. The window’s had cleared by that point, which struck me as odd. I pounded on the hood of the car and hollered “Wake up, Clementine! Santa’s here, you rosy-cheeked bastard”. Stephan’s laughter in the background prompted more harassment. “…looks like he put some Wild Turkey in your stocking, you piss bathed handle slugger”.
Stephan grew impatient and snapped, mid-giggle “Just wake him up, already. We ain’t got all night.”
The cab door flew open at my release of the handle, and out tumbled the man’s body. His skin had yellowed and his breathing had stopped. I pushed him a few times, but to no avail. A check of his pulse confirmed that the bum had died not too long ago.
“He’s dead, Stephan. Old man bit it, right here in our truck”. I said, stepping away from the body.
Stephan didn’t say a word as he approached, bright eyed and shovel in hand. He removed his gloves and put ear to his chest. He listened for what seemed an eternity for a heart beat that would never come. Without hesitation, he slowly stood up and handed me a shovel.
“Do you know this man?” Stephan said.
“No.”
“Check his wallet.”
“He’s from Nebraska. McCook. About 50 miles north of here.”
“Well, lets get to work. Its already 2 and we don’t have much time.”
“The longer we wait, the worse it will get. Just…just cut here and start removing whatever we can.” Stephan said, making use of his elder brother status while he still could.
We lifted the head, inspecting the neck’s girth. The knife looked more like a spoon with every attempted dead lift. How this poor creature died was beyond our understanding, but no one else had volunteered to remove it. No one else was strong enough.
“Good bye, Milky.” Said Stephan. “You were a good horse and I know little Beth Silver is going to miss you an awful lot”. We stood there wishing the horse would evaporate into the air, and knowing it wouldn’t. It was cold, and neither of us thought to put on a hat. How long could dead horse disposal take anyway? What started as a refreshing prick of cold on a well warmed nose became an impossible bite. Resolved to displace Milky, we moved.
“Jordie, that knife’s not going to do us any good. Let’s get the shovels from the barn. Bring some plastic bags, too. I’ll run and get some lye from the hardware store”. Stephan had a plan, thank god. But I’m sure Milky had plans too. Plans often fall short.
“Dummy. It’s Christmas eve. Ain’t no one in town is going to be open, ‘cept the bar.” I said. “and dad said to never go ‘round there again”.
“Well, we don’t have much of a choice, now do we? Dad ain’t here and we need lye. You get those supplies and I’ll ask around the bar for anyone with some lye. Let’s just get this done, alright?”
Stephan entered the bar and saw the usual crew: the farmers that lost everything, their women, the women that lost their precious everything and the men that stayed with them through it all. Desperate souls, useful for those willing to pay.
“10 dollars for anyone who will help bury a dead horse!” Shouted Stephan over the juke box.
“buy me 10 dollars in drinks right now and I’ll help you” slurred a man at the bar.
After the drinks, they piled themselves into the truck, mindful of the snow starting to fall. The man was disheveled and stunk of rye whiskey. His five o’clock shadow was running 3 hours fast and he broke wind with every bump in the road. The lye was at the co-op elevator. They put three bags onto the flat bed and headed towards the barn again.
“You’re Henry’s boy, Stephan, ain’t ya’?”
“Yes sir. Now, this horse has been dead a few hours. Its cold and stiff, so we figure moving it is not an option. All we need is your help with the lye and the digging and we’ll get you back to…where ever it is you’d like to go.”
I was standing next to the horse, a hat and bandanna newly adorned, waiting as the headlights swept across the barren grass field and approached. I was anxious to start digging. Stephan stepped out and approached slowly, dusting off snow that had gathered on the headlights. The man stumbled out of the car and clumsily picked up the lye. I squinted and shaded my eyes from the glare.
“This gentleman got us some lye, he’ll help us”, said Stephan. “He smells as bad as the horse, but he’s got the lye, so…”.
The further we dug, the harder the soil became. At only a foot or so deep, and after two hours of digging, all three of us sat and reassessed. The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lit one, offering one to each of us.
“Hey mister. Why ain’t you with your family tonight? Don’t you celebrate Christmas?” I said, reaching for the offered smoke.
“Don’t you even think about it, youngin’”, said Stephan. “Grammy can’t speak because of those things. And let the man be, he’s doing us a favor”.
“This diggin’s gettin’ to my back, boys. I’m going to lay in the truck a while”. Said the man, pushing his body out of the shallow grave, wobbling into the truck.
“…we got the lye. I knew he was only good for that”, quipped Stephan. “He knows dad somehow. He mentioned him by name in the car.”
The cabin of the truck was steaming with the heat of the drunkard’s body. The windows were a matte finish and the man’s head lay tilted against the frame, mouth agape.
Stephan sighed and blew out a plume of breath into the air. “That bar is the bane of this town, I tell you. Nothing good ever comes out of there. Just a bunch of hard livers and bygones”, he said.
“That ain’t no shit, either”, I said. “Them boys get there at 11 in the morning and don’t leave until 2 in the morning. Everyday. I tried booze a couple times. I could see how someone could fall in love with it”.
That notion put Stephan at a distance. His eyes were wide and he stared for a minute while I picked at the ground with my shovel. He collected himself and pulled me close to him with one hand, yanking the collar of my coat around my neck. “Listen, Jordie. First the cigarettes and now booze. You’re talking like you and I don’t come from the same family. You remember harvest? We lost 10 grand in grain because Billy was too drunk to put out his cigarette properly. Nearly burned our entire crop. That example right there should be enough to keep you away from both.”
“Damn, steff. I just said I understood them. I didn’t say I wanted to be them. Maybe you should take a swig of that old man’s flask and fall in line”.
“Piss-ant. Let’s get this done already.”
We started to dig again and after a while made a sizable hole. Deep enough to bury Milky for a night, until we could get some of the boys down the road to help us dispose of it properly and until Beth came to know its passing. The hole was adjacent to the back of the horse, assuming we could roll it into the grave. But Milky’s weight was too much for two teenage boys to bare.
“That old drunk’s been asleep long enough. We need his help”, I said, dropping the hind legs, which struck the ground like stiffened rope. The window’s had cleared by that point, which struck me as odd. I pounded on the hood of the car and hollered “Wake up, Clementine! Santa’s here, you rosy-cheeked bastard”. Stephan’s laughter in the background prompted more harassment. “…looks like he put some Wild Turkey in your stocking, you piss bathed handle slugger”.
Stephan grew impatient and snapped, mid-giggle “Just wake him up, already. We ain’t got all night.”
The cab door flew open at my release of the handle, and out tumbled the man’s body. His skin had yellowed and his breathing had stopped. I pushed him a few times, but to no avail. A check of his pulse confirmed that the bum had died not too long ago.
“He’s dead, Stephan. Old man bit it, right here in our truck”. I said, stepping away from the body.
Stephan didn’t say a word as he approached, bright eyed and shovel in hand. He removed his gloves and put ear to his chest. He listened for what seemed an eternity for a heart beat that would never come. Without hesitation, he slowly stood up and handed me a shovel.
“Do you know this man?” Stephan said.
“No.”
“Check his wallet.”
“He’s from Nebraska. McCook. About 50 miles north of here.”
“Well, lets get to work. Its already 2 and we don’t have much time.”
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Thesis
1. The implicit understanding of all web and technology based companies is that their progress is unlimited. Efficiency, applicability and ease-of-use are constantly expanding to encompass more of our lives with minimal effort.
2. Social-networking is an extension of this. The more efficient it becomes, the more inclusive it becomes. No generation hereafter will be without it, absent cataclysms ,which, for the purpose of this exercise, will not be assumed.
3. As inclusion increases, the public-private dichotomy shrinks.
This means a few things:
1. Accountability is absolute. Politicians, celebrities and- to a lesser extent- non public figures, are held to documented statements, media, and criticism that are ever more invasive.
2. Government becomes the mediator. Regulation of the internet will become more apparent as its effect on the character of citizens become evermore entwined within its scheme.
3. This is a direct reflection of capitalism's method of dispersal, with both good and bad, ethical and unethical implications. Its distinction from traditional capitalism, however, is in the level of intrusion.
In short, as we document our lives on the web, we hold ourselves forever accountable to a technology that we trust in, depend on and must answer to.
how is this different from slavery?
thoughts on this would be appreciated.
2. Social-networking is an extension of this. The more efficient it becomes, the more inclusive it becomes. No generation hereafter will be without it, absent cataclysms ,which, for the purpose of this exercise, will not be assumed.
3. As inclusion increases, the public-private dichotomy shrinks.
This means a few things:
1. Accountability is absolute. Politicians, celebrities and- to a lesser extent- non public figures, are held to documented statements, media, and criticism that are ever more invasive.
2. Government becomes the mediator. Regulation of the internet will become more apparent as its effect on the character of citizens become evermore entwined within its scheme.
3. This is a direct reflection of capitalism's method of dispersal, with both good and bad, ethical and unethical implications. Its distinction from traditional capitalism, however, is in the level of intrusion.
