The yellow light of 3 a.m. parking lots illuminated the two of them. He, short - shorter than me - past middle-aged, balding, hunch shouldered, I already knew was fairly crazy, from just a three minute conversation we'd had earlier in the evening. "I was in the army for thirty years, up, up, up; coulda called anyone in the country at any time of day or night and said 'watch yourself' and they would have known... I was in only in the army for three years. My son is in prison right now. And I, I, I, I'll tell yah, yeah man." And so on, without ceasing. He spoke aggressively, emphasizing each subject with guttural breath and pointing fingers. I let him talk, inputting an encouraging 'uh huh' or 'right' when he took a breath, and he gave me twenty bucks for the pleasure of audience. But he is not important, though I wondered if he actually had a son.
In her heels, she was a foot taller and thirty years younger than he. And she stood back, without expression, as he approached my taxi with the cash. "How much," he said, "for you to take her back to that motel near the strip club by the army base?"
"Well..." I said, but he hadn't stopped,
"About forty dollars?"
"That's more than fair." I said. It was certainly more than fair, but he was already rooting around in an envelope of mostly hundreds.
"How about I give you sixty?"
"Alright," I said, "I have change."
She sat in the back seat, alone. It was difficult to determine her age - she was wearing far too much makeup - but behind me, she was just a voice. We pulled out into the street and headed east. I asked her where she was from - Tampa. She asked me how much he gave me for the drive - sixty dollars. I asked about living in Florida and she told me about how she had started nude and topless dancing, "and I made so much money, so much money, but I spent it all: I went on every ride at Busch Gardens and Adventure Island, I went water skiing, sailing, jet skiing, everything."
She told me she'd made three hundred bucks off that john, but that didn't stop her from trying to convince me to give her some of my sixty. “We should split it,” she said. It's not yours, dear. “He said he'd pay me and I could pay you...” He didn't. “How much does this trip normally cost?” About twenty-five. No, I'm not splitting the remainder.
She took a call. She told her coworker her plans for tomorrow. She already spent the three hundred in her mind, and listed the things she'll purchase at the mall.
I tried to find out more about her past, her family, what forced her to move from Tampa, but any topic that didn't involve money seemed to bore her. In the end, I dropped her at the seven-11 next to the strip club. She closed the door to my taxi and went inside to buy a slurpy. Two hundred and ninety four, fifty remaining.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
Thursday, March 19, 2015
Joseph's Accident, Chapter One
The climax comes first.
At 9:02 in the morning, on a Tuesday, Ronald Joseph Brittons - who disliked his name and went by Joe - was hit by a car. The bumper of the maroon 1993 Honda Civic collided with the side of Joseph’s right knee at 28 miles-per-hour, breaking first one, then the other, leg. Three milliseconds later, his right shoulder and head left a four inch deep impression on the hood of the rapidly decelerating Honda. His body hit the windshield, shattering it in three places, spider webs spreading outward from the points of impact, meeting, separating, meeting. He flew back into the street and bounced when the car came to a stop.
The entire interaction took fifteen seconds.
His sister, Georgia, and her large golden retriever, Sir Richard Longtooth, were five steps ahead of Joe when the car rounded the curved neighborhood street at 47 miles-per-hour. At 8:27, Georgia, Richard, and Joe had left Georgia’s house to walk and talk about life. To catch up a bit after a long separation. He was on vacation from a small town on the other coast. Joseph’s on-again-off-again girlfriend was off again. Her name was Charlotte and she didn’t know whether she loved him - he was alright either way. She would later try to come by and see him, but it was complicated.
At 8:43, the driver was trying to find his doorknob. He was certain he had one. He was also certain that he needed to be at work in fifteen minutes. He hadn’t slept. The party the night before had lasted quite a bit longer than anyone expected. He lost track of time - and also his doorknob. Ah, it’s on the right hand side of the door.
At 9:09 the ambulance arrived. Later, Georgia would not remember any of what followed. She called for it, she was pretty certain. Richard rode with them to the hospital in the ambulance. She couldn’t remember any of it, but the moment of the collision was permanent. It was a fixed thing. For Georgia, it was the start of a new timeline, like the birth of Christ. Before the accident and after. But, at the same time, it was as though it had always happened, a stone in her thoughts - she could not remember life without it. Even life before the accident was time spent waiting for it to happen.
For the next twenty years, when she had nightmares, her body tumbled around in space, randomly colliding with hidden, dark objects, without any control of where or when or what would follow. Empty space and harsh unseen objects, that was all. It was not certain how deeply Sir Richard was impacted by the event, but secretly he understood more than anyone gave him credit for, and in his dreams he only chased one car now - one maroon car. And if he caught it, he tore it to shreds.
Ronald Joseph Brittons lived. Aside from the broken legs, his collar bone was shattered, three ribs broken, and four vertebrae in the cervical curve were fractured. There was massive internal bleeding in his chest and head cavities. He was in a coma. These injuries, however, were relatively unimportant to the remainder of his life. At some point during the accident his spinal cord was severed very close to his brain stem. His mind was separated from his body. When he awoke he had lost the ability to move or communicate in any way. His autonomous functions - to breathe and digest, salivate, fart - continued. He continued to experience sight, smell, taste, but he, himself, was trapped in the prison of his mind. He had a window on the outside world but he could not even rap upon the glass. Except, he could, he would later find, occasionally laugh.
At 9:02 in the morning, on a Tuesday, Ronald Joseph Brittons - who disliked his name and went by Joe - was hit by a car. The bumper of the maroon 1993 Honda Civic collided with the side of Joseph’s right knee at 28 miles-per-hour, breaking first one, then the other, leg. Three milliseconds later, his right shoulder and head left a four inch deep impression on the hood of the rapidly decelerating Honda. His body hit the windshield, shattering it in three places, spider webs spreading outward from the points of impact, meeting, separating, meeting. He flew back into the street and bounced when the car came to a stop.
The entire interaction took fifteen seconds.
His sister, Georgia, and her large golden retriever, Sir Richard Longtooth, were five steps ahead of Joe when the car rounded the curved neighborhood street at 47 miles-per-hour. At 8:27, Georgia, Richard, and Joe had left Georgia’s house to walk and talk about life. To catch up a bit after a long separation. He was on vacation from a small town on the other coast. Joseph’s on-again-off-again girlfriend was off again. Her name was Charlotte and she didn’t know whether she loved him - he was alright either way. She would later try to come by and see him, but it was complicated.
At 8:43, the driver was trying to find his doorknob. He was certain he had one. He was also certain that he needed to be at work in fifteen minutes. He hadn’t slept. The party the night before had lasted quite a bit longer than anyone expected. He lost track of time - and also his doorknob. Ah, it’s on the right hand side of the door.
