The sun lay over everything like a heavy blanket as the dust from the construction choked the air with smoke and dust. Concentrated into two lanes, the traffic was slow and tight, the sound of the trucks and machines deafening, construction workers sweltering shirtless in jeans, covered in sweat and filth, like something out of Dante's Inferno.
Finally, sweat beads forming on my face and hot air rushing out of my vents, I was forced to admit that my air conditioning wasn't working. No surprise. That's what you get for driving a ten-year-old blazer; you're more likely to flip, and the air conditioning quits working in Albuquerque. In August.
Rolling my windows down, I glanced over at the passenger seat to where my three-legged dog lay passively, calmly. Other than maybe a slightly heavier breathing, she did not seem affected by the heat. Concerned that she might be having heatstroke, I reached one hand over and patted her side, but she just raised her ears and looked up at me like she always does.
The hot air whipped through the wide-open windows of my Blazer, fluttering papers around in the back seat, blowing through my hair and left ear. There was not a cloud in the sky, yet the sun was obliterated in the haze of traffic and construction. Even the colors of the vehicles seemed subdued in the dust, the orange and gray of construction being the only colors that shone through. Lanes ended or merged, exits were blocked.
It was sometime late in the afternoon, and I had spent at least an hour and a half navigating through the construction of Albuquerque, when I pulled into the truck stop just west of town. My dog drank from the plastic margarine tub of water I gave her while I filled gas and munched on a banana from the cooler. Compare to the construction I had just endured, the truck stop seemed like a calm oasis. A trucker's paradise. Didn't I once hear truck stops called just that? I paid with my card, then pulled my Blazer off to the side so I could walk my dog.
She sniffed and tugged at her leash as I doused my system with an entire 20 oz. bottle of water. Most people would be surprised at how much water I actually drink in one day. It is said that you should drink at least eight eight ounce glasses of water each day, but I probably drink at least sixteen, if not twenty.
It may also surprise many people to learn that a twenty-five pound terrier with three legs can tug at her leash.
When my dog was finished, I pulled my vehicle into a parking space and, leaving the windows cracked and plenty of water in a dish, I went into the truck stop to quickly use the restroom. I had to pee like nobody's business, probably due to the immense amount of water I was consuming. When I was finished, I bought a half gallon of grapefruit juice and a small bag of mixed nuts to eat while I was driving.
"Hey, man, is that your dog?" The hitch-hiker, a guy maybe in his twenties, was wearing skin-tight blue jeans and a faded black t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. He had been leaning up against the fence surrounding the landscaping (mostly consisting of river rock) that surrounded the perimeter of the truck stop's main convenience store, but stalked towards me as I opened the drivers' side door. It took me a while at first to realize the guy was a hitch-hiker.
His question seemed rhetorical, so I continued to get into my blazer with my dog as the hitch-hiker continued to walk towards me. I'm the kind of guy who likes to think I can get along with just about anybody, but I have little patience for panhandlers and hitch-hikers. I had a friend once who bragged to me about how he hitch-hiked all over the country, panhandling and stealing from convenience stores along the way, finding people to buy his alcohol for him. That was the last conversation I had with that friend, about his hitch-hiking. What I am trying to show here is that having this hitch-hiker walking towards me about to ask for a ride was not exactly a situation I enjoyed.
The guy walked right up to my open window and said, "Are you going through Albuquerque, or are you headed the other way?" Something in the way he asked and the way he made eye contact made him seem suddenly much more sincere than my panhandling, alcoholic friend, and I was take off-guard by his indirect approach. The only thing I could think to do was to try to make an excuse.
"You know," I said, "there's not much room in my blazer. I have my sleeping bag and a few boxes on the floor, and my dog is sitting on the passenger seat."
"That's all right. I love dogs," said the hitch-hiker. "So are you heading into town?"
"Nope. Heading the other way, heading for Arizona. There's no room for you though, with the dog."
"Just need a ride downtown, it's not that far. I can hold the dog and sit up in the seat with my legs crossed. Is it a girl or a boy."
"Girl." I hesitated. My weak spot. People who care about dogs. It occurred to me that the guy would make a great salesman.
"It'll only take ten minutes, there and back." He kept looking at me expectantly. I sat thinking, but I was hot, tired, and I had run out of good excuses.
"You know, there's no a/c in here."
"Better than sitting here in front of this truck stop."
"If I drive downtown, I'll never find my way back."
"It's easy. Just two turns there and two back. I'll direct you."
It was three o'clock in the afternoon. The sun was blazing. My dog had been standing the whole time we talked, but didn't get too excited, just trying to follow what was going on. "Be careful how you hold her or she will bite," I warned as I motioned for him to get in. "It's just a little sensitive where her leg is missing."