In short, as we document our lives on the web, we hold ourselves forever accountable to a technology that we trust in, depend on and must answer to.
how is this different from slavery?
thoughts on this would be appreciated.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Grames
False. the idea that we all get what is needed. True. The breaking down of truth beyond explanation. If there is only a self, then there is only the self righteous. We've been de-toxing for 2,000 years. Save the romantics, no one knows how to follow protocol. And if we did, we would save ourselves the trouble. Love you. Love the rest. We crave to know the extent of the literature. That heroes whine. That villans learn their lesson. And so too the grateful. If toxic, in their anthem, they smell of apple pie, we fight a righteous battle, and to the victor we be holden.
Shared Sacrifice
Stop pretending to listen and read and fucking listen and read. www.sharedsacrifice.us
+ podcasts nightly
+ The Reverend Lucius Lipstern
+ The state of the U.S of A
+ podcasts nightly
+ The Reverend Lucius Lipstern
+ The state of the U.S of A
Monday, August 24, 2009
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Favorite Names:
Boys-
Abe
Ichibod
Drexin
Sam
Tracy
Demitri
Girls-
Ione
Rita
Billy-Jo
Lillian
i wonder if she will want these names. or if she knows that she will have to negotiate with me over what to name a person. because as much as i try to avoid it, someday the only thing i will be good at is being a father and that's fine by me.
Abe
Ichibod
Drexin
Sam
Tracy
Demitri
Girls-
Ione
Rita
Billy-Jo
Lillian
i wonder if she will want these names. or if she knows that she will have to negotiate with me over what to name a person. because as much as i try to avoid it, someday the only thing i will be good at is being a father and that's fine by me.
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Ode to "Drinking Out of Cups"
What are these? boot shoes? booty shoes. ass. who needs them? romper stompin, fuckin taking liberties. who is this? pretty prairie gentleman. the softest man. he's creating a fuss and no one knows his favorite color. lead the way, fucker. Keeping drumkit blueprints, a library, a full court. don't tell me its raining. the fuck is that? Baby saver. keeps 'em fresh. forget it. its a pool of fools. can they fuckin swim? no. not me.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
What is wrong with these people?
They’re smiling while they insult.
They’re smiling at an insult.
They’re insulting to a smile.
A real one.
----------------
People are starting to realize they don’t have to do anything. Its not really up to any of us anymore. We are finally coming to the point where it dawns on us: nothing is out there, and when we die we’ll have only a corpse. You don’t so much see it as you sense it. How often you’ve been disappointed- how it never ceases to bruise- and how clear it is that magic is an insult. How childhood seemed pleasantly torturous. People are becoming a person.
They’re smiling while they insult.
They’re smiling at an insult.
They’re insulting to a smile.
A real one.
----------------
People are starting to realize they don’t have to do anything. Its not really up to any of us anymore. We are finally coming to the point where it dawns on us: nothing is out there, and when we die we’ll have only a corpse. You don’t so much see it as you sense it. How often you’ve been disappointed- how it never ceases to bruise- and how clear it is that magic is an insult. How childhood seemed pleasantly torturous. People are becoming a person.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Went to a lake
Went to the lake. Saw a snake digesting a fish. Craved salmon. Ate canned salmon. Smoked a cigarette, dare not to throw into the lake. Potential explosions. Drank lake water. Shat lake water and dried my innards in observance of a carcass beach: a catfish meowing at the sun, or perhaps gasping, a seagull settling for a lake. Coors light bottle in my foot. My feet are drunk. The boats observe restraint at the extent of their motors. Motorists observe restraint and at least put the gas cap back on. My upper arms are safe, my shirt is me. Should women see, they would cry out to their friendly women: behold, a man unfamiliar. Wieners and buns, condiments relish their likenesses, and my form knows all the better.
Went to a lake to find out what all the gossip was about. Turns out that its just water. There is a beach and the bottom might be rocks but it might be much finer rock. Skiing is usually acceptable. Brought a cowboy hat just in case someone had a camera. Brought a beer just in case a woman sat on my lap. I did many crunches with everything to show for it. Filled out my will with the lake in mind. Left my unborn son a boatless pier. Its not for sale.
Went to a lake and ate with family amungst the sun, as all lions did and some now do, yawning at hunger- It bores us- shade is the reservoirs unshaved forest. I am in El Dorado at its lake. We observe dry land, full. We are six feet deep and wild with current. Legs the blessed paddle, and spank the surface, it white with anger at us, who wouldn’t swim to eat if eating meant drowning and drowning meant an afterlife dragging guilt: land could not be solid, because at this lake we are tired of the slow tread, and now we dive through dirt, home, hungry with wet trunks and a remarkable thirst.
Went to a lake to find out what all the gossip was about. Turns out that its just water. There is a beach and the bottom might be rocks but it might be much finer rock. Skiing is usually acceptable. Brought a cowboy hat just in case someone had a camera. Brought a beer just in case a woman sat on my lap. I did many crunches with everything to show for it. Filled out my will with the lake in mind. Left my unborn son a boatless pier. Its not for sale.
Went to a lake and ate with family amungst the sun, as all lions did and some now do, yawning at hunger- It bores us- shade is the reservoirs unshaved forest. I am in El Dorado at its lake. We observe dry land, full. We are six feet deep and wild with current. Legs the blessed paddle, and spank the surface, it white with anger at us, who wouldn’t swim to eat if eating meant drowning and drowning meant an afterlife dragging guilt: land could not be solid, because at this lake we are tired of the slow tread, and now we dive through dirt, home, hungry with wet trunks and a remarkable thirst.
Friday, July 3, 2009
my continuing fascination with libido
She told me to feel down the outside of her hips. But I couldn’t. She’s quite proud of those hips. I had come this far and I would not go any further. They were too curvey, too much not mine. Even my own body had become taboo for me to touch. My own fantasies culminated in women being disappointed. And now, as a real woman with real skin and a real desire for me attempted to coach my hesitation away, all my mind would go to was her eventual exit. What a whimp.
I’m smart enough. I’m sociable enough. Where does this all come from? My ex’s weren’t bad people. They didn’t strip me of anything valuable. If anything, I took from them. Maybe I hate myself for that. That would explain why hunger makes me happy and why eating is unconditional surrender.
“so much for that movie time”. I said, gesturing to the clock.
She shook her head and picked up her shirt from the floor. Her shoulders were slumped but she didn’t seem surprised. If she were disappointed it wasn’t in me.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Blake. At least your writing is truthful. You don’t find honesty that often in people your age. People will read Bukowski and take up ‘drinking’, but that’s not you.”
Her tone was porous, open to interpretation.
“What do you mean? I read Bukowski.”
The door swung behind her and would have slammed if the window wasn’t shut. This was an opportunity to finally dream about the sex I didn’t have. I could imagine her now. Her hips squarely atop mine and I do not say no. Her hands, grasping for support that I wouldn’t give and that she wouldn’t find. Her breasts are no longer hers. They are now beckon to the whim of my pace. Is she in pain? She slows. She breathes steady, fixed and conscious. Her eyes assume motherly concern for my well being. And now she knows that writing and reading are just things I do in place of living. I do say no.
--------------------
She made no fuss. They were topped by the ceiling, short enough to bring lights face-side, backs crooked to adopt the slope. The floor was unkept and children felt the cracks with bare feet. Some of them would know the foundation intimately, some would know a traditional grave. But the hallway thickened, ripened as they approached. Please, don’t make the smells stronger, they thought, for my inner adult knows that nothing will ever come close to this smell, and it will linger in me, dormant, spring loaded. My inner most adult is afraid of this place. My inner most adult knows exactly why I am downstairs. But I am a child and believe you when you say that there might be a tornado. Mister Kittingsworth, I am not below reason.
---------------------------
Quick headed, faced to beckon the seats opposed, he breaks protocol. And traced to now there’s one mark made. Be the place first or bust, his weekends stitching and cutting and spinning and holding them accountable. As for the break he’s made, its mending can wait. The skies are hidden here, and god cannot see fortune in high schools, in hotels, in rapist vans and we hope on this.
-----------------------------
Saw a baby in the grocerie store, mother gossips, bottle dangles on a shelf out of reach. I laugh. I can easily reach what it needs. It, because without the bottle it is dead. The dead are not thems. Thems do not need. Need is cold and absolute. Do they have a cigarette aisle?
-----------------------------
“I can’t stand being a civilian” he said. “ I wish I were back on active duty.”
I couldn’t understand. But I wanted to. I wanted to need something identifiable. The army is not a dream, it is a straight spine and blood free, arched feet and ivory eyes, men and women, of whom we owe a question: what’s it like to be me?
I’m smart enough. I’m sociable enough. Where does this all come from? My ex’s weren’t bad people. They didn’t strip me of anything valuable. If anything, I took from them. Maybe I hate myself for that. That would explain why hunger makes me happy and why eating is unconditional surrender.
“so much for that movie time”. I said, gesturing to the clock.
She shook her head and picked up her shirt from the floor. Her shoulders were slumped but she didn’t seem surprised. If she were disappointed it wasn’t in me.
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Blake. At least your writing is truthful. You don’t find honesty that often in people your age. People will read Bukowski and take up ‘drinking’, but that’s not you.”
Her tone was porous, open to interpretation.
“What do you mean? I read Bukowski.”