At 9:09 the ambulance arrived. Later, Georgia would not remember any of what followed. She called for it, she was pretty certain. Richard rode with them to the hospital in the ambulance. She couldn’t remember any of it, but the moment of the collision was permanent. It was a fixed thing. For Georgia, it was the start of a new timeline, like the birth of Christ. Before the accident and after. But, at the same time, it was as though it had always happened, a stone in her thoughts - she could not remember life without it. Even life before the accident was time spent waiting for it to happen.
For the next twenty years, when she had nightmares, her body tumbled around in space, randomly colliding with hidden, dark objects, without any control of where or when or what would follow. Empty space and harsh unseen objects, that was all. It was not certain how deeply Sir Richard was impacted by the event, but secretly he understood more than anyone gave him credit for, and in his dreams he only chased one car now - one maroon car. And if he caught it, he tore it to shreds.
Ronald Joseph Brittons lived. Aside from the broken legs, his collar bone was shattered, three ribs broken, and four vertebrae in the cervical curve were fractured. There was massive internal bleeding in his chest and head cavities. He was in a coma. These injuries, however, were relatively unimportant to the remainder of his life. At some point during the accident his spinal cord was severed very close to his brain stem. His mind was separated from his body. When he awoke he had lost the ability to move or communicate in any way. His autonomous functions - to breathe and digest, salivate, fart - continued. He continued to experience sight, smell, taste, but he, himself, was trapped in the prison of his mind. He had a window on the outside world but he could not even rap upon the glass. Except, he could, he would later find, occasionally laugh.
Thursday, December 18, 2014
Energetic, young, broken, useless
This happened a year ago.
"Be still!" He yelled at me from across the street.
"What? Man, I can't hear you." I called back. Three minutes before, I had been on my way home from the Green Leafe. Since Eleven o'clock, I had finished off three beers, two excellent conversations, and one page of notes. Two weeks before this, road workers had repaired a long section of Scotland St., but never finished. I got a flat on a deceptively sharp pot hole. This guy, call him Rick, walked by on the other side of Armistead Ave. while I was repairing the tube. I had called some kind of respectful acknowledgment ("'S'up?") when I noticed his eyes on me.
"Be fucking still!" He demanded.
"Alright, I'm still." I said. I knew now what was going on.
"Get down. Now."
"I can't do that, man." I didn't want to take my eyes from him. I didn't want to confirm his fantasy.
"GET DOWN!" He yelled at me. "Five! Four!" and ran at me from catty-corner across the street. Forty yards. Thirty. Twenty. I stood my ground and talked to him softly, hands out of my pockets, open, palms facing. Not a threat.
He stopped inside of five yards. Eyes wide. I asked him if he served in Iraq. "Yes, I did." Still in his aggressive voice, the same rough, loud, monotonic tone a twelve year old boy uses on the playground to make a show of force and toughness. Falsely deep, I think it will crack.
"I know I look suspicious to you," I began.
He cut in, "Everybody does."
"But I'm not. I just stopped to fix a flat."
He's not buying it. I'm still the enemy. He's my height, maybe a bit taller, 5'9 and something. Broader shoulders. Dark hair, crew cut, maybe he's still serving. Khaki jacket. Features from the mid-west.
He's drunk. Slow, I could tell that when he was running. Probably higher pain tolerance and possibly unusually strong. But if he lunged, I think I could get out of the way. My phone is in my pocket, but I'm not going to do anything that looks dangerous to this man: this scared little boy in a man's shoes, the weight of many on his shoulders.
"You're a Marine?" I asked.
"Yes."
"My father was a Marine." I said.
"So was mine." still too-hard and loud, but less-so. His breath is steadier.
"He served like you. I've heard the stories. I know a little of what it's like." I'm waving casually at a passing taxi. He's seen the cab too, but he's scowling at it, chin set and pointing his finger at the ground.
He looks back at me. He's still making aggressive mumblings. I raise my right hand slowly and take a step towards him. "I'm going to touch your shoulder." His wide eyes flare wider and he steps back quickly. What did we do to him? "Ok, I'm not going to touch you. But I'm with you, man. I'm on your side."
"Just.. just give me what I want." He says, too softly now. I can't hear him, but he's pleading. Another taxi goes by. Too intent on him, I don't notice it stop behind me. "Give me what I want." He's stretched a hand out to me, now. Palm upward. I think he still might want me to get down, but I really don't know.
"I don't know what you want," I said. I put my hand on his, tentatively, aware he may grab and pull.
"Yes, you do!" His voice is getting louder again, becoming twelve again.
"My dad served out of Norfolk. Where do you serve from?" I'm trying to calm him. Ground him back into reality.
"You know what I want!"
"I don't know, where do you serve from?"
Someone is calling from over my shoulder. Calling his name. "Rick, come get in the van!" They're finally heard, but it doesn't calm Rick.
"Fuck you and your bike!" He yells. He grabs the bike, rear wheel still on the sidewalk, it seems energetic, young, broken, useless. He picks it up, swings, and throws it fifteen feet away. It lands in a heap on the lawn near a rust red sculpture of books held tight in a leather belt. It's dark over there, but it looks okay.
"Whoa," I'm saying, "whoa, Rick, calm down. These are your friends. You need to get in the van with them. Go home."
Now I'm someone else. "No!" he says, sternly, but not the same tone. "You need to! These are the guys that saved your life." It's odd. He's saying this with condescension. My life wasn't worth saving. They risked their worthy lives for my unworthy one.
"Rick, go home and get some sleep."
"They came back for you, man!"
His friends are out of the cab. Rick turns and paces down Scotland, towards the elementary school.
Five minutes later, his friends have managed to pay off the confused and worried taxi driver. (Though one tried to offer him some kind of rewards card in payment. "It has fifty points on it!") They've been standing on sidewalk behind me while I put the wheel back together, talking together about how bad life is ("I'm going back to New York, gonna be a student." "Me too, I'm gonna be a student too." "But that's all I got going for me. If I fuck up one class, that's it." "New York, man?" "Yeah, that's where it all started, 3000 people died there in 2001.") apologizing to me for Rick, ("I've never seen him this bad." "Are you also a marine?" "No, I'm Navy! but I've been with him for as long as I can remember.") wondering what to do now ("He's gone now, man. Gone off somewhere.") I've picked up the frame. The derailleur is bent. I notify the soldiers that Rick is coming back. ("Good spotting, bike guy." Like I'm one of the team.)
After a brief drunken struggle under the spotlight of the street, they head off together, cajoling and consoling Rick, this time down Armistead towards the train station. "Don't call the cops on him, bike guy!" as they leave.