The hitch-hiker broke into a huge grin as he crawled up onto the passenger seat, avoiding the stuff on the floor, and gently took my dog into his lap. "Take a right out of the parking lot. What's her name?"
I decided to tell him her entire name, even though some people found it foolish. "Sandra Louise."
"Sandra Louise," he repeated softly. "I used to have a dog," he said, absently. "What happened to Sandra Louise?"
"Bone cancer," I said. We were heading down some sort of side street with no houses. It seemed like we were headed out into the middle of nowhere. I was struck by the thought that I had uttered the words bone cancer for the first time since her diagnosis. Osteosarcoma, bone cancer. I decided to change the subject. "I've never been to downtown Albuquerque. Is it nice?"
"Oh, man! It's real nice. Too bad you have to get to Arizona tonight. You could check it out for yourself. Take a left up here at this stop sign."
It was a strange drive from the truck stop to downtown Albuquerque because there was a long road with little to no traffic, and suddenly you made a left turn and found yourself in the middle of a city. It almost felt like driving in a midwestern town, like the time I took a wrong turn in St. Joseph, Missouri, and suddenly found myself driving through cornfields. Like that. It didn't fit my notion of a southwestern city. "Now what?" I said, taking the left.
"Now what?" The hitch-hiker softly echoed, and his countenance completely changed. For a minute, he seemed almost wistful, meditating on the phrase now what?
I kept on driving straight. I could see this street would eventually lead us into the downtown. Traffic was changing. There were more stops. Pedestrians were walking on the sidewalks. "Do you live here?"
"Huh? Oh, no," said the hitch-hiker, his face getting brighter again. "Just visiting. I live up north in Denver. I hitched here, mostly. Just wanted to get out of Denver and see the world, I guess."
"So have you seen it? The world?"
The hitch-hiker screwed up his face. "Hmmm. No. I guess so far, in the nine-hundred-some miles between Denver and here, I've seen a whole lot of the same. Met some interesting people though. Sometimes I wish I could take all of the good people I've met and get them together to form one big city of our own."
"Yeah," I agreed, "but I always think if I had all of the people I've been friends with together in one big room, there'd be a fight."
The hitch-hiker cackled. "Ain't that the truth! So many different personalities. You can pull over any time now and let me out. We're downtown."
Easing my car to the side of the road, I turned to the hitch-hiker, who was extending his hand. As we shook hands, he said, "I'm sorry, but I didn't get your name."
"Jeremy," I said, "Jeremy Storly."
"Jeremy...Storly," he repeated, and then did something that surprised me. He took out a small tablet and pencil from his pocket and started to write my name down. "St-o-r-l-y?" he said softly to himself as I nodded my head.
"I guess I didn't catch your name, either."
"Bill," he said, "Bill Baldwin." Smiling, he added, "I know that it sounds like a made-up name, but my name really is Bill Baldwin." He gently laid my dog back on the seat as he stepped out of my car onto the sidewalks of the streets of downtown Albuquerque. He stood there leaning against the frame of my passenger side door for a while, looking me right in the face with this kind of thoughtful smile, like he had something he wanted to say, yet was debating about walking away without saying it. I just sat there with my hands on the steering wheel.
Finally, the same kind of sad, contemplative look on his face, he said to me, "I have to admit something." He swallowed, trying to force some thought out that was stuck to the back of his throat. "As I sat there in front of the truck stop, I saw your dog in the window of your car, and I looked into her eyes, and I knew right away that you would give me a ride downtown, even if you were headed the opposite way. Any guy that has a three-legged dog, I thought to myself, would give a guy like me a ride.
"But I also knew something that would happen along the way. I knew you would tell me she's dying of bone cancer. Osteosarcoma. Don't ask me how I knew, 'cause I just knew. I just want to say thank you for the ride, and I'm sorry about your dog." Then, before I could even respond, he closed the door and walked away down the street.
It wasn't until later, at a rest stop on the Arizona-New Mexico border that I started to cry. I had just finished using the restroom, and was in my Blazer ready to drive away when I lost it. I cried about my dog, about the exhausting drive, about the lost time in Albuquerque, about the coldness and the kindness of the human race. The tears came for maybe a minute or so, and then I wiped my face with my t-shirt, smiled and scratched my dog behind the ears, and drove on.