The door swung behind her and would have slammed if the window wasn’t shut. This was an opportunity to finally dream about the sex I didn’t have. I could imagine her now. Her hips squarely atop mine and I do not say no. Her hands, grasping for support that I wouldn’t give and that she wouldn’t find. Her breasts are no longer hers. They are now beckon to the whim of my pace. Is she in pain? She slows. She breathes steady, fixed and conscious. Her eyes assume motherly concern for my well being. And now she knows that writing and reading are just things I do in place of living. I do say no.
--------------------
She made no fuss. They were topped by the ceiling, short enough to bring lights face-side, backs crooked to adopt the slope. The floor was unkept and children felt the cracks with bare feet. Some of them would know the foundation intimately, some would know a traditional grave. But the hallway thickened, ripened as they approached. Please, don’t make the smells stronger, they thought, for my inner adult knows that nothing will ever come close to this smell, and it will linger in me, dormant, spring loaded. My inner most adult is afraid of this place. My inner most adult knows exactly why I am downstairs. But I am a child and believe you when you say that there might be a tornado. Mister Kittingsworth, I am not below reason.
---------------------------
Quick headed, faced to beckon the seats opposed, he breaks protocol. And traced to now there’s one mark made. Be the place first or bust, his weekends stitching and cutting and spinning and holding them accountable. As for the break he’s made, its mending can wait. The skies are hidden here, and god cannot see fortune in high schools, in hotels, in rapist vans and we hope on this.
-----------------------------
Saw a baby in the grocerie store, mother gossips, bottle dangles on a shelf out of reach. I laugh. I can easily reach what it needs. It, because without the bottle it is dead. The dead are not thems. Thems do not need. Need is cold and absolute. Do they have a cigarette aisle?
-----------------------------
“I can’t stand being a civilian” he said. “ I wish I were back on active duty.”
I couldn’t understand. But I wanted to. I wanted to need something identifiable. The army is not a dream, it is a straight spine and blood free, arched feet and ivory eyes, men and women, of whom we owe a question: what’s it like to be me?
Friday, June 12, 2009
Rasputin, et al (final)
I was a chauffeur. But that wasn’t a surprise. We had both be leading each other for months. At least our memories had been. We found the taco joint and loaded up. I politely declined anything for myself. Eating while driving is too dangerous for a guy like me. While I searched for the nearest I-35 exit, she munched on a plate of thick beans, steaming red rice, stringing cheese and all kinds of gaseous etcetera; she need not be nervous to shatter that taboo.
The conversation had dwindled at that point, both of us realizing the full extent of our expectations. Her, with her application admitted and friend satisfied, and me with my limp chivalry. I felt honorable though. I hadn’t pressed the issue, hadn’t made her feel uneasy, or tried to rush the evening to this eventual point: home. Despite her, I was still a kind and generous man. One who would listen without attempting to solve, the type of guy who you could count on driving you home and never calling you again, if that’s what you wanted. I wouldn’t do horrible things to you, even if you did worse to me. I am Christ-like in that respect. And coming to this realization, I drove home proud.
“Were you ever attracted to me, Matt?”
Shit. She found me out. Its strange that I fantasize about these conversations all the time. These are things I want to happen. When they happen, it’s a slew of forgotten enchantments, one after the other, until my response is most basic.
“yeah, I was. I just never thought you’d be willing. So I never said anything.”
Maybe she would come clean about what love meant to her. I could feel an agreement coming on. There was really no doubt about it. She was the type of girl who would have made a move by now if she wanted anything from me that she didn’t already have.
“You’re right.” She said, sipping her soda “It would have been weird, don’t you think? I mean, you feel like my brother.”
“Heh, yeah I know what you mean.”
I’m every woman’s brother, Cammy. Maybe I just want to fuck, ya’ know?
“And besides, I have my boyfriend now and I’ll be leaving Emporia soon. It wouldn’t make much sense.”
Indeed, neither of us makes much sense. We decided on some music to keep me from falling asleep. I get sleepy when I’m disappointed. The Flint Hills radio stations don’t provide much in the way of agitated guitar music, so Cammy’s collection of Avenue Q sing-alongs had to suffice. She and her brewing beer belly knew all the words.
Dimly, under the tune of “Everyone’s A Little Bit Racist”, I heard my phone ring. Two calls in one Saturday? This would be a pleasant distraction from the off-harmonies that comprised the car. The caller ID read: “Billy Jo”. I stared at my phone for what seemed like minutes pondering my next move, in the process skimming the shoulder of the turnpike. Cammy must have seen my jaw dangling. She promptly asked “Are you going to answer that, or should I?”
“Hello?” I said in the most welcoming tone I could muster.
“Let me talk to Cammy”. Billy Jo sounded driven, as usual. But the farther I got from Wichita, the safer I felt from either woman’s wrath. Home is a safe place. So, what the hell- I handed the phone to Cammy and tried to politely eavesdrop.
“Hi. Oh hello Billy Jo. We were just ta---“
Cammy stared at her half eaten tacos for 10 minutes as Billy Jo divulged what I imagined was the secret of life. I pictured her telling Cammy that I was a heartless dope, a reckless and textbook manic depressive who drained the energy out of every relationship that surrounded him. That, if she were smart, she would leave me at the nearest gas station and never speak to me again. Beat me to the punch. Or maybe she was telling her off. Yeah, that was it. Billy Jo was ranting beautifully about how she didn’t deserve such a wonderful guy; about how she had heard all of the nasty rumors about Cammy from all the actors at WSU that claimed to be Cammy’s friends. Yes, Billy Jo was definitely giving her whats-for, but it wasn’t Billy Jo who had to drive home with her.
“oh sure. Its 316-640-6722 and that’s my cell, so you can call anytime… No problem… Thanks for everything B.J., I hope to talk to you soon…bye-bye.”
“what was that about” I said, confused as to why she would ever want to give her number to Billy Jo.
“B.J. wants to give me voice lessons. She said she saw one of my performances a few months ago and she thought I might want some help. She seems really sweet.”
B.J.? what are you, bunk-mates now? This was just too much. She ignored me for months then breaks the silence to drag me an hour away to a performance under the condition that I act an understudy boyfriend. She makes a fool out of me in front my ex-girlfriend, then takes me to a bar where she gets loaded, rants about her life’s injustices, and requests that I take her to Taco Bloody Bueno where she eats as I drive. Then she ties all the loose ends by ensuring that I know that a physical relationship is out of the question. After all of this, now my ‘ex’ and her are conspiring. I had to break the fourth wall on this one.
“I don’t think lessons would be good for you. How tight on money are you right now?”
“Not too bad. My boyfriend can pay for it, I’m sure.”
“Your “boyfriend” and his trust-fund won’t make you into what you want to be, Cammy.”
“what do you mean by that?”
“I mean, there’s nothing worse than Botox. There’s nothing worse than clowns. There’s nothing worse than leg warmers in lieu of pants. And there’s nothing more wasteful than cash on your voice.”
“You’ve never even heard me sing, how would you know if it’s a waste?”
“Have you heard yourself speak? No, of course not. I don’t even know why I bother telling you this. It’s a fucking travesty. You’ll probably blame your voice failures on someone’s inability to provide for you. Like your Boyfriend. What if he doesn’t want to pay for everything? Where will you be? Working at Carlos O’Kelly’s the rest of your life? You know, I came with you expecting to see some emotional progress. I figured that all the people you sucked dry in Emporia would have abandoned you by now and that you had come to some serious realization about yourself, but that sure as fuck didn’t happen. No, all that happened is that you dragged me out of bed- yes, bed- to come watch your friends play around on stage because you’re so vein that you don’t even know how to be alone in a theater. Cammy, don’t get the voice lessons. Get yourself a tape-deck, and after you listen to that PHENOMENAL compilation of music presently stabilizing your desk, record yourself speaking to someone, anyone. I’m not sure you’ll like what you hear.”
Cammy couldn’t handle me. I was too tough. There was only so much I could take before I let her know what time it was. She kept to herself the rest of the way up and so did I. She handed me the money for the toll-booth, but I ignored the gesture, keeping myself safely in the moral right. Approaching my house, I didn’t feel a bit guilty about my behavior. It might have been ill-timed but it was definitely deserved. No one is allowed to take me for granted. Not anymore.
I got out and told Cammy not to ask me on any ridiculous adventures ever again. She stayed in the passenger seat, silent, staring forward until I was securely in my house. It was 12:45 and I needed to dream on the night that just happened. But sleep did not come. It wasn’t self-hatred that kept me awake, it was excitement. I had finally said what I had always wanted to say to all the women who ever blamed me for their shortfalls. There was peace, but the type of peace that needs to be shared. I was restless.
The bar was still open when I arrived at 1:15. It was a quiet Saturday night, but that didn’t matter. Whoever would listen would hear my story. As it was, Rebecca was tending the bar. She and I had become fast friends over the last year. If anyone would listen, it would be her.
“Becka, I’ve got to tell you about tonight. This was the most amazing night of humanity I’ve seen in years…”
“I’m guessing this involves Cammy Pap. She was in here for about an hour and left just 10 minutes ago. She left this for you. You’d better drink up because last call’s in 15 minutes.”