"Just get him home, guys. And tell him Semper Fi for me."
Ten minutes later, I leave the scene and three police cars behind me. (He didn't have a weapon. I'm not pressing charges. Not worried about the bike. I'm worried about the guy. Just see if you can get them somewhere to sleep this off, please. He's been pretty messed up. More ways than one.)
The officer, slightly overweight, blond hair, buzz cut, double chin, maybe 5'10", had asked if I needed anything. "No, I'll get home alright." Was I sure about not demanding any money for repairs?
"Yes. It's just one of those things, you know? It's life."
The bent derailleur clicks the whole way home.
"Be still!" He yelled at me from across the street.
"What? Man, I can't hear you." I called back. Three minutes before, I had been on my way home from the Green Leafe. Since Eleven o'clock, I had finished off three beers, two excellent conversations, and one page of notes. Two weeks before this, road workers had repaired a long section of Scotland St., but never finished. I got a flat on a deceptively sharp pot hole. This guy, call him Rick, walked by on the other side of Armistead Ave. while I was repairing the tube. I had called some kind of respectful acknowledgment ("'S'up?") when I noticed his eyes on me.
"Be fucking still!" He demanded.
"Alright, I'm still." I said. I knew now what was going on.
"Get down. Now."
"I can't do that, man." I didn't want to take my eyes from him. I didn't want to confirm his fantasy.
"GET DOWN!" He yelled at me. "Five! Four!" and ran at me from catty-corner across the street. Forty yards. Thirty. Twenty. I stood my ground and talked to him softly, hands out of my pockets, open, palms facing. Not a threat.
He stopped inside of five yards. Eyes wide. I asked him if he served in Iraq. "Yes, I did." Still in his aggressive voice, the same rough, loud, monotonic tone a twelve year old boy uses on the playground to make a show of force and toughness. Falsely deep, I think it will crack.
"I know I look suspicious to you," I began.
He cut in, "Everybody does."
"But I'm not. I just stopped to fix a flat."
He's not buying it. I'm still the enemy. He's my height, maybe a bit taller, 5'9 and something. Broader shoulders. Dark hair, crew cut, maybe he's still serving. Khaki jacket. Features from the mid-west.
He's drunk. Slow, I could tell that when he was running. Probably higher pain tolerance and possibly unusually strong. But if he lunged, I think I could get out of the way. My phone is in my pocket, but I'm not going to do anything that looks dangerous to this man: this scared little boy in a man's shoes, the weight of many on his shoulders.
"You're a Marine?" I asked.
"Yes."
"My father was a Marine." I said.
"So was mine." still too-hard and loud, but less-so. His breath is steadier.
"He served like you. I've heard the stories. I know a little of what it's like." I'm waving casually at a passing taxi. He's seen the cab too, but he's scowling at it, chin set and pointing his finger at the ground.
He looks back at me. He's still making aggressive mumblings. I raise my right hand slowly and take a step towards him. "I'm going to touch your shoulder." His wide eyes flare wider and he steps back quickly. What did we do to him? "Ok, I'm not going to touch you. But I'm with you, man. I'm on your side."
"Just.. just give me what I want." He says, too softly now. I can't hear him, but he's pleading. Another taxi goes by. Too intent on him, I don't notice it stop behind me. "Give me what I want." He's stretched a hand out to me, now. Palm upward. I think he still might want me to get down, but I really don't know.
"I don't know what you want," I said. I put my hand on his, tentatively, aware he may grab and pull.
"Yes, you do!" His voice is getting louder again, becoming twelve again.
"My dad served out of Norfolk. Where do you serve from?" I'm trying to calm him. Ground him back into reality.
"You know what I want!"
"I don't know, where do you serve from?"
Someone is calling from over my shoulder. Calling his name. "Rick, come get in the van!" They're finally heard, but it doesn't calm Rick.
"Fuck you and your bike!" He yells. He grabs the bike, rear wheel still on the sidewalk, it seems energetic, young, broken, useless. He picks it up, swings, and throws it fifteen feet away. It lands in a heap on the lawn near a rust red sculpture of books held tight in a leather belt. It's dark over there, but it looks okay.
"Whoa," I'm saying, "whoa, Rick, calm down. These are your friends. You need to get in the van with them. Go home."
Now I'm someone else. "No!" he says, sternly, but not the same tone. "You need to! These are the guys that saved your life." It's odd. He's saying this with condescension. My life wasn't worth saving. They risked their worthy lives for my unworthy one.
"Rick, go home and get some sleep."
"They came back for you, man!"
His friends are out of the cab. Rick turns and paces down Scotland, towards the elementary school.
Five minutes later, his friends have managed to pay off the confused and worried taxi driver. (Though one tried to offer him some kind of rewards card in payment. "It has fifty points on it!") They've been standing on sidewalk behind me while I put the wheel back together, talking together about how bad life is ("I'm going back to New York, gonna be a student." "Me too, I'm gonna be a student too." "But that's all I got going for me. If I fuck up one class, that's it." "New York, man?" "Yeah, that's where it all started, 3000 people died there in 2001.") apologizing to me for Rick, ("I've never seen him this bad." "Are you also a marine?" "No, I'm Navy! but I've been with him for as long as I can remember.") wondering what to do now ("He's gone now, man. Gone off somewhere.") I've picked up the frame. The derailleur is bent. I notify the soldiers that Rick is coming back. ("Good spotting, bike guy." Like I'm one of the team.)
After a brief drunken struggle under the spotlight of the street, they head off together, cajoling and consoling Rick, this time down Armistead towards the train station. "Don't call the cops on him, bike guy!" as they leave.
"Just get him home, guys. And tell him Semper Fi for me."
Ten minutes later, I leave the scene and three police cars behind me. (He didn't have a weapon. I'm not pressing charges. Not worried about the bike. I'm worried about the guy. Just see if you can get them somewhere to sleep this off, please. He's been pretty messed up. More ways than one.)
The officer, slightly overweight, blond hair, buzz cut, double chin, maybe 5'10", had asked if I needed anything. "No, I'll get home alright." Was I sure about not demanding any money for repairs?
"Yes. It's just one of those things, you know? It's life."
The bent derailleur clicks the whole way home.
Tuesday, December 9, 2014
Exposure
It was a long trip.
“There’s a thing,” he said suddenly, “that I’ve never been able to express - mostly for fear of making it true. I’ve always felt, since even before his birth, that he was too good for this world. I can see, when I look at the rest of my children, their futures spreading out: the paths they might take, and whatever lies at the end of them. I can see nothing ahead of him. Every day he gets closer to the nothing or unwittingly avoids some unseen peril, but eventually that last step is unavoidable.