The mystery is: what has become of my name, recorded so carefully in a hitch-hiker's tablet? In the miles he has traveled, has Bill Baldwin forgotten that I once gave him a ride from a truck stop to downtown Albuquerque? Does he look at his tablet every now and then and remember that Jeremy Storly had a dog who was dying of osteosarcoma? Does the tablet even exist anymore, with no phone number, no address, just a name and a shadow of a memory of one small occurrence of many that once took place in Albuquerque, New Mexico?
Monday, July 2, 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
feng shui
Ah such is Hope! as changeful and as fair!
Now dimly peering on the wistful sight;
Now hid behind the dragon-wing'd Despair;
Samuel Taylor Coleridge, "Sonnet: to the Autumnal Moon"
the fucking neighbors kept me up most of the night. this was the last night i would tolerate it. i would phone management in the morning, i decided. not that i wanted to do it.
the thing is, the head of my bed must always face east. it is my lucky direction. if it faces west, it will bring financial ruin; if it faces south, it will bring ill health. so it has to always face east. even though that means having my head almost right up against the wall between my bedroom and my neighbors' apartment.
my entire unit has been painfully arranged to perfect feng shui specifications. for example, although most people would be tempted to place a plant in the southwest corner of my living room, i know that doing so would result in an influx of overwhelming energy which would cause insomnia and anxiety. instead, i have a spider plant hanging in the west window of my kitchen, which creates a great sense of peace and well being when i am sitting at my dining room table because, although i am facing east and the plant is behind me, i can feel the flow of positive chi from the plant washing over my body as it passes around and through me.
i can tell without looking that my neighbors had not been so scrupulous in selecting furniture, much less arranging it in a positive way. i can tell just by the loud volume of their voices that they have not arranged their items as carefully as i. this is why i am constantly sweeping the sidewalk to my place while my neighbors have mounds of fermenting cigarette butts piled in front of theirs.
it is only my tolerance for my neighbors' lack of a proper education regarding furniture selection and arrangement that allowed me to let the problem go for so long. but tonight i decided i would no longer suffer due to their ignorance. management would be called.
pouring myself a glass of water, i sat cross-legged on my living room floor. my eyes were sleepless and bleary. when i finally focused, i could see by the clock on my vcr that it was after one a.m. this annoyed me further still, and though i tried to relax my mind, i was unable to set aside the reality that i was wide awake at one in the morning, and that i would be teaching classes at eight. middle school. you can't be tired when you teach middle school.
softly growling, i got up, went to the kitchen, and juiced myself a grapefruit. this helps battle insomnia, and acts as a general tonic for good health. i try to eat as much grapefruit and drink as much grapefruit juice as i can. my students leave grapefruits on my desk instead of apples. i eat them before school lets out.
quickly downing my glass of juice to avoid the oxidation of enzymes, i immediately felt better. by the time i grabbed a pillow and pulled my sleeping bag out of my closet, i was starting to feel quite relaxed and tired. i lay down on the living room floor with my tv remote, and flipped through all the channels, evaluating each bit of programming in a dreamlike stupor.
i was vaguely aware of an infomercial for a type of personal blender, a reality show with a loud man on a corner shouting obnoxious things, a local program involving two adults and a child walking through the desert with a gps device. finally, i settled on a weird religious program in which a conservative minister was giving impromptu answers to letters sent in by viewers. this ought to do the trick, i thought. and it didn't take long before i drifted off to sleep.
upon waking, i could see that there was a fair amount of light shining through my living room window. my second thought was that the tv was still on, and had been creating chaotic energy in the room all night as i slept. the third thing i realized was that my head had been pointing west the whole night, instead of east. on tv, a woman was kneading bread dough. annoyed, i turned the tv off and sat up.
6:36
good. so i still had time. but i was running about an hour late and would have to miss my morning run and yoga. no problem. i did thirty push-ups and thirty crunches; made myself a banana/soymilk smoothie; combed my hair; shaved; put on a shirt, tie, and jacket, and headed for the door.
7:40
shit. where did the time go in the morning? it took at least ten minutes to drive to work, and i was supposed to be there by 7:45. oh well, couldn't be helped.
i stepped outside. it immediately struck me that something was slightly irregular about the world today. or rather, something was completely off, sending everything else slightly, almost imperceptibly off balance. was it a new smell rising up from the earth? was it the sun's position in the sky? it did seem that the pattern of the sun's rays falling over the sidewalk was imperceptibly askew. but neither of these things explained just what i felt at that moment, the sensation of finding myself in a completely foreign land.
regardless of its cause, this unexpected change in the atmosphere struck me for several seconds. it was like visiting hong kong and finding a friend you hadn't seen in years. just this sudden, inexplicable sense of surreality.
blinking, i turned around to lock the door. i then realized i had forgotten to grab the keys.