She handed me a note and $40. Cammy had scribbled on the back of a Keno ticket. Somehow she knew I would be there. The note read:
“Matt,
I’ve been trying to piece together my life for the last ten years, and as much as you despise me now, you would have hated me doubly only a decade ago. I’ve been manipulative all my life, but you always seemed to see through it. Asking you to come with me tonight was not a hollow gesture. I know you felt cheapened by it all, but your presence allowed me to face the world. Those people- my friends- that we watched tonight probably think similar things about me as you do. The difference is that they pretend to like me and you don’t. Not anymore. You’re probably right about my voice, and you’re probably right about my vanity. I am not in a position to sound noble or believable, so I’ll only say thank you. I gave Becka $40 for your tab. You can use it whenever you like. I know this is your favorite bar. I’ll miss you.
Cammy”
She didn’t want the world. All she wanted was to be with someone. Anyone could understand that. She chose me, and I disposed of her. All the misgivings were inconsequential. To Cammy, ignorance was a good enough excuse. And now I agree.
A pretty girl entered the bar. She had long legs and she wore red polka-dotted sun dress. I love those. They frame a woman’s neck and back so perfectly. Her long black hair and milky skin almost made me forget about the night. I nearly bought her a drink. But Cammy’s money felt different in my hand. It was heavier. The girl adjusted her cleavage and checked her face in the bar mirror, corrected her Betty Paige bangs. She glanced at me as I gawked. Her purse strap dangled off the bar, she ordered her drink- a rum and coke- and moved to the other side of the room, near a man with a pressed collar, broad shoulders and a strong chin. I guess we’re both understandable: the need to be touched, and the need to not be touched by you. To drink $40 dollars worth in 15 minutes? It couldn’t be done. Not alone.
The conversation had dwindled at that point, both of us realizing the full extent of our expectations. Her, with her application admitted and friend satisfied, and me with my limp chivalry. I felt honorable though. I hadn’t pressed the issue, hadn’t made her feel uneasy, or tried to rush the evening to this eventual point: home. Despite her, I was still a kind and generous man. One who would listen without attempting to solve, the type of guy who you could count on driving you home and never calling you again, if that’s what you wanted. I wouldn’t do horrible things to you, even if you did worse to me. I am Christ-like in that respect. And coming to this realization, I drove home proud.
“Were you ever attracted to me, Matt?”
Shit. She found me out. Its strange that I fantasize about these conversations all the time. These are things I want to happen. When they happen, it’s a slew of forgotten enchantments, one after the other, until my response is most basic.
“yeah, I was. I just never thought you’d be willing. So I never said anything.”
Maybe she would come clean about what love meant to her. I could feel an agreement coming on. There was really no doubt about it. She was the type of girl who would have made a move by now if she wanted anything from me that she didn’t already have.
“You’re right.” She said, sipping her soda “It would have been weird, don’t you think? I mean, you feel like my brother.”
“Heh, yeah I know what you mean.”
I’m every woman’s brother, Cammy. Maybe I just want to fuck, ya’ know?
“And besides, I have my boyfriend now and I’ll be leaving Emporia soon. It wouldn’t make much sense.”
Indeed, neither of us makes much sense. We decided on some music to keep me from falling asleep. I get sleepy when I’m disappointed. The Flint Hills radio stations don’t provide much in the way of agitated guitar music, so Cammy’s collection of Avenue Q sing-alongs had to suffice. She and her brewing beer belly knew all the words.
Dimly, under the tune of “Everyone’s A Little Bit Racist”, I heard my phone ring. Two calls in one Saturday? This would be a pleasant distraction from the off-harmonies that comprised the car. The caller ID read: “Billy Jo”. I stared at my phone for what seemed like minutes pondering my next move, in the process skimming the shoulder of the turnpike. Cammy must have seen my jaw dangling. She promptly asked “Are you going to answer that, or should I?”
“Hello?” I said in the most welcoming tone I could muster.
“Let me talk to Cammy”. Billy Jo sounded driven, as usual. But the farther I got from Wichita, the safer I felt from either woman’s wrath. Home is a safe place. So, what the hell- I handed the phone to Cammy and tried to politely eavesdrop.
“Hi. Oh hello Billy Jo. We were just ta---“
Cammy stared at her half eaten tacos for 10 minutes as Billy Jo divulged what I imagined was the secret of life. I pictured her telling Cammy that I was a heartless dope, a reckless and textbook manic depressive who drained the energy out of every relationship that surrounded him. That, if she were smart, she would leave me at the nearest gas station and never speak to me again. Beat me to the punch. Or maybe she was telling her off. Yeah, that was it. Billy Jo was ranting beautifully about how she didn’t deserve such a wonderful guy; about how she had heard all of the nasty rumors about Cammy from all the actors at WSU that claimed to be Cammy’s friends. Yes, Billy Jo was definitely giving her whats-for, but it wasn’t Billy Jo who had to drive home with her.
“oh sure. Its 316-640-6722 and that’s my cell, so you can call anytime… No problem… Thanks for everything B.J., I hope to talk to you soon…bye-bye.”
“what was that about” I said, confused as to why she would ever want to give her number to Billy Jo.
“B.J. wants to give me voice lessons. She said she saw one of my performances a few months ago and she thought I might want some help. She seems really sweet.”
B.J.? what are you, bunk-mates now? This was just too much. She ignored me for months then breaks the silence to drag me an hour away to a performance under the condition that I act an understudy boyfriend. She makes a fool out of me in front my ex-girlfriend, then takes me to a bar where she gets loaded, rants about her life’s injustices, and requests that I take her to Taco Bloody Bueno where she eats as I drive. Then she ties all the loose ends by ensuring that I know that a physical relationship is out of the question. After all of this, now my ‘ex’ and her are conspiring. I had to break the fourth wall on this one.
“I don’t think lessons would be good for you. How tight on money are you right now?”
“Not too bad. My boyfriend can pay for it, I’m sure.”
“Your “boyfriend” and his trust-fund won’t make you into what you want to be, Cammy.”
“what do you mean by that?”
“I mean, there’s nothing worse than Botox. There’s nothing worse than clowns. There’s nothing worse than leg warmers in lieu of pants. And there’s nothing more wasteful than cash on your voice.”
“You’ve never even heard me sing, how would you know if it’s a waste?”
“Have you heard yourself speak? No, of course not. I don’t even know why I bother telling you this. It’s a fucking travesty. You’ll probably blame your voice failures on someone’s inability to provide for you. Like your Boyfriend. What if he doesn’t want to pay for everything? Where will you be? Working at Carlos O’Kelly’s the rest of your life? You know, I came with you expecting to see some emotional progress. I figured that all the people you sucked dry in Emporia would have abandoned you by now and that you had come to some serious realization about yourself, but that sure as fuck didn’t happen. No, all that happened is that you dragged me out of bed- yes, bed- to come watch your friends play around on stage because you’re so vein that you don’t even know how to be alone in a theater. Cammy, don’t get the voice lessons. Get yourself a tape-deck, and after you listen to that PHENOMENAL compilation of music presently stabilizing your desk, record yourself speaking to someone, anyone. I’m not sure you’ll like what you hear.”
Cammy couldn’t handle me. I was too tough. There was only so much I could take before I let her know what time it was. She kept to herself the rest of the way up and so did I. She handed me the money for the toll-booth, but I ignored the gesture, keeping myself safely in the moral right. Approaching my house, I didn’t feel a bit guilty about my behavior. It might have been ill-timed but it was definitely deserved. No one is allowed to take me for granted. Not anymore.
I got out and told Cammy not to ask me on any ridiculous adventures ever again. She stayed in the passenger seat, silent, staring forward until I was securely in my house. It was 12:45 and I needed to dream on the night that just happened. But sleep did not come. It wasn’t self-hatred that kept me awake, it was excitement. I had finally said what I had always wanted to say to all the women who ever blamed me for their shortfalls. There was peace, but the type of peace that needs to be shared. I was restless.
The bar was still open when I arrived at 1:15. It was a quiet Saturday night, but that didn’t matter. Whoever would listen would hear my story. As it was, Rebecca was tending the bar. She and I had become fast friends over the last year. If anyone would listen, it would be her.
“Becka, I’ve got to tell you about tonight. This was the most amazing night of humanity I’ve seen in years…”
“I’m guessing this involves Cammy Pap. She was in here for about an hour and left just 10 minutes ago. She left this for you. You’d better drink up because last call’s in 15 minutes.”
She handed me a note and $40. Cammy had scribbled on the back of a Keno ticket. Somehow she knew I would be there. The note read:
“Matt,
I’ve been trying to piece together my life for the last ten years, and as much as you despise me now, you would have hated me doubly only a decade ago. I’ve been manipulative all my life, but you always seemed to see through it. Asking you to come with me tonight was not a hollow gesture. I know you felt cheapened by it all, but your presence allowed me to face the world. Those people- my friends- that we watched tonight probably think similar things about me as you do. The difference is that they pretend to like me and you don’t. Not anymore. You’re probably right about my voice, and you’re probably right about my vanity. I am not in a position to sound noble or believable, so I’ll only say thank you. I gave Becka $40 for your tab. You can use it whenever you like. I know this is your favorite bar. I’ll miss you.