“The details of his birth only confirmed this nagging feeling in my mind. The sudden complication, his attempt to get into the world backwards, his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, like a noose…”
He trailed off, so I interrupted his thoughts with mine, “an omphalic suicide.”
“A what?”
"Omphalic. It's a Greek word. 'Omphalus' the navel, the source of life, the rock of Delphi, the center of the world.”
“Oh. Yes. Huh. Omphalic suicide. An ironic death, maybe.
“I don’t know. I could be… I hope I’m wrong. He will probably live a complete life. Go to school for dentistry, marry a girl named Barbara, have three children and a black lab, become devoted to the art of Chinese calligraphy, and retire to a life filled with brushes, ink pots, and grandchildren. It’s just - it’s a secret fear. He’s too perfect to survive.”
And that’s all he said, because he had to tell someone, and so he told me. We rode the rest of his journey together in silence. He tipped me a few dollars, gathered his umbrella and briefcase, and left his secret behind when he closed the door.
“There’s a thing,” he said suddenly, “that I’ve never been able to express - mostly for fear of making it true. I’ve always felt, since even before his birth, that he was too good for this world. I can see, when I look at the rest of my children, their futures spreading out: the paths they might take, and whatever lies at the end of them. I can see nothing ahead of him. Every day he gets closer to the nothing or unwittingly avoids some unseen peril, but eventually that last step is unavoidable.
“The details of his birth only confirmed this nagging feeling in my mind. The sudden complication, his attempt to get into the world backwards, his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck, like a noose…”
He trailed off, so I interrupted his thoughts with mine, “an omphalic suicide.”
“A what?”
"Omphalic. It's a Greek word. 'Omphalus' the navel, the source of life, the rock of Delphi, the center of the world.”
“Oh. Yes. Huh. Omphalic suicide. An ironic death, maybe.
“I don’t know. I could be… I hope I’m wrong. He will probably live a complete life. Go to school for dentistry, marry a girl named Barbara, have three children and a black lab, become devoted to the art of Chinese calligraphy, and retire to a life filled with brushes, ink pots, and grandchildren. It’s just - it’s a secret fear. He’s too perfect to survive.”
And that’s all he said, because he had to tell someone, and so he told me. We rode the rest of his journey together in silence. He tipped me a few dollars, gathered his umbrella and briefcase, and left his secret behind when he closed the door.
Coffee Characters
In the corner, under the lamp so low that it stands accused of causing the headache of many unwitting patrons, sits a matriarch lost in time. Surrounded by her family, she mutters wisdom under her breath. She has watched the rise and fall of civilizations. She’s seen the sun set over a thousand lands. She has witnessed the death of ten people, both parents, two husbands, her firstborn son, and five others: relations and friends whose names are indelibly etched in her memory. You do not forget a person you’ve watched die.
She is too old and hunched too low that not even that lamp, stretch as it might, is a peril to her. Her family pays no heed to her words, because even her daughter, aged seventy-three, reaching across to pull the blanket over her mother’s shoulders, is too young and headstrong.
So she mumbles incessantly, even over the lip of her earthen mug, the history of the stars. She scatters the treasures of a lost world on ears which are attached to mouths that say, “take a sip of this fine warm soup now, _Mee-Ma_.” No woman is an oracle in her own house.
At the next table closer to me sits a short man who shaved his face this morning with a flat razor while leaning close to small round mirror as the dawn’s newborn light illuminated his square chin. While he shaved, he hummed an aria from an opera I don’t recognize and in a language he doesn’t know. Now he’s sitting silently, leaning back in his chair with his legs crossed in a manner that is confident, but there is a tension beneath his mannerisms, like he’s trying too hard to be comfortable. I think, perhaps the only time he’s truly at ease is while he’s shaving in front of that small round mirror, in the bathroom of his own low house which smells of damp stone and aftershave.
At the far end of my row, a wizard and apprentice discuss some arcane experience. The elder mystic is content in himself, is surprised at how easily he slipped into the role of tutor. He frequently finds himself recollecting his own time as an apprentice and finds himself unconsciously emulating the body language, posture, and tone of his professors. He's doing it now: leaning back against the uncomfortable straight wooden chair, leg crossed, hands together or steepled on the table. He thinks that this posture must have been passed down, tweaked, personalized, by unknown generations of mystical tutors, since prehistory. He imagines now, while he continues to discuss the latest alchemy, his apprentice in this position a hundred years from now. Her own thin hands steepled. There's a word, he's sure of it, for the cultural markers passed on and around, evolving in meaning and method, a word that has itself passed into popular culture with expanded and unscientific meaning, but he cannot think of it. She probably knows. He won't ask.
She, though, is more interesting to me. He's certain, and I tend to dislike certainty. She is intent, concentrated, absorbed by the new knowledge. Two years ago she had been a frightened little girl with a talent for the telekinetic that she could not understand and could barely control, meeting a group of powerful people that intimidated and impressed her. Now she is a woman. Through force of curiosity, she made something like a family out of that eccentric disjointed convocation. She’s confident and powerful and she simply won’t look at me. Hasn’t glanced in my direction, or any direction, really. Her eyes bore holes through the mind of her professor. She leans forward, over the table and her medium brevé in a to-go cup. The closer she is to source, the quicker she hears the words.
Behind me, a tree stares deeply into her mug. She’s trying very hard to focus on the things she’s learned since assuming her human form, things like the an appreciation for time and mortality, the nature of loss and physical pain, but also of joy and pleasure, but she keeps getting distracted by the thing her roommate told her about Deidre’s boyfriend’s brother. She flushes and the sap rises to her cheeks and leaves uncurl in her mossy hair. She’s cute and unkempt and younger than her years.
And in my corner, in my chair, sits an ordinary man with wild hair and terrible breath. He’s seated at a small computer, typing at it absentmindedly, and he keeps getting confused about who he is. He’s imagining the lives of strangers and forgets that he is the ordinary man in the corner. He’s looking at his own hands now and wondering, ‘Who’s hands are these?’
She is too old and hunched too low that not even that lamp, stretch as it might, is a peril to her. Her family pays no heed to her words, because even her daughter, aged seventy-three, reaching across to pull the blanket over her mother’s shoulders, is too young and headstrong.
So she mumbles incessantly, even over the lip of her earthen mug, the history of the stars. She scatters the treasures of a lost world on ears which are attached to mouths that say, “take a sip of this fine warm soup now, _Mee-Ma_.” No woman is an oracle in her own house.