7:42
by the time i stepped back outside, one of the neighbors was standing in front, carelessly overweight, wearing shabby pajama pants and a t-shirt that was stained and torn. the breeze was blowing just so the cloud of smoke from her cigarette wafted right in my path. not that it normally bothers me, but because i was constantly picking up her butts and sweeping stray ones from the sidewalk, i immediately grew contemptuous. although i gave her a friendly nod, i couldn't help feeling that i glowered at her at the same time.
7:53
i stepped out of my car and walked through the gate of the school. immediately, i realized today i was scheduled to monitor the front sidewalk.
what made me realize this was the sixth grade teacher approaching me, saying, "mr. storly, did you forget that you had sidewalk duty?"
of course, the teacher scheduled for sidewalk duty is supposed to arrive at 7:30, which meant i was exactly twenty-three minutes late for my job. the requisite apology given, i took my post. the sixth grade teacher walked away, muttering something about knowing who to ask the next time he needed his duty covered.
"mr. storly?" fantastic. it was the sixth grade language arts teacher who is always trying to get students entered into my reading program even though they don't qualify. i honest-to-god hope that as she approached, my eyes didn't roll. "mr. storly, i placed a note in your box about that student. you know, the one i had talked to you about. i talked to the principal. i hope you don't mind."
"no, of course not." of course i did mind! if the student doesn't qualify, he doesn't qualify. how is talking to the principal going to change this?
"well, have you had a chance to look at his records?" she looked up at me with thickly painted eyes. my eyes felt as heavy as hers looked. i felt tired and irritable.
"yes, i reviewed the student's test scores, and i am afraid he doesn't qualify for my program." the sun was in my eyes. i had to pee. i heard the bell ring. it was five after eight, and i didn't have my room ready yet. students would be waiting in the hall as we spoke.
the language arts teacher was just beginning to ask what she was supposed to do with this ill-behaved student in her classroom, when i felt a tug on the sleeve of my jacket and my name enthusiastically repeated in a sing-song voice. it was jorge, one of my sixth grade students. he had fashioned origami freddy krueger fingers from sheets of notebook paper, placed one on each finger of his right hand, and was now shoving them in my face, manipulating the tips of his fingers while speaking incoherently in what he apparently thought to be an exact likeness of freddy's voice. the teacher continued to speak at the same time. i watched my first hour students filing into the hall on their way to my classroom. turning to jorge, i exploded.
"excuse me! would you stop annoying me!"
jorge withdrew his fingers. his face drooped, and he walked sadly away. jorge was sort of a misfit, and i felt it was important to give him positive reinforcement. some positive reinforcement. he had created something, and i had blown up at him.
at least the language arts teacher was finally silent. she said something like, "well, we can talk about this later," and walked away.
well, whatever. at least i had given myself something to agonize over for the rest of the day.
i arrived late for my first period class. the door to my classroom had already been opened, apparently by another teacher. fortunately, i had a trustworthy group first period, and nothing appeared to be missing or damaged. there was even a grapefruit already on my desk by the time i arrived. good kids.
"mr. storly?" the principal stood in the door with an adult i did not recognize. "sorry to interrupt, but this is ms. adams. she will be shadowing you today." he gave me a look that said, we'll talk later, as i shook ms. adams' hand. i noticed she was dressed professionally, in blacks and grays, hair nicely styled, carrying a clipboard under the same arm that held a stylish tweed handbag. yet, her eyes seemed strange, distant. it seems rude to say it, but her eyes seemed vacant.
after introducing her to my seventh grade class, ms. adams took a seat at an empty table in the back of my room and immediately commenced to writing on her tablet, jotting down notes. it is always slightly unnerving to have an adult in your classroom jotting down notes about you, especially when you are not completely certain of her intentions. i proceeded with class as normal, with the usual middle school mixture of the academic and the insane.
ms. adams continued to sit at the back table, legs crossed, jotting down who-knows-what in that notebook of hers. she never looked up. not once. it occurred to me that she was not writing about me or my class at all. she couldn't be. she wasn't even looking up. as i circulated around the room, helping students, i kept glancing out of the corner of my eye at ms. adams. she had a vague smile on her face, and she never looked up. not even once.
at one point, after questioning a group of students, i called on ms. adams -- you know, to try to get her involved. she did not seem to hear me, so i tried again. "ms. adams?"
"hm?" her tone was pleasant, and she looked toward me expectantly. you have my full, undivided attention, that look seemed to say.
"i was just asking this group of students where they would look in a book to find the year of publication, on what page." i looked expectantly at ms. adams, whose face continued to peer expectantly back at me.