Cammy”
She didn’t want the world. All she wanted was to be with someone. Anyone could understand that. She chose me, and I disposed of her. All the misgivings were inconsequential. To Cammy, ignorance was a good enough excuse. And now I agree.
A pretty girl entered the bar. She had long legs and she wore red polka-dotted sun dress. I love those. They frame a woman’s neck and back so perfectly. Her long black hair and milky skin almost made me forget about the night. I nearly bought her a drink. But Cammy’s money felt different in my hand. It was heavier. The girl adjusted her cleavage and checked her face in the bar mirror, corrected her Betty Paige bangs. She glanced at me as I gawked. Her purse strap dangled off the bar, she ordered her drink- a rum and coke- and moved to the other side of the room, near a man with a pressed collar, broad shoulders and a strong chin. I guess we’re both understandable: the need to be touched, and the need to not be touched by you. To drink $40 dollars worth in 15 minutes? It couldn’t be done. Not alone.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Rasputin, et al
I began to notice myself: My stubble, my hasty attire, my wind swept hair and my still sunken face. Its honest and crushing to be witness to your past, and Billy Jo was definitely my past. I had stepped outside for another cigarette after the performance had wrapped up. Cammy was busy taking photos and laughing. Who was I to even observe that? The parking lot was calm and it smelled of Wichita. But I couldn’t justify smoking three cigarettes back-to-back, even to myself. So I picked myself up and headed back to the church. Billy Jo hadn’t exited while I was outside (trust me) so I knew she was still there, still unaware of me.
There wasn’t even enough time to panic. I saw her shining and stunned face through a window in the main door. For a moment we both contemplated finding other exits. Our solution-centric eyes were proof of that. But we are responsible people. We spoke briefly about “how we were” and “what’s going on in our lives”. But the crux of the matter couldn’t be avoided for long. This was the cross examination question that Sam Waterston would have briefed me about.
“Wait, didn’t you move to Emporia? What brought you down here to see this?”
“oh, that’s funny story actually. I was asleep this afternoon…I don’t sleep in the afternoon all the time, I just felt really tired today after work, you know? And I got this phone call from this girl, er, person who I hadn’t seen for a while. She asked me if wanted to see some theater and I was bored so I said yes and as it turns out it was in Wichita, which was a surprise to me and, yeah.”
Nothing I could have said would have made much sense. I went through a few other possible answers in my mind and none of them worked.
• “ I just really love theater now.”
• “ I heard you were going to be here and I hadn’t looked at you from a distance for a while, so…”
• “ I became religious. I was told there was going to be a hugging fellowship seminar here. I guess they were wrong…”
So, Billy Jo’s reaction was expected.
“that’s a pretty elaborate story. Whose your friend?”
“Her name's Cammy. Cammy Pap. You remember her? She used to go to WSU.”
“Oh I think I remember her. She was in theater right?”
“Yeah that’s her.”
“Did I hear you call my name?!”
Oh jesus god. She was all hopped up on bygone friendship and her energy was perfectly misplaced. Her timing was nothing short of legendary. Thelonious Monk could learn a thing or two from the Pap. My initial reaction was to not look in Cammy’s direction, to keep my eyes steadfastly fixed on Billy Jo and to pray that her question was honest, that Cammy truly didn’t know if anyone had said her name. No such luck. It was one of those look-whose-in-the-room-now questions. Just something to make yourself seem invited. But I keep to my short term goals and smiled and didn’t blink and wondered what to do next.
I Briefly caught the smell of a fart. I fart when I’m nervous. But my methane shooter didn’t stop cammy’s arm from weaving itself around my waist in salutation.
“Who is this?” She said.
“Cammy, this is Billy Jo. Billy jo, this cammy.”
They shook hands as I found patterns in the carpet I thought were fascinating. It looks plain red, but when you need to look at it, the true nature of the floor presents itself. I couldn’t bring myself to make unnecessary conversation, nor could I bring myself to remove Cammy’s arm from my person. The best thing I could do was to push my arms away from Cammy, looking like a puppy cornered and afraid of a vaccum cleaner. She didn’t get the message, and planted a smacker on my cheek- lipstick thick as glass- and went back to her friends. This was the first time she’d ever done that. Why now? I said my goodbyes to Billy Jo and wished her well. She did the same. But for all my effort, I knew Billy Jo walked away with misconceptions about who I had become. The worst must be over.
As Cammy and I regrouped, she offered to take me to a local bar we were both independently fond of while we lived in Wichita: Harry’s. This was the best idea of the night. I could use a drink, and maybe if I get drunk enough, I can work that cheek-kiss into a night of similar mouth pursuits (at the very least).
We sat at the bar for a while. The bar was packed with 40-something year old business professionals, fresh off a week’s work, hair down and ready put their legs in the air. We stood out, two young pokes with obviously loose ties drinking together. The rodeo on the TV reminded me of castration. So did Cammy’s comment about all the men that had fucked her over while she lived in Emporia.
“They just don’t understand my passion. I have a passion for theater and they’ll never understand that. I can’t force them to. They’ll never love anything more than I love being on stage.”
Funny Cammy, I’ve never seen you on any stage in Emporia.
“Like Greg. Greg just flirts and pantomimes the movements of a tech-director, but he doesn’t care. I care.”
“uh-huh.” Sip.
Money was tight. Its always tight, but in moments like this, its clear how much you need a finsky. I didn’t ask for another beer, but I desperately wanted one. She, on her fifth beer, and me on my third water. As she drank, she became more personal with the indictments of the male population. “They did x to me which is why z is impossible. What the f ?”
She paid the tab, which ran just under $40 dollars, $2.50 of which was enjoyable. She was uncertain about leaving. I could tell she missed Wichita and wanted it back. That's just the type of person she was, always lamenting what she lost and condemning what she has. Even her current boyfriend, whom she conceded was simply a "comfortable financial support for an actress." Its amazing how many times i've heard those words come out of actresses' mouths. Its what she wanted in her mouth that prompted our next pursuit.
“uggh. I haven’t eaten all day. Would you drive me to that fast food taco place before we leave town?”
“taco bell?”
“no”
“tico?”
“no. its got the big sign…”
“bueno?”
“That’s the (hiccup) one.”
to be continued...
There wasn’t even enough time to panic. I saw her shining and stunned face through a window in the main door. For a moment we both contemplated finding other exits. Our solution-centric eyes were proof of that. But we are responsible people. We spoke briefly about “how we were” and “what’s going on in our lives”. But the crux of the matter couldn’t be avoided for long. This was the cross examination question that Sam Waterston would have briefed me about.
“Wait, didn’t you move to Emporia? What brought you down here to see this?”
“oh, that’s funny story actually. I was asleep this afternoon…I don’t sleep in the afternoon all the time, I just felt really tired today after work, you know? And I got this phone call from this girl, er, person who I hadn’t seen for a while. She asked me if wanted to see some theater and I was bored so I said yes and as it turns out it was in Wichita, which was a surprise to me and, yeah.”
Nothing I could have said would have made much sense. I went through a few other possible answers in my mind and none of them worked.
• “ I just really love theater now.”
• “ I heard you were going to be here and I hadn’t looked at you from a distance for a while, so…”
• “ I became religious. I was told there was going to be a hugging fellowship seminar here. I guess they were wrong…”
So, Billy Jo’s reaction was expected.
“that’s a pretty elaborate story. Whose your friend?”
“Her name's Cammy. Cammy Pap. You remember her? She used to go to WSU.”
“Oh I think I remember her. She was in theater right?”
“Yeah that’s her.”
“Did I hear you call my name?!”
Oh jesus god. She was all hopped up on bygone friendship and her energy was perfectly misplaced. Her timing was nothing short of legendary. Thelonious Monk could learn a thing or two from the Pap. My initial reaction was to not look in Cammy’s direction, to keep my eyes steadfastly fixed on Billy Jo and to pray that her question was honest, that Cammy truly didn’t know if anyone had said her name. No such luck. It was one of those look-whose-in-the-room-now questions. Just something to make yourself seem invited. But I keep to my short term goals and smiled and didn’t blink and wondered what to do next.
I Briefly caught the smell of a fart. I fart when I’m nervous. But my methane shooter didn’t stop cammy’s arm from weaving itself around my waist in salutation.
“Who is this?” She said.
“Cammy, this is Billy Jo. Billy jo, this cammy.”
They shook hands as I found patterns in the carpet I thought were fascinating. It looks plain red, but when you need to look at it, the true nature of the floor presents itself. I couldn’t bring myself to make unnecessary conversation, nor could I bring myself to remove Cammy’s arm from my person. The best thing I could do was to push my arms away from Cammy, looking like a puppy cornered and afraid of a vaccum cleaner. She didn’t get the message, and planted a smacker on my cheek- lipstick thick as glass- and went back to her friends. This was the first time she’d ever done that. Why now? I said my goodbyes to Billy Jo and wished her well. She did the same. But for all my effort, I knew Billy Jo walked away with misconceptions about who I had become. The worst must be over.