At the next table closer to me sits a short man who shaved his face this morning with a flat razor while leaning close to small round mirror as the dawn’s newborn light illuminated his square chin. While he shaved, he hummed an aria from an opera I don’t recognize and in a language he doesn’t know. Now he’s sitting silently, leaning back in his chair with his legs crossed in a manner that is confident, but there is a tension beneath his mannerisms, like he’s trying too hard to be comfortable. I think, perhaps the only time he’s truly at ease is while he’s shaving in front of that small round mirror, in the bathroom of his own low house which smells of damp stone and aftershave.
At the far end of my row, a wizard and apprentice discuss some arcane experience. The elder mystic is content in himself, is surprised at how easily he slipped into the role of tutor. He frequently finds himself recollecting his own time as an apprentice and finds himself unconsciously emulating the body language, posture, and tone of his professors. He's doing it now: leaning back against the uncomfortable straight wooden chair, leg crossed, hands together or steepled on the table. He thinks that this posture must have been passed down, tweaked, personalized, by unknown generations of mystical tutors, since prehistory. He imagines now, while he continues to discuss the latest alchemy, his apprentice in this position a hundred years from now. Her own thin hands steepled. There's a word, he's sure of it, for the cultural markers passed on and around, evolving in meaning and method, a word that has itself passed into popular culture with expanded and unscientific meaning, but he cannot think of it. She probably knows. He won't ask.
She, though, is more interesting to me. He's certain, and I tend to dislike certainty. She is intent, concentrated, absorbed by the new knowledge. Two years ago she had been a frightened little girl with a talent for the telekinetic that she could not understand and could barely control, meeting a group of powerful people that intimidated and impressed her. Now she is a woman. Through force of curiosity, she made something like a family out of that eccentric disjointed convocation. She’s confident and powerful and she simply won’t look at me. Hasn’t glanced in my direction, or any direction, really. Her eyes bore holes through the mind of her professor. She leans forward, over the table and her medium brevé in a to-go cup. The closer she is to source, the quicker she hears the words.
Behind me, a tree stares deeply into her mug. She’s trying very hard to focus on the things she’s learned since assuming her human form, things like the an appreciation for time and mortality, the nature of loss and physical pain, but also of joy and pleasure, but she keeps getting distracted by the thing her roommate told her about Deidre’s boyfriend’s brother. She flushes and the sap rises to her cheeks and leaves uncurl in her mossy hair. She’s cute and unkempt and younger than her years.
And in my corner, in my chair, sits an ordinary man with wild hair and terrible breath. He’s seated at a small computer, typing at it absentmindedly, and he keeps getting confused about who he is. He’s imagining the lives of strangers and forgets that he is the ordinary man in the corner. He’s looking at his own hands now and wondering, ‘Who’s hands are these?’
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
My Mother is Hunger
We reached a barren summit. The sun, mirroring us, breached the next, and I struggled to my feet, touched by the golden light of dawn. The new day washed me clean, trickled down my neck, my chest, sloshed at my feet, and cascaded down into the valley. The dewy cedars below us sparked a million rainbows, a million promises. The streams glared into a brilliance, blinding.
I am dying.
Several deer, as the sunlight touched them, lifted lazy heads. Time soon to retreat into the forest's edges.
Never again will the world be destroyed by water - fire will cleanse as easily. Who will light it?
I was no longer afraid. I was no longer anything. I saw no fire, heard no morning birds. I felt nothing: not fear, anger, exhaustion, or hunger.
Hunger. I am dying.
At my feet, obscured by the harsh shadow of some large stone, lay my companion. Pitiable, wretched thing. Weak. Weaker than I. The fool that I'd followed into this wasteland. What had he promised to show me? What strange passion goaded me to follow? I no longer knew.
It was his fault. His fault that I'm dying, yes, but worse, he's a thief. At the moment he promised me nature, He stole from me the joy I'd had in it. And now he was too weak to move, and I had nothing left but the stone in my hand.
His eyes were already dead as he watched me. He lay his head on the great stone. "Here it is," he rasped, and barely motioned at the scene behind him. "This is your mother."
I brought the stone down on his temple. Twice. Again. I crushed his head into the rock. His chest heaved a final breath. I lapped his blood as his heart lay beating. I savored his life. With renewing strength I devoured what strength he had left.
I gobbled him up. (Mother, this is your son.)
I turned my back on the morning. I turned to go. I was quenched but still alight. I was filled but never, never again, sated.
--
I was born again some time later. I do not know when, though it seems like autumn. Deep in the teeming lonely forest, I no longer know the names of the animals that surround me. Playful, graceful, familial, or fearful: I only fear one thing now. And so do they.
My mother is Hunger.
I am dying.
Several deer, as the sunlight touched them, lifted lazy heads. Time soon to retreat into the forest's edges.
Never again will the world be destroyed by water - fire will cleanse as easily. Who will light it?
I was no longer afraid. I was no longer anything. I saw no fire, heard no morning birds. I felt nothing: not fear, anger, exhaustion, or hunger.
Hunger. I am dying.
At my feet, obscured by the harsh shadow of some large stone, lay my companion. Pitiable, wretched thing. Weak. Weaker than I. The fool that I'd followed into this wasteland. What had he promised to show me? What strange passion goaded me to follow? I no longer knew.
It was his fault. His fault that I'm dying, yes, but worse, he's a thief. At the moment he promised me nature, He stole from me the joy I'd had in it. And now he was too weak to move, and I had nothing left but the stone in my hand.
His eyes were already dead as he watched me. He lay his head on the great stone. "Here it is," he rasped, and barely motioned at the scene behind him. "This is your mother."
I brought the stone down on his temple. Twice. Again. I crushed his head into the rock. His chest heaved a final breath. I lapped his blood as his heart lay beating. I savored his life. With renewing strength I devoured what strength he had left.
I gobbled him up. (Mother, this is your son.)
I turned my back on the morning. I turned to go. I was quenched but still alight. I was filled but never, never again, sated.
--
I was born again some time later. I do not know when, though it seems like autumn. Deep in the teeming lonely forest, I no longer know the names of the animals that surround me. Playful, graceful, familial, or fearful: I only fear one thing now. And so do they.
My mother is Hunger.
Great Green Prism
I am sitting alone in a great green prism. Leaves like glass glisten, mottle, contain me. Suddenly interrupted by a mad throng, a cataclysm of noise and passion and feathered lust. Partners dance above my head - offerings and brilliant displays at my feet.
Their presence is as one body; and I am in its beating heart.
Just as they came, they are gone, leaving silence and tatters and shit on my page.
I am sitting alone.
Their presence is as one body; and I am in its beating heart.
Just as they came, they are gone, leaving silence and tatters and shit on my page.
I am sitting alone.