"oh," she said, and looking back down at her tablet, resumed her writing.
speechless, i returned to working with my group of students, ignoring a few chuckles as i helped my students locate the title page.
later that day, ms. adams sat reading a copy of alice's adventures in wonderland. at least she was doing so as class started for my eighth grade group. my ea, ms. macgregor, red-faced and imposing, came into the room from playground duty with a flourish, holding a small styrofoam cup of coffee. "what's the matter, ms. adams?" she declared with great cheer.
this is when i noticed that ms. adams was sitting at a table across from one of my eighth-grade students, who was quietly and uncontrollably laughing. ms. adams had both hands pressed against the table top, her eyes fixed on its surface. of course, the entire room soon noticed this as she announced, "oh, nothing. i'm looking at the pattern," she stuttered. "the pattern on the table is so interesting."
indeed, the burled printed wood veneer made many twists and turns, repeated as the cheap print repeated itself. interesting? the entire room grew silent with the strained suppression of laughter as ms. adams raised herself from the chair to exact a closer view. "ms. adams," said jose as he walked by, "that one looks just like a flower."
what was happening to me? did i walk through the looking glass, or had the looking glass passed through me? the afternoon was slow. the air conditioning was cold. it was 100 degrees outside, and i could be wearing gloves.
as my last class left the room, i called jorge to my desk and offered a quick apology for telling him he was annoying as he tossed my grapefruit from hand to hand. i had forgotten to eat it for lunch. "do you like those things?" i asked.
"i lo-o-o-ove grapefruit," said jorge.
"it's yours," i said.
jorge happily took the grapefruit and left the room, i had a strange urge to call him back and warn him to sleep with his head pointed in his lucky direction. but instead i sat at my desk sipping a cup of tea, lukewarm and bland. i was exhausted. i had forgotten to call management about my neighbors, but no longer felt inspired to do so.
the room was empty. i slowly stood and walked to the table ms. adams had examined earlier that day. jose was right. it did look like a flower. as i looked more closely, i could also see the shape of my entire day outlined in the repeated pattern of cheap burl. here was the white rabbit, here was the cigarette butt i had noticed on the sidewalk this morning, here was the shape of the teacher who had spoken to me earlier, here indeed was me. you can see anything in that table that you want. if you look long enough, shapes may begin to appear, connections made, that are not really there at all. or perhaps they are there, and the illusion is deeper than it seems, the shape of unreality concealing reality, the tough rind of the grapefruit not showing the truth beneath.
Friday, May 4, 2007
the rudest, cruelest person
sometimes i feel like the rudest, cruelest person.
perhaps i started to feel this way when she said to me, "you're the rudest, cruelest person!"
but this cruel man would like to pull the comforter of dirt up over his head to shut the coldness out, to plant himself like a seed in fertile soil. what more can one ask for than the warmth of the sun filtering through the rich black layers of earth to heat one's bones, to lie peacefully as up above the muffled voices of worry and pain carry on the unending morality play?
nature can be cruel, but not as cruel as i, not as cruel as the invented censures of those we love, and not half as cruel as when they hit the mark.
i am the rudest, cruelest person.
because you say so.
perhaps i started to feel this way when she said to me, "you're the rudest, cruelest person!"
but this cruel man would like to pull the comforter of dirt up over his head to shut the coldness out, to plant himself like a seed in fertile soil. what more can one ask for than the warmth of the sun filtering through the rich black layers of earth to heat one's bones, to lie peacefully as up above the muffled voices of worry and pain carry on the unending morality play?
nature can be cruel, but not as cruel as i, not as cruel as the invented censures of those we love, and not half as cruel as when they hit the mark.
i am the rudest, cruelest person.
because you say so.
Monday, April 23, 2007
he, part one
his life seemed so cyclical. in fact, probably the number one thing that was so frustrating about his life was that he could predict his thoughts, his feelings, what he would become, months from now.
in high school, he spent most of his time playing nintendo and reading stephen king novels. although he enjoyed reading shakespeare in school, he never found time for it during his independent time. even then, he knew his friends, like most people, were obsessed with entertainment and other people’s lives. ironic, he thought, that the same people who neglect the very mechanisms that cause beauty in a frustrating world were also obsessed with so-and-so’s car accident or hip operation or football injury. what was the point, he thought.
but he was the same. his brain was polluted with gossip and friday the thirteenth flicks, and he would spend hours walking around town with his headphones plugged into his walkman, listening to anthrax. during high school, he felt a pervasive sense of waste, of something passing him by, but dismissed such feelings as the faint paranoia all teens seemed to feel.