As Cammy and I regrouped, she offered to take me to a local bar we were both independently fond of while we lived in Wichita: Harry’s. This was the best idea of the night. I could use a drink, and maybe if I get drunk enough, I can work that cheek-kiss into a night of similar mouth pursuits (at the very least).
We sat at the bar for a while. The bar was packed with 40-something year old business professionals, fresh off a week’s work, hair down and ready put their legs in the air. We stood out, two young pokes with obviously loose ties drinking together. The rodeo on the TV reminded me of castration. So did Cammy’s comment about all the men that had fucked her over while she lived in Emporia.
“They just don’t understand my passion. I have a passion for theater and they’ll never understand that. I can’t force them to. They’ll never love anything more than I love being on stage.”
Funny Cammy, I’ve never seen you on any stage in Emporia.
“Like Greg. Greg just flirts and pantomimes the movements of a tech-director, but he doesn’t care. I care.”
“uh-huh.” Sip.
Money was tight. Its always tight, but in moments like this, its clear how much you need a finsky. I didn’t ask for another beer, but I desperately wanted one. She, on her fifth beer, and me on my third water. As she drank, she became more personal with the indictments of the male population. “They did x to me which is why z is impossible. What the f ?”
She paid the tab, which ran just under $40 dollars, $2.50 of which was enjoyable. She was uncertain about leaving. I could tell she missed Wichita and wanted it back. That's just the type of person she was, always lamenting what she lost and condemning what she has. Even her current boyfriend, whom she conceded was simply a "comfortable financial support for an actress." Its amazing how many times i've heard those words come out of actresses' mouths. Its what she wanted in her mouth that prompted our next pursuit.
“uggh. I haven’t eaten all day. Would you drive me to that fast food taco place before we leave town?”
“taco bell?”
“no”
“tico?”
“no. its got the big sign…”
“bueno?”
“That’s the (hiccup) one.”
to be continued...
Friday, May 8, 2009
Rasputin, et al
As we approached Wichita, more details about the impending evening unfolded. Innocence and simplicity be damned. My true purpose on this trip was not as a companion, although I made a remarkable one. It was, rather, to act as a surrogate boyfriend. All of the perks and pleasantries of such a title need not apply.
“There’s an even chance that my ex-boyfriend will be there. We didn’t end on a high note and I really can’t stand the asshole. Will you be with me if he comes around?”
“Do I really have a choice? Yes, I’ll be right next to you.”
“Good. I really think you’ll like this show. Its going to be a collection of different scenes from musicals and there are going to be three different performers. Do you like musical theater?”
“I enjoyed Mary Poppins and Beauty and the Beast as a child. So, singing and acting are nostalgia if anything.”
Cammy’s eyes were in flux between the speedometer and the clock. The later we were, the faster she drove. We topped out at 93 a few times, and her split attention kept me wondering if we would ever make it to the Air Capital alive. I suggested, matter-of-factually, that she stop to get gas. She was running on ‘E’ and we had not yet crossed Butler County. Begrudgingly, she stopped to pump. Neigh, I pumped gas and she paid. Soon enough, we were on the road again, speeding, compensating for time lost.
Entering Wichita, I made a few directional comments and we got to the location in question around 7:10. We were late, but not that late. Cammy bolted from the drivers seat and ran at full speed towards the church where the recital had been supplanted. Her dress flowed as she ran, her eyes never looked back at me, as I walked leisurely towards the entrance.
“I could be sleeping right now” I murmured to myself. But this is a dream all the same. Lucid and unpredictable, seemingly out of my control.
A fear had risen in my as I approached the building; something that had entered my mind but was now naked, having arrived at my previous city. Was she going to be here? God I hope not. Billy Jo and I had split up a year ago and had only seen each other one time since. That meeting was cordial and friendly. I had no ill-will to her and I don’t think she has any either. Regardless, how would I explain this? Unlike my companion, I didn’t need or want a prosthetic lover. It was a long shot, though. I knew she was involved in Opera at WSU, but there was no guarantee that she would know these people. And even if she did, I’m sure she was busy with her own performance of some kind.
As we took our seats in the middle of a performance, I found no trace of anyone I recognized. Relief. Count my lucky stars I don’t have to deal with my past. It wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t attached to Cammy: a rabid, undomesticated thespian fond of making a scene. The performances were good, but it was no Julie Andrews. Cammy, likewise, was relieved that her boyfriend wasn’t present and relaxed beside a friend and colleague she had known while at WSU only a year prior. She giggled and chatted in between skits and paid no mind to me. “All the better” I thought. “I couldn’t handle her actually being affectionate right now.”
The first intermission came and I needed a cigarette badly. I stepped out for a moment to a slew of gentlemen who seemed, likewise, dragged into this by the short hairs. We didn’t talk, we just smoked and sighed and shifted and bit the bullet. The entrance back to the church was congested with performers rushing to change into and out-of costume. I waddled through them and found my seat again, and readied myself for round 2 of sub-par Broadway homage. Two rows ahead of me, amongst the dark indiscernible of a black box theater, I heard a deep and mouthy laugh. It echoed for days and was stifled by its owner, surely out of the knowledge that she had given away her location to all. But the sound continued in me. It was the laugh of a person who knew the purpose of breath-support and knew it well. A mezzo, who was under the tutelage of one of the finest voice coaches in the nation. This would only apply to a handful of people in Wichita, and I knew all of them. This voice had been near me before. Very near. It was Billy Jo, and she sat waiting with a friend, unaware that I would soon be forced to justify myself, if only out of desperation. Maybe I should have made her a tape, too.
to be continued...
“There’s an even chance that my ex-boyfriend will be there. We didn’t end on a high note and I really can’t stand the asshole. Will you be with me if he comes around?”
“Do I really have a choice? Yes, I’ll be right next to you.”
“Good. I really think you’ll like this show. Its going to be a collection of different scenes from musicals and there are going to be three different performers. Do you like musical theater?”
“I enjoyed Mary Poppins and Beauty and the Beast as a child. So, singing and acting are nostalgia if anything.”
Cammy’s eyes were in flux between the speedometer and the clock. The later we were, the faster she drove. We topped out at 93 a few times, and her split attention kept me wondering if we would ever make it to the Air Capital alive. I suggested, matter-of-factually, that she stop to get gas. She was running on ‘E’ and we had not yet crossed Butler County. Begrudgingly, she stopped to pump. Neigh, I pumped gas and she paid. Soon enough, we were on the road again, speeding, compensating for time lost.
Entering Wichita, I made a few directional comments and we got to the location in question around 7:10. We were late, but not that late. Cammy bolted from the drivers seat and ran at full speed towards the church where the recital had been supplanted. Her dress flowed as she ran, her eyes never looked back at me, as I walked leisurely towards the entrance.
“I could be sleeping right now” I murmured to myself. But this is a dream all the same. Lucid and unpredictable, seemingly out of my control.
A fear had risen in my as I approached the building; something that had entered my mind but was now naked, having arrived at my previous city. Was she going to be here? God I hope not. Billy Jo and I had split up a year ago and had only seen each other one time since. That meeting was cordial and friendly. I had no ill-will to her and I don’t think she has any either. Regardless, how would I explain this? Unlike my companion, I didn’t need or want a prosthetic lover. It was a long shot, though. I knew she was involved in Opera at WSU, but there was no guarantee that she would know these people. And even if she did, I’m sure she was busy with her own performance of some kind.
As we took our seats in the middle of a performance, I found no trace of anyone I recognized. Relief. Count my lucky stars I don’t have to deal with my past. It wouldn’t be so bad if I wasn’t attached to Cammy: a rabid, undomesticated thespian fond of making a scene. The performances were good, but it was no Julie Andrews. Cammy, likewise, was relieved that her boyfriend wasn’t present and relaxed beside a friend and colleague she had known while at WSU only a year prior. She giggled and chatted in between skits and paid no mind to me. “All the better” I thought. “I couldn’t handle her actually being affectionate right now.”
The first intermission came and I needed a cigarette badly. I stepped out for a moment to a slew of gentlemen who seemed, likewise, dragged into this by the short hairs. We didn’t talk, we just smoked and sighed and shifted and bit the bullet. The entrance back to the church was congested with performers rushing to change into and out-of costume. I waddled through them and found my seat again, and readied myself for round 2 of sub-par Broadway homage. Two rows ahead of me, amongst the dark indiscernible of a black box theater, I heard a deep and mouthy laugh. It echoed for days and was stifled by its owner, surely out of the knowledge that she had given away her location to all. But the sound continued in me. It was the laugh of a person who knew the purpose of breath-support and knew it well. A mezzo, who was under the tutelage of one of the finest voice coaches in the nation. This would only apply to a handful of people in Wichita, and I knew all of them. This voice had been near me before. Very near. It was Billy Jo, and she sat waiting with a friend, unaware that I would soon be forced to justify myself, if only out of desperation. Maybe I should have made her a tape, too.
to be continued...
Sunday, May 3, 2009
Rasputin, et al
Most Saturdays are not worth their weight in salt. On a particular Saturday, after five hours of kitchen duty, I found that despite an adequate amount of sleep the night before I could use a few winks more. 3 pm is as good a-time as any to rest. Most people don’t value sleep, at least no more than water, food or hygiene. Truth be told, it’s the only time I can relinquish control to pure chance. Therefore, its valuable and this Saturday served a deeply cherished purpose. I had completed a day and now the day was going to complete me in whatever way it wanted.