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Sound and Experience
When I close my eyes - here in this wood, near that stream, under this light canopy suspended by delicate aluminum poles - here in the dark, jacket and the socks I wore for pillow, when I close my eyes the world disappears. The wood and stream and tent and pillow: out. But not, like a candle, instant. I close my eyes and they dissolve slowly with my day and my tomorrow. They melt out of my mind as my aches melt from my body, and are replaced by
Sound.
In the rafters of this place there is a tripping - a wash - a cacophonous rainbow of noise. An army of privateer mice simultaneously and incessantly sound the march on bells made of hollowed acorns. To my right, over the broad river, the frogs - the mice men’s warring cousins - thump a tinny response on lilly-pads with silver spoons.
Much closer, inches from my face, the suspended fabric resonates without rhythm. The vibrations are more than heard. The thump-thump, thumpthump,thump can be felt along the length of my naked body. A cool, cold noise welcome in the humid pre-summer night.
These, I thought, were all I could hear: the small army at war and the cold low beat, but I turned on my side and concentrating-intently I discovered one more Sound.
Quietly all around and under me, beneath the carpet out the door, beneath the floor inside, echoes a rustley shifting. An old man shuffles to church - slowly, patiently, trudging the old path, sliding footsteps through the leaves.
This is the rain, and these are a few of the oldest and best sounds in the world. A thousand years before a thousand years ago someone lay under a canopy in a wood near a stream and heard just the same things I hear tonight: The same tiny war, the same deep cold beat, the same old man shuffling through the leaves.
Like a child's first cry, this rain is the oldest and newest sound on earth. Its ancient ritual is verdant, fresh with new life. It is bitter with wild shock, and refreshing, calming, homely. It's worst gales are yet welcome.
Life is full of these tiny experiences: moments to, not merely cherish, but ardently pursue. This night, this rain, this experience is not an accident. It is a quest. These sounds are an elusive beast I've hunted and captured and will hold on to for the rest of my life. This memory is mine now. I will guard it jealously.
So I lay under my tent in the dark wood near a broad stream and listened. I waited intently for the warriors to begin the charge they were sounding, for the clash of mousy rapier on the toad's heavy staves. I resisted the cold beating at the edge of all my senses, and expected the ring of church bells, the end of the old man's ritual. But nothing changed until I slept.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Separate but Equal
 |
| Source: Warren K. Leffler, U. S. News and World Report, Donated to the Library of Congress |
It is important also to remember that the argument made for segregation - separate but equal treatment - fifty years ago is still being made today. About marriage. It is just as true for gay rights today as it was for civil rights then: separate is not equal. The only real purpose for segregation or civil unions is to provide a legal method for one group of people to treat another unjustly.
Monday, January 28, 2013
Mount Washington
Photo credits for the background uploaded at 14:35 EST belong to Gregg M. Erickson.
Photo source: Mount Washington Panorama
Wikipedia User Page: Farwestern
Photo source: Mount Washington Panorama
Wikipedia User Page: Farwestern
The top image is a scaled and cropped, but otherwise original, version of Mr. Erickson's photograph. The second is the image after I modified it using the increasingly useful, open-source software, GIMP.
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Non-Partisan Thoughts on Gun Control and Fear
[This short article does not draw any final conclusions on this subject. It is intended to be a place to start: ideas and questions to begin upon in your own contemplation. On this site you will never be told what to think; neither will you intentionally be handed ammunition to use to tell others what to think. Rather, you should be encouraged to think.]
The second constitutional amendment, the right to keep and bear arms, was authored out of fear - an honest and well-justified fear of government - but fear nonetheless. The purpose of an active militia is to protect the people from a ruined State; to maintain, not merely the philosophical grounds for, but the constant pragmatic threat of revolution. The founders did not consider themselves, or their fresh (and often conflicting) ideas on government, to be perfect and readily admitted the possibility that their new nation could go very wrong.
Fear was the motive, and until that is grasped all other questions, arguments, and ideologies are secondary, because fear motivates all people in this discussion and makes them into equals. The 2nd amendment was authored out of fear of Bad Government, and gun control legislation is authored out of fear of Bad People. The First Question is: In today's world, which is the more immediate fear?
It is only after that question is answered that we can gain a real grasp of this issue. Its answer places the question of control in a different, and possibly brighter, light, and gives rise to a new set of questions which are not often even asked in the present debate.
For example, if we assume that our answer is Fear of Bad People then we're forced into a few other questions. For the moment forget about whether more or less gun control is good for protecting us against bad people and answer this: Is the language of the 2nd Amendment useful for this new purpose? It frames the debate in terms of the other, Fear of Bad Government, and says nothing about the right of a person to self-defense. No matter what our queries support in terms of the effect more or less gun control has on the increase or decrease of violent crime rates, the 2nd Amendment appears to need revision if our acting motive is fear of Bad People.
If we assume the other way, that our primary fear is of Bad Government, then it hardly matters what the effect of gun control is upon violent crime. If we have to pay for our protection against Bad Government with increased violence in the streets or slums, then so be it. If not, great, but if that's the price then we'll pay it.
In other words, the discussion of whether or not gun control laws make us safer is meaningless unless we answer the question: Safer from what? And, if we answer, safer from Bad People, then the 2nd amendment becomes, in a real way, obsolete.
Text of the Second Amendment:
A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed.
The second constitutional amendment, the right to keep and bear arms, was authored out of fear - an honest and well-justified fear of government - but fear nonetheless. The purpose of an active militia is to protect the people from a ruined State; to maintain, not merely the philosophical grounds for, but the constant pragmatic threat of revolution. The founders did not consider themselves, or their fresh (and often conflicting) ideas on government, to be perfect and readily admitted the possibility that their new nation could go very wrong.
Fear was the motive, and until that is grasped all other questions, arguments, and ideologies are secondary, because fear motivates all people in this discussion and makes them into equals. The 2nd amendment was authored out of fear of Bad Government, and gun control legislation is authored out of fear of Bad People. The First Question is: In today's world, which is the more immediate fear?
It is only after that question is answered that we can gain a real grasp of this issue. Its answer places the question of control in a different, and possibly brighter, light, and gives rise to a new set of questions which are not often even asked in the present debate.
For example, if we assume that our answer is Fear of Bad People then we're forced into a few other questions. For the moment forget about whether more or less gun control is good for protecting us against bad people and answer this: Is the language of the 2nd Amendment useful for this new purpose? It frames the debate in terms of the other, Fear of Bad Government, and says nothing about the right of a person to self-defense. No matter what our queries support in terms of the effect more or less gun control has on the increase or decrease of violent crime rates, the 2nd Amendment appears to need revision if our acting motive is fear of Bad People.