in some ways, he was completely alone. he struggled with feelings, then guilt over the feelings, and this froze him, moved him to inaction, chained him to a wall, closed him in behind cold bricks and mortar. he hung there from his metaphorical wall waiting for things to change, feeling that things had been quiet for so long that ultimately things were building up toward some big change, a real turning point in his existence.
when he was nineteen, he got drunk for the first time. his younger brother procured a bottle of everclear. he mixed it with orange juice, then coke, then water, and then took several shots straight out of the bottle before demolishing a potted plant and passing out on the bathroom floor. the next day, he felt as if all the pain, all the guilt, all the bitterness and loneliness of the years before had reached their climax in this one miserable day. of course, how was he to know then that this was very wrong, that this was but a small complication in a much larger plot.
college was like high school without the friends. he worked at a fast food restaurant and started smoking cigarettes. he would smoke several on break. he took classes and passed them with little effort, but lost or forgot much of what he could have learned during this time. he felt poetry, but did not pursue it, did not live it.
after college, he moved to a small town and started teaching. he quit drinking and smoking and found god. he became involved with a church run by the parents of some of the students he taught. besides becoming involved in outreach projects with the church, he began to define for himself behavior that he would consider acceptable and biblical. however, these expectations extended beyond himself, and he became obsessed with spreading his enlightened message to others.
in high school, he spent most of his time playing nintendo and reading stephen king novels. although he enjoyed reading shakespeare in school, he never found time for it during his independent time. even then, he knew his friends, like most people, were obsessed with entertainment and other people’s lives. ironic, he thought, that the same people who neglect the very mechanisms that cause beauty in a frustrating world were also obsessed with so-and-so’s car accident or hip operation or football injury. what was the point, he thought.
but he was the same. his brain was polluted with gossip and friday the thirteenth flicks, and he would spend hours walking around town with his headphones plugged into his walkman, listening to anthrax. during high school, he felt a pervasive sense of waste, of something passing him by, but dismissed such feelings as the faint paranoia all teens seemed to feel.
in some ways, he was completely alone. he struggled with feelings, then guilt over the feelings, and this froze him, moved him to inaction, chained him to a wall, closed him in behind cold bricks and mortar. he hung there from his metaphorical wall waiting for things to change, feeling that things had been quiet for so long that ultimately things were building up toward some big change, a real turning point in his existence.
when he was nineteen, he got drunk for the first time. his younger brother procured a bottle of everclear. he mixed it with orange juice, then coke, then water, and then took several shots straight out of the bottle before demolishing a potted plant and passing out on the bathroom floor. the next day, he felt as if all the pain, all the guilt, all the bitterness and loneliness of the years before had reached their climax in this one miserable day. of course, how was he to know then that this was very wrong, that this was but a small complication in a much larger plot.
college was like high school without the friends. he worked at a fast food restaurant and started smoking cigarettes. he would smoke several on break. he took classes and passed them with little effort, but lost or forgot much of what he could have learned during this time. he felt poetry, but did not pursue it, did not live it.
after college, he moved to a small town and started teaching. he quit drinking and smoking and found god. he became involved with a church run by the parents of some of the students he taught. besides becoming involved in outreach projects with the church, he began to define for himself behavior that he would consider acceptable and biblical. however, these expectations extended beyond himself, and he became obsessed with spreading his enlightened message to others.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
a blessing
he steps out of the shower and steps in front of the mirror to shave. using a brush, he just gets the shave cream on his face, when a movement catches his eye. this is a split-level house, and the bathroom window is at ground level. there are no blinds on the window because he is miles from town.
close to the window, a rabbit is sitting in the snow. the rabbit is eating the pieces of strawberry thrown out the day before. his little gray mouth moves as he munches the tiny bits of berry.
suddenly, from behind a tree, another rabbit dashes in bounds toward the one eating. both hop playfully about the yard in the april snow.
as the rabbits play, a rooster pheasant strides, head bobbing, from behind the silver propane tank in the yard. the rabbits don't seem to notice him as they stop in an exposed patch of grass to nibble some more. the pheasant begins to peck at the ground.
the man looks at the clock, finishes shaving. while driving to work, he feels very blessed.
close to the window, a rabbit is sitting in the snow. the rabbit is eating the pieces of strawberry thrown out the day before. his little gray mouth moves as he munches the tiny bits of berry.
suddenly, from behind a tree, another rabbit dashes in bounds toward the one eating. both hop playfully about the yard in the april snow.
as the rabbits play, a rooster pheasant strides, head bobbing, from behind the silver propane tank in the yard. the rabbits don't seem to notice him as they stop in an exposed patch of grass to nibble some more. the pheasant begins to peck at the ground.
the man looks at the clock, finishes shaving. while driving to work, he feels very blessed.