Other people had ulterior motives about that Saturday. Ideas that fell through, meetings that never happened, and promises lazily broken meant that any quick-wit would have to resort to others means. One person in particular felt this way: Cammy Pap. She had been crying for hours, stressed about the momentous opportunity that had been slipping away all afternoon. Understand that, to her, the mailing system in
The solution seemed simple enough: get application, go see performance, drop off application, and appease admissions and friend in one swift action. And simple it was. There was nothing complicated about any of it. Even months after, I cannot think of a single reason why this could not have been done promptly and pleasantly by herself. But to Cammy, nothing was ever clear. Gradations of grey spread endlessly before her every decision. To go alone was to justify being alone now and forever.
My phone rang around 5:40 pm, stopping productivity. No one calls me, really. Especially on Saturdays, when the banks are closed, the movies I rented were purchased only hours ago and are in no jeopardy of being late (yet), and people have plans that don’t involve me largely because I decline. The caller ID read “Cammy”, which was an even bigger surprise after my failed attempts at courtship months earlier left us without any substance on which to build. We called it quits on the pleasantries. I thought it was mutual.
“hello?”
“Hey, Matt its Cammy, how are you?”
“fine. What’s up?”
If I ever did get phone calls, they were usually information based: “meet me at the bar in 30 minutes”, “can I borrow a movie?”, “did chris get home safe last night?” This one started in a way that meant a higher purpose.
“Would you like to go see a performance with me?”
“uh…when?”
“in about an hour. It’s a senior recital. I didn’t want to go alone.”
“oh. Sure, I don’t have anything going on.”
“great. I’ll pick you up in about five minutes?”
“oh, sure. Sounds great.”
It seemed like a long time to waste between travel and performance. I’m all for being punctual, but an hour early seemed a bit over-kill and ultimately terrible. People often assume rationality in irrational situations.
Like promised, Cammy arrived as I put on my jacket and whipped the crust from my eyes. She seemed happy to see me. She always looked so beautiful to me. Her neck is long and slender, her smile is wide and her body ached, just ached, with obviously strong pelvic muscles that knew their purpose. Slender, for sure, but the nude modeling job that she did for a Life-drawing class provided me, and anyone who cared to glance at the several portraits of her in the art building, with ample proof that she hid a vessel of exquisite personality. I was glad to see her too.
Polite conversation punctuated the first few minutes towards the show. She told me about the application that was due and how no one else could/would go with her. I felt at that moment a bit runner-up, but it was nothing a nice night of theater wouldn’t cure. Theater has never appealed to me that much, but if I could get a kiss out of it, I’d say “fuck yes” to any Andrew Lloyd Webber musical. This recital held promise.
We head north towards her house to pick up the application and then proceeded, again, north towards the university. My anticipation of possible sex almost blinded me from the fact that we had passed the university and were heading to the outskirts of
“35 south is the quickest. So we’re going to
“Did I not mention that? Yeah, she’s a senior at
I did mind, but what could I do? By that time we were already going 80 on the turnpike and the next exit was 20 miles down the road. It was out of my hands and all I could do was attempt to enjoy the evening. Perhaps it was a simple mistake. Sometimes we all forget very important and highly consequential details, right?
I still couldn’t believe that a woman this physically stunning would request my company, even if I was a 3rd round pick. I had made her a mixed tape about 7 months prior that I took great pride in. It was one of the finest I had ever made. It was a bad decision on multiple levels. I had only known her for a few weeks and my gesture surely came off desperate. Antiquated technology also meant that the tape was useless for anyone my age who did not share my fascination, Cammy being one of those people. Still, she called me. Of all the people in the digital world, the woman who was potentially scared away by my symbolic equivalent of an 8-track recording of stalker motives as read by Vincent Price, wanted me sit by her side and watch art happen.
to be continued...
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
"are you mad at me?"
I heard him say it so clearly. It was as if i was five, threw a tantrum, and there he was to settle the score. To allow me to weep in his arms and let the anguish subside. But he is not here. Those days are no more and have not been for a long while. But my sleep had been brashly stirred, and my response was just to myself.
"of course i'm not, dad. I never really have been."
I heard him say it so clearly. It was as if i was five, threw a tantrum, and there he was to settle the score. To allow me to weep in his arms and let the anguish subside. But he is not here. Those days are no more and have not been for a long while. But my sleep had been brashly stirred, and my response was just to myself.
"of course i'm not, dad. I never really have been."
Monday, April 20, 2009
The last thing you want to hear after a night turned darkened day is the sound of birds. They come even before the sun stirs above the horizon. They sense the birth of morning better than any farmer could hope to. But this sense lays flat on the humming tones of your own rhythmic breath, as you slip slowly into the sleep you've stifled for upwards of 20 hours. Chirps packaged as insult, because you know they do this by choice. Instinct is still choice. We stunt instinct when we don't hump strangers. The birds have not cared to learn this yet. But I will teach them, by showing how peaceful i can be in spite of them and their incessant chatter. I've broken the code, too. They are laughing. That explains the shrill banshee decibels. They mock the nights brevity and how it lost at hiding all the worldly unknowables. And primarily, they direct me to the impending day. I suppose that if the days were good, their laughter would be good. But do customer service reps ever smile back? And when you sing to them, don't they consider you pest? if it was good, you'd be good for good. After a night of drinking, you can count on the birds driving stakes into today's coffin.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
http://www.sharedsacrifice.us/April16Cook_Emporia_smoking_ban.html
This is my new article. read it.
http://www.sharedsacrifice.us/April16Cook_Emporia_smoking_ban.html
http://www.sharedsacrifice.us/April16Cook_Emporia_smoking_ban.html
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
vultures stopped circling. Doom wasn't apart of it. Everyone sat, blank faced, piecing together their own temper. Happenstance: a word that means we had no bidding and a corralling of no ones' fault. Eat still, and for the drink, can there be no compliment? Drink still and be still by useless digits, rallied skyward to mark the apex of the sun. At 2:30 we put away our old selves. She, her marked time, clocks in at just under radical, ready to make peace with the stench of their jobs let loose by old age, night shifts or the habit that wrought them and is stripped, fair skinned to the city legislature. She, who at any time would pledge allegiance to Emporia's flag if there were one, samples air dirty to be clean, smokeless, mean and the jar runs empty for the fifth time this week.
Friday, March 20, 2009
Stop 1: Kingman
- bought paper, pens, gum and toothbrush
Stop 2: Greensburg
- Stop at worlds largest hand-dug well
- met Stacy at the gift shop. Says "Green movement is a reason for young people to re-inhabit rural America".
- Land and trees are barren due to 2007 tornado. Stripped of all vegetation
- lots of new model homes
- Met a green-architect from Lawrence (KS) named Dave. Claims his efforts are in vain. “Build a house. Fill the house. Find no work. Leave the house. Community crumbles. Western Kansas is not a retirement spot.”
- Essential question: How do we get young people to rural America?
o Incentives?
o Family Values?
o Resurgence of small-scale agriculture?
o Gun point?
- Who profits from small town resurgence?
- Is minority inclusion probable in a new exodus?
- Elaborate on why urban notions of disgust surround rural living.
- Remember “the dust settles” poem.
- Towns in atrophy: Greensburg, Lakin,
- Towns in rigormortis: Coolidge, Meade, Mullinville
- Living towns: Pratt, Kingman
Stop 3: Mullinville
- Country café for lunch
- Town of nearly no population
- See pictures
- 3 total feed yards as of this town
-----
6:27 pm 3-19-09
At the windbreak in Syracuse. Upon my entrance, the bar turns to look at me. All of them men over 50 years old. The bar tender asks if I’m “ABC”, to which I say “what does that mean?”
“Alcoholic Beverage C-something”. They ask what the hell I’m doing here.
“I’m visiting family.”
“what’s your family?”
“The cooks. You know, Darrel and Linda.”
The bar erupts into stories of my family.
“I went to school with Darrel. He should be coming in here in a few minutes.”
“One night in about 77, I was sitting here at the bar and it was packed. I feel someone push me from behind and it was your dad. I was ready to cut him with my knife, but he was just visiting from college and we sat and drank beer all night, the old son of a bitch.”
After all the familial formalities were finished, they asked what I do.
“I go to school.”
“what for?”
“To become a teacher.”
“…what the hell is wrong with you?”“I’m not as strong as the rest of the cook boys.”
“Not by the looks of ya’, cubby.”
“thanks.”
----
I’ve been trying to piece this town together for years. All I have are stories and the limited experience as a city boy visiting for the summer. I’m trying to figure out what people look forward to here.
From first glance, the town is staying alive somehow. The people seem to know their purpose, but don’t wear it on their sleeve. The ones I’ve seen so far have been ravaged by years of chain smoking, lackluster crops, subsidies, and alcoholism.
----
Sampling water to grow for nations. Jovial to taste a drop, out of humor and horror that our tongues stay salty. Or that our best love of land is never enough, how god has always forsaken the land. We are broken to break, too shaken for the sake of rattles in the grass, the only thing growing.