If we assume the other way, that our primary fear is of Bad Government, then it hardly matters what the effect of gun control is upon violent crime. If we have to pay for our protection against Bad Government with increased violence in the streets or slums, then so be it. If not, great, but if that's the price then we'll pay it.
In other words, the discussion of whether or not gun control laws make us safer is meaningless unless we answer the question: Safer from what? And, if we answer, safer from Bad People, then the 2nd amendment becomes, in a real way, obsolete.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
And Then He Awoke : Part 2
Second story in this collection. I've labeled them the true stories of fictional events. This particular story is different because it seemed in my sleeping imagination to be in a series of short acts each dedicated to a particular color. The players in the story are only marginally aware of the color of the act, and they themselves behave as though the pervading color was normal, as though they were used to the entire universe commenting upon their lives.
--
- 2 -
The World is: Green.
He watched her with admiration. The World seemed to flow around her feet. For her, with her, through her, and she seemed only semi-conscious of her effect upon it. She smiles.
The grass grew for her pleasure, he was sure of it. The birds flew and lit upon her fingers, simply because they knew she would enjoy it.
He was deeply in love - hopelessly adrift in the river that is her beauty. He felt himself moving in the general direction of the rest of the world: following her and doing things simply to hear her laugh and see her smile.
The World is: Blue.
They are in a car. She is driving and smiling and laughing and for some inexplicable reason he is in the seat behind her. They are on an off-ramp or a roundabout or some long curve. She is taking it fast. Very fast, and laughing as she does so. He is in the seat behind her. He can feel the mysterious forces of the speed and the curve pushing - pressing - his body against his door. He can feel his facial muscles ripple with the flow and a sudden tremor in his heart. She laughs.
The World is: Red.
Autumn Red: warm and peaceful.
She has brought him to her home, and, seeing it for the first time, his admiration and love for her only grew. It had no roof or walls beyond the leafy canopy and branches and trunks of oak and fir. Fallen leaves and grass served as the most costly of persian carpets.
But, beyond the natural beauty of her home, what interested and delighted him the most were the things she had brought here to decorate it. The bed, although man-wrought, seemed almost to grow out of the ground. The silken panels above it, which drifted in the wind, must have been woven by fairy hands. Animals from the forest were here and shells from the distant sea. Glass orbs and fanciful puzzles lay scattered across bookshelves, themselves a work of art. Everywhere the eye rested, there rested also another trinket or toy to gather your interest until your eye found the next shiny bauble.
He notices now that she is watching him with delight in the delight she is giving him. He attempts smile, but suddenly finds his expression unresponsive to his will.
The red has deepened without his noticing and saturates everything like a fog. Almost dripping.
His heart, swelled with joy, breaks. With the last of himself he realizes he is becoming, has become, a hatbox. She stoops, and lifting, places him delicately, lovingly, in her collection, between a perfume bottle and coatrack.
And she laughs.
Then he awoke.
Trio Postcard Flyer
Monday, March 2, 2009
Saturday, February 28, 2009
And Then He Awoke
This is the first part of a hopeful series. Hopeful in that I actually hope to have time to complete it. It is subtitled:
"A Collection of True Stores."
I think this could be better if you could see the broken-typewriter font this was drafted in.
...
- 1 -
He stopped before opening the door to glance up and down the cobblestone street. The sunlight reflected off of puddles, refracted through imperfect windows, and cast an oblique shadow across one half of the alleyway. The wind was blowing gently through through his hair; he could feel it vibrate around the edges of his knit cap. He squinted in the sunlight, watching a bit of newspaper drift past. The sun, and the wind, and the newspaper, and himself were all. Besides these, he was alone.
He pushed the warehouse door. It resisted, red paint peeling from its rusted hinges, but nevertheless budged.
Inside the building now, He peered through the gloom of another world. The cobwebs and thick gray dust were only interrupted by shafts of weary light. The dust itself seemed intent on forcing the light away, swirling up in drafts of wind, as if in armed rebellion against it. The dust appeared to be winning the battle. Through this gloom, the boy can see the vague outlines of walls and lofts and pillars of wood. He’s looking for something, but entirely unsure of what it is; just as he is unsure who or what is chasing him.
Advancing into the room he left a sort of pathway with his already dirty feet, as if it were through snow. The light seemed to cautiously take advantage of the still partly open door to make a brisk charge into this enemy territory, but is turned back again, repulsed by growing number of combatants kicked up into the action by brave bare heels.
Just ahead lay a curious device, rather like a dumbwaiter. It must be used, thought the boy, to take tools and materials to the loft high above. It consisted of nothing more than a square metal platform, spidery railing, and a single slack chain which clung to something near the ceiling. I climbed aboard, hardly knowing why. Looking up, I could see the ceiling, the joists barely outlined in the shadows. Looking down, I grew queasy. I heard the chain rattle over some drum, and creak for want of lubricant.
Darkness.
Image again. I knew time had passed, but not how much. The boy didn’t seem to notice. I’m now standing under the spot where the makeshift elevator once operated. The time has not alleviated our confusion in the slightest. The dust still lies on the floor, only thicker if that is possible. The light still shines through the partly opened door, but perhaps brighter. I go to it - the light and the door - and looking back, I can see an empty chain swinging and creaking gently in the draft.
Outside, the wind is still blowing, now bits of newspaper are joined by aluminum cans, each of which would have been priceless not very long ago. The boy doesn’t know what they are, or even what they’re made of, but I do. The street is paved.
I’m running down the street, frantically searching for meaning, and.. life. I pass unseeing people, turn the corner, feel the wind in the nameless boy’s hair, stumbling over my feet and bits of garbage and priceless aluminum. A dog is barking. I run and turn and run and turn, and am standing next to the warehouse door again. We stop, the boy is breathless.
Facing the dirty gloom once again, we enter the building. Still searching, searching for something, and still uncertain what it could be, and still with the feeling that someone is right behind us, coming closer.
A hand on our shoulder.
The boy can’t turn around. But I force him. I must know.
Slowly, tenuously, we turn to look. The hand does nothing to hinder or encourage us. At once, our breath is gone. There is a woman there, as beautiful as we have ever seen. Strangely outlined in a subtle glow. Strangely causing the dust that is floating in the air to sparkle like mysterious microscopic diamonds. Strangely out of place, but we have the feeling that she is perfectly in place wherever she may appear. Everything about her is strange.. and magnificent.. and perfect. I don’t know what she’s wearing, if anything. She leaves more of an impression, than an image. I’m certain her clothing must be light, and airy, and float in the light breeze that seems focused around her, conflicting with the draft in little turbid whirlpools of shimmer.
Her hand moves from our shoulder to my own hand. Our own hand. The hand of the nameless boy. The functional end of the arm-appendage of the useless physical body that seems to follow me around. Perhaps i follow it.