Saturday, April 7, 2007
the two roosters
last night, two pheasant roosters were fighting in the field at the end of the road. they leaped at each other for a little bit, but mostly there was just a lot of head bobbing and posturing.
this morning, when i looked out the south window, i saw two pheasant roosters eating grain in the field across the road. i wondered if they were the same pheasants i had seen the night before. they seemed to be eating peacefully, neither one getting in the other's way. had one come out dominant? did the one rely on the other? just how solitary are pheasants, anyway?
having grown up in south dakota, you would think i would know a lot about pheasants. turns out, there is not much knowledge out there about the pheasants themselves -- only how to successfully hunt and kill them. i do know they are not native to south dakota.
this morning, when i looked out the south window, i saw two pheasant roosters eating grain in the field across the road. i wondered if they were the same pheasants i had seen the night before. they seemed to be eating peacefully, neither one getting in the other's way. had one come out dominant? did the one rely on the other? just how solitary are pheasants, anyway?
having grown up in south dakota, you would think i would know a lot about pheasants. turns out, there is not much knowledge out there about the pheasants themselves -- only how to successfully hunt and kill them. i do know they are not native to south dakota.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
the rain, part two
i don't know how long i stood there, completely lost inside my head, but by the time i came to my senses and decided to close the door, my front right side, the side facing the rain, was completely soaked. it was the silence, or maybe the sound of the rain in the midst of a thick silence, that brought me back. it was then i realized i was being watched by a boy standing out in the rain. it was a boy who i had seen around the apartment complex, and who sometimes pet my dog. he stood as silent and invisible as the air.
honestly, i was a startled and a little embarrassed to be caught in my reverie. the boy was soaked, arms crossed, shivering in the rain. what the hell was he doing out here in the rain?
"where's your dog?" he asked.
i caught my eyes automatically shifting to the ground, scanning. i didn't say anything for a minute. just stood there. the boy had seen her, had pet her when she had three legs. for some reason it didn't bother me that he had asked, i had to talk about it, if only for a second. "she died," i said, "remember she was sick? she died."
he stood in the rain. neither one of us spoke. i was starting to shiver myself. was it the rain?
the conversation must have ended somehow. i don't remember him saying, "i'm sorry." i don't even remember closing the door and going back inside. i just remember sitting on the floor of my apartment, reading my richard adams novel, and feeling better.
looking back, when i try to remember that moment, i always remember the boy saying something about the rain washing things away, making them new again. but he was a little boy, and lacked that kind of insight. i remembered thinking about something c.s. lewis had written. we may never meet those we love again, but if we don't, it is because we no longer need them. at that moment, for example, i didn't even need a friend. i just needed someone to whom i could say, "my dog is dead; i killed my dog."
the rain went on until morning.
honestly, i was a startled and a little embarrassed to be caught in my reverie. the boy was soaked, arms crossed, shivering in the rain. what the hell was he doing out here in the rain?
"where's your dog?" he asked.
i caught my eyes automatically shifting to the ground, scanning. i didn't say anything for a minute. just stood there. the boy had seen her, had pet her when she had three legs. for some reason it didn't bother me that he had asked, i had to talk about it, if only for a second. "she died," i said, "remember she was sick? she died."
he stood in the rain. neither one of us spoke. i was starting to shiver myself. was it the rain?
the conversation must have ended somehow. i don't remember him saying, "i'm sorry." i don't even remember closing the door and going back inside. i just remember sitting on the floor of my apartment, reading my richard adams novel, and feeling better.
looking back, when i try to remember that moment, i always remember the boy saying something about the rain washing things away, making them new again. but he was a little boy, and lacked that kind of insight. i remembered thinking about something c.s. lewis had written. we may never meet those we love again, but if we don't, it is because we no longer need them. at that moment, for example, i didn't even need a friend. i just needed someone to whom i could say, "my dog is dead; i killed my dog."
the rain went on until morning.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
the rain, part one
that's when i saw the black clouds coming over the mountains. they were like a child hiding in the closet, ready to jump out and startle the first person who walks by. when i first noticed the clouds, the wind immediately began to blow. i stood stupidly in the middle of the parking lot for a couple of seconds, holding my little walmart sacks filled with the daily refuse of my existence, just watching the clouds, my thinning hair and the garbage sacks being blown hectically from all sides. finally, i tossed the two bags into the dumpster and walked home.
when the sun went down, it started to rain, and it rained all night. i was reading in my bedroom with the window cracked so i could smell the ozone and wet earth. for once, i could not hear the neighbors talking. for once, there were no kids playing on the sidewalk in front of my apartment; just the calming hush of millions of gallons of water being diffused over the surface of the mohave desert.