----
quote from bar:
“Obama’s trying to get us out of an economic crisis. No work, no crisis.”
----
This is how well I know my family:
*me exiting the bar. Directed to man at the bar who looks familiar*
me: you my cousin?
Him: what?
Me: you ben?
Him: … no.
Me: my mistake. Take it easy.
----
Greensburg cont…
- People walking about in various directions. Oddly visible. Not obstructed by structure. Aimless, it seems, but with reason.
- The majority of cars in the town are in front of a brand new Kwik Shop. State of the art.
- New art gallery made of temperature sensitive glass that opens and closes to adjust for weather. Powered by solar panels. I imagine Leonardo Dicapprio narrating.
Mullinville cont…
- collection of metal art. All political. See photos. AMAZING!
-
----
3-20-09 6:50 AM- Ramblin Inn Restaurant- Syracuse, KS
Collection of friends and acquaintances sit at adjacent tables. I notice a familiar accent. I peg him as Scottish and through some pretty simple eavesdropping (they all speak loudly), I confirmed it: he’s a Scott. I can’t imagine why he has come to this tiny Kansas farm community. He seems to be well known to the regulars here.
The breakfast was good: pancakes and hash browns
The whole town is talking about #33 (Bryce Simon) on American University’s basketball team, who is from Syracuse. They made it to the NCAA tournament for the 2nd year in a row. They were beating Villanova Thursday night, but lost in the 2nd half.
Gossip is thick: talking about a kid to took a shit in the swimming pool. They put cameras around the pool to prevent it from happening again.
Their conversations: Work, politics, frustrations, taxes, sports, town business
My conversations: Work, gross stories, movie/tv quotations, booze/drugs, sex, games, sports.
Total feed yards observed during trip: 8 (including Tyson’s relocation to Garden City)
--------
Agenda for today:
- Visit Grandpa and Grandma’s grave
- Talk To People
- Visit Jeff/Pam, and Linda
- Visit Hamilton County Museum
- Get stats on economy
- Watch “Slumdog Millionaire” at 7pm at theater
- go to bar. Try and get some interviews in.
- bought paper, pens, gum and toothbrush
Stop 2: Greensburg
- Stop at worlds largest hand-dug well
- met Stacy at the gift shop. Says "Green movement is a reason for young people to re-inhabit rural America".
- Land and trees are barren due to 2007 tornado. Stripped of all vegetation
- lots of new model homes
- Met a green-architect from Lawrence (KS) named Dave. Claims his efforts are in vain. “Build a house. Fill the house. Find no work. Leave the house. Community crumbles. Western Kansas is not a retirement spot.”
- Essential question: How do we get young people to rural America?
o Incentives?
o Family Values?
o Resurgence of small-scale agriculture?
o Gun point?
- Who profits from small town resurgence?
- Is minority inclusion probable in a new exodus?
- Elaborate on why urban notions of disgust surround rural living.
- Remember “the dust settles” poem.
- Towns in atrophy: Greensburg, Lakin,
- Towns in rigormortis: Coolidge, Meade, Mullinville
- Living towns: Pratt, Kingman
Stop 3: Mullinville
- Country café for lunch
- Town of nearly no population
- See pictures
- 3 total feed yards as of this town
-----
6:27 pm 3-19-09
At the windbreak in Syracuse. Upon my entrance, the bar turns to look at me. All of them men over 50 years old. The bar tender asks if I’m “ABC”, to which I say “what does that mean?”
“Alcoholic Beverage C-something”. They ask what the hell I’m doing here.
“I’m visiting family.”
“what’s your family?”
“The cooks. You know, Darrel and Linda.”
The bar erupts into stories of my family.
“I went to school with Darrel. He should be coming in here in a few minutes.”
“One night in about 77, I was sitting here at the bar and it was packed. I feel someone push me from behind and it was your dad. I was ready to cut him with my knife, but he was just visiting from college and we sat and drank beer all night, the old son of a bitch.”
After all the familial formalities were finished, they asked what I do.
“I go to school.”
“what for?”
“To become a teacher.”
“…what the hell is wrong with you?”“I’m not as strong as the rest of the cook boys.”
“Not by the looks of ya’, cubby.”
“thanks.”
----
I’ve been trying to piece this town together for years. All I have are stories and the limited experience as a city boy visiting for the summer. I’m trying to figure out what people look forward to here.
From first glance, the town is staying alive somehow. The people seem to know their purpose, but don’t wear it on their sleeve. The ones I’ve seen so far have been ravaged by years of chain smoking, lackluster crops, subsidies, and alcoholism.
----
Sampling water to grow for nations. Jovial to taste a drop, out of humor and horror that our tongues stay salty. Or that our best love of land is never enough, how god has always forsaken the land. We are broken to break, too shaken for the sake of rattles in the grass, the only thing growing.
----
quote from bar:
“Obama’s trying to get us out of an economic crisis. No work, no crisis.”
----
This is how well I know my family:
*me exiting the bar. Directed to man at the bar who looks familiar*
me: you my cousin?
Him: what?
Me: you ben?
Him: … no.
Me: my mistake. Take it easy.
----
Greensburg cont…
- People walking about in various directions. Oddly visible. Not obstructed by structure. Aimless, it seems, but with reason.
- The majority of cars in the town are in front of a brand new Kwik Shop. State of the art.
- New art gallery made of temperature sensitive glass that opens and closes to adjust for weather. Powered by solar panels. I imagine Leonardo Dicapprio narrating.
Mullinville cont…
- collection of metal art. All political. See photos. AMAZING!
-
----
3-20-09 6:50 AM- Ramblin Inn Restaurant- Syracuse, KS
Collection of friends and acquaintances sit at adjacent tables. I notice a familiar accent. I peg him as Scottish and through some pretty simple eavesdropping (they all speak loudly), I confirmed it: he’s a Scott. I can’t imagine why he has come to this tiny Kansas farm community. He seems to be well known to the regulars here.
The breakfast was good: pancakes and hash browns
The whole town is talking about #33 (Bryce Simon) on American University’s basketball team, who is from Syracuse. They made it to the NCAA tournament for the 2nd year in a row. They were beating Villanova Thursday night, but lost in the 2nd half.
Gossip is thick: talking about a kid to took a shit in the swimming pool. They put cameras around the pool to prevent it from happening again.
Their conversations: Work, politics, frustrations, taxes, sports, town business
My conversations: Work, gross stories, movie/tv quotations, booze/drugs, sex, games, sports.
Total feed yards observed during trip: 8 (including Tyson’s relocation to Garden City)
--------
Agenda for today:
- Visit Grandpa and Grandma’s grave
- Talk To People
- Visit Jeff/Pam, and Linda
- Visit Hamilton County Museum
- Get stats on economy
- Watch “Slumdog Millionaire” at 7pm at theater
- go to bar. Try and get some interviews in.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Paul's Story
Upon hearing of his passing, I am immediately taken back to the yellow dodge pick-up, dirty interior wreaking of spent Pall Malls, exhaust fumes, and the rough gargle of words coming from one of three Cook boys: Tracy, Darrel, or Bill. My balance is unsure, the road is no more than two parallel slits in the middle of endless brown and spattered white. We drive slow in correction. This gave us enough time, from leaving the house to our arrival at a broken fence, the workshop or the cattle pens, to listen to his every consonant. How delicate and mindful he was to be understood, and for his stories to never fall on deaf ears. Our silence at 6 AM is already mandated, but now profound at the presence of "The Rest of the Story".
A man loses dog, finds jesus, finds dog, loses jesus.
A woman viciously raped and murdered by son and gang of unruly friends
A farmer, fond of heavy metal, scares cows away, only to lure them back with Liszt's Hungarian Rhapsody...straight to the slaughter house. (Bill chuckles at that one)
Come lunch, it was back to the house for bologna sandwiches with REAL mayonnaise, a pleasant departure from Miracle Whip.
"did you listen to Harvey today, Darrel?"
"yeah. that cattle story?"
"Ha Ha Ha. Matthew and I got a kick out of that, didn't we son?"
Even then, at the endless age of 10, i knew that the morning was special and that, though inarticulate, i wanted to sit and listen to Paul Harvey for hours with the Cook boys. Later, my father would drift in and out of stories of him hating the harvest and loving Harvey. How his stories were, in part, the catalyst for his divorce from agriculture. Strange. To this day, its one of my fondest memories of the farm.
If "The Rest of the Story" were a symphony, the false endings would have us terrified from second to second. I was never sure if he had finished a story. His pauses were the lull that kept us wanting. You could finally relax when Paul gave the all-clear "Good Day". This is when the mass of the day laid its girth on you. The world isn't about stories anymore, its about labor. But its still the pauses that crack the possibility that make you chuckle at the drunkard drinking O'douls, weap at the abandonment of an infant, or take stock in the ludicrous national politik. And the pause, now forever, keeps me posted.
Good Day
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
to new beginings
Forfeited all positions at livejournal after five years. Should all acquaintance be forgot?
http://metheabstract.livejournal.com is no more.
http://metheabstract.livejournal.com is no more.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