She takes my hand and leads me to a door in the wall I had not seen before. It’s closed, and locked, but at her touch it opens without a sound from its rust laden hinges. Inside the small room, growing smaller, I look down and see my body.
It would seem that it should be a troubling experience, to see one’s own body. To see the feet that had hurried down the cobblestone street and the hair that had been displaced by the wind ever so long, and not so long, ago. And I did feel that trouble, nagging somewhere at the corner of my heart, but mostly what i felt while hovering above that body, circling the tiny room while the wonderful lady looked on is this:
“I’ve found it.”
And then I awoke.
"A Collection of True Stores."
I think this could be better if you could see the broken-typewriter font this was drafted in.
...
- 1 -
He stopped before opening the door to glance up and down the cobblestone street. The sunlight reflected off of puddles, refracted through imperfect windows, and cast an oblique shadow across one half of the alleyway. The wind was blowing gently through through his hair; he could feel it vibrate around the edges of his knit cap. He squinted in the sunlight, watching a bit of newspaper drift past. The sun, and the wind, and the newspaper, and himself were all. Besides these, he was alone.
He pushed the warehouse door. It resisted, red paint peeling from its rusted hinges, but nevertheless budged.
Inside the building now, He peered through the gloom of another world. The cobwebs and thick gray dust were only interrupted by shafts of weary light. The dust itself seemed intent on forcing the light away, swirling up in drafts of wind, as if in armed rebellion against it. The dust appeared to be winning the battle. Through this gloom, the boy can see the vague outlines of walls and lofts and pillars of wood. He’s looking for something, but entirely unsure of what it is; just as he is unsure who or what is chasing him.
Advancing into the room he left a sort of pathway with his already dirty feet, as if it were through snow. The light seemed to cautiously take advantage of the still partly open door to make a brisk charge into this enemy territory, but is turned back again, repulsed by growing number of combatants kicked up into the action by brave bare heels.
Just ahead lay a curious device, rather like a dumbwaiter. It must be used, thought the boy, to take tools and materials to the loft high above. It consisted of nothing more than a square metal platform, spidery railing, and a single slack chain which clung to something near the ceiling. I climbed aboard, hardly knowing why. Looking up, I could see the ceiling, the joists barely outlined in the shadows. Looking down, I grew queasy. I heard the chain rattle over some drum, and creak for want of lubricant.
Darkness.
Image again. I knew time had passed, but not how much. The boy didn’t seem to notice. I’m now standing under the spot where the makeshift elevator once operated. The time has not alleviated our confusion in the slightest. The dust still lies on the floor, only thicker if that is possible. The light still shines through the partly opened door, but perhaps brighter. I go to it - the light and the door - and looking back, I can see an empty chain swinging and creaking gently in the draft.
Outside, the wind is still blowing, now bits of newspaper are joined by aluminum cans, each of which would have been priceless not very long ago. The boy doesn’t know what they are, or even what they’re made of, but I do. The street is paved.
I’m running down the street, frantically searching for meaning, and.. life. I pass unseeing people, turn the corner, feel the wind in the nameless boy’s hair, stumbling over my feet and bits of garbage and priceless aluminum. A dog is barking. I run and turn and run and turn, and am standing next to the warehouse door again. We stop, the boy is breathless.
Facing the dirty gloom once again, we enter the building. Still searching, searching for something, and still uncertain what it could be, and still with the feeling that someone is right behind us, coming closer.
A hand on our shoulder.
The boy can’t turn around. But I force him. I must know.
Slowly, tenuously, we turn to look. The hand does nothing to hinder or encourage us. At once, our breath is gone. There is a woman there, as beautiful as we have ever seen. Strangely outlined in a subtle glow. Strangely causing the dust that is floating in the air to sparkle like mysterious microscopic diamonds. Strangely out of place, but we have the feeling that she is perfectly in place wherever she may appear. Everything about her is strange.. and magnificent.. and perfect. I don’t know what she’s wearing, if anything. She leaves more of an impression, than an image. I’m certain her clothing must be light, and airy, and float in the light breeze that seems focused around her, conflicting with the draft in little turbid whirlpools of shimmer.
Her hand moves from our shoulder to my own hand. Our own hand. The hand of the nameless boy. The functional end of the arm-appendage of the useless physical body that seems to follow me around. Perhaps i follow it.
She takes my hand and leads me to a door in the wall I had not seen before. It’s closed, and locked, but at her touch it opens without a sound from its rust laden hinges. Inside the small room, growing smaller, I look down and see my body.
It would seem that it should be a troubling experience, to see one’s own body. To see the feet that had hurried down the cobblestone street and the hair that had been displaced by the wind ever so long, and not so long, ago. And I did feel that trouble, nagging somewhere at the corner of my heart, but mostly what i felt while hovering above that body, circling the tiny room while the wonderful lady looked on is this:
“I’ve found it.”
And then I awoke.
Roanoke Sketches
Material for a new menu for Trio Restaurant.
The infamous H&C Coffee sign.
The even more infamous Roanoke Star
The hopefully-soon-to-be-infamous Taubman Museum (i decided, after i put all the hours into this sketch, that i don't like the angle and will redo it.)
The beautiful Hotel Roanoke.
And of course, Trio itself.
Enjoy.
The infamous Dr. Pepper sign.
The infamous H&C Coffee sign.
The even more infamous Roanoke Star
The hopefully-soon-to-be-infamous Taubman Museum (i decided, after i put all the hours into this sketch, that i don't like the angle and will redo it.)
The beautiful Hotel Roanoke.
And of course, Trio itself.
Enjoy.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Friday, July 18, 2008
We Rock the Lake.
One idea for "The Roanoker" Full Page advertisement for Floyd Enterprises. The idea is to express both classiness/wealth/design and fun/style/lakeside life in one ad. The dichotomy is great, in my opinion.
Peace.
- jacob musick
graphic. design.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
1st Quarter.
The top image is a draft of the Pamela Jean Gallery quarter-page advertisement in The Roanoker magazine. The second is the final version of the Joe Rowell/Pamela Jean Gallery half-page advertisement in City Magazine. That's all the inspiration i have left for the day.
cheers,
jacob musick
graphic. design.
Monday, July 14, 2008
Joe was Here.
The Pamela Jean Gallery recently commissioned me to do three advertisements; two in the upcoming "The Roanoker Magazine" - a fairly high-class local glossy - and another half-page in the August City Magazine. (Both should hire me to do website design, in my humble opinion.) The City ad is going to feature the work of Joe Rowell, and this is the rough draft that I'll show off to the Gallery tomorrow. Joe Rowell is brilliant, by the way.
- jacob musick
graphic. design.
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