i stepped outside just once, for no good reason at all. watching the rain didn't particularly interest me at the time. i was not one to go for walks in it. to be honest, i just stood with the door open and my arms crossed, looking down at the wet rocky ground, to where the trunks of the trees met the earth, meditating on nothing. on the rain. if i was a smoker, i thought, i'd have a cigarette right now.
when the sun went down, it started to rain, and it rained all night. i was reading in my bedroom with the window cracked so i could smell the ozone and wet earth. for once, i could not hear the neighbors talking. for once, there were no kids playing on the sidewalk in front of my apartment; just the calming hush of millions of gallons of water being diffused over the surface of the mohave desert.
i stepped outside just once, for no good reason at all. watching the rain didn't particularly interest me at the time. i was not one to go for walks in it. to be honest, i just stood with the door open and my arms crossed, looking down at the wet rocky ground, to where the trunks of the trees met the earth, meditating on nothing. on the rain. if i was a smoker, i thought, i'd have a cigarette right now.
Monday, March 5, 2007
falling completely to pieces
i woke up on the floor of my apartment, all tangled up in a sleeping bag. i vaguely recalled waking up at 4:00 and starting a movie. i looked at the clock. it was 7:30. i looked at the tv. it said, "sony dvd" with a blue background that faded to white. must have stopped the movie.
i lay there for a few minutes, reflecting on the implications of watching a movie at four in the morning, thankful i could do something like that without the awkward scrutiny others would experience from spouse, roommate. it's one of those funny things about people that they tend to think only the people around them have idiosyncracies. obviously, these people have never worked in a hospital, or taught in a school, or experienced anything tragic or unexpected in their ordinary lives.
untwisting myself from the sleeping bag, i pulled on a worn beastie boys t-shirt and walked to the bathroom. my reflection was pale, ghostly, but somehow serene. my hair was a staticky mess. i ran some water into my palm and patted it down, then shaved. it's a funny peculiarity about me that no matter what happens, i feel compelled to shave. it's not just that it makes me feel better -- it makes me get in touch with myself, as if my whiskers somehow blurred the real me, like some kind of interference with the reception of my being. not that i haven't gone without shaving, but i've always felt on-edge, anxious, like i'm one step from falling completely to pieces.
i did thirty crunches and thirty push-ups, then rinsed off in the shower, promising myself i'd do yoga later on. i juiced two grapefruits with one lime and downed it in one shot. i walked to the mailbox, opened it with the key, fully knowing that the mail did not come until early afternoon. i sat in the community hot tub while the maintenance man cleaned the pool. i started reading a book, richard adams' the plague dogs, for the third time. i kept checking the fridge for something to eat, unable to bring myself to touch the leftover baked beans.
sometime in the afternoon, i turned on the tv and started watching animal precinct, the show about people who abuse or neglect their animals and the people who prosecute them and bring them to justice. every time an animal had to be put down, i wept, and i became indignant at the mild sentences most of the violators received. after a couple hours, i turned off the tv and decided to take the garbage out.
i lay there for a few minutes, reflecting on the implications of watching a movie at four in the morning, thankful i could do something like that without the awkward scrutiny others would experience from spouse, roommate. it's one of those funny things about people that they tend to think only the people around them have idiosyncracies. obviously, these people have never worked in a hospital, or taught in a school, or experienced anything tragic or unexpected in their ordinary lives.
untwisting myself from the sleeping bag, i pulled on a worn beastie boys t-shirt and walked to the bathroom. my reflection was pale, ghostly, but somehow serene. my hair was a staticky mess. i ran some water into my palm and patted it down, then shaved. it's a funny peculiarity about me that no matter what happens, i feel compelled to shave. it's not just that it makes me feel better -- it makes me get in touch with myself, as if my whiskers somehow blurred the real me, like some kind of interference with the reception of my being. not that i haven't gone without shaving, but i've always felt on-edge, anxious, like i'm one step from falling completely to pieces.
i did thirty crunches and thirty push-ups, then rinsed off in the shower, promising myself i'd do yoga later on. i juiced two grapefruits with one lime and downed it in one shot. i walked to the mailbox, opened it with the key, fully knowing that the mail did not come until early afternoon. i sat in the community hot tub while the maintenance man cleaned the pool. i started reading a book, richard adams' the plague dogs, for the third time. i kept checking the fridge for something to eat, unable to bring myself to touch the leftover baked beans.
sometime in the afternoon, i turned on the tv and started watching animal precinct, the show about people who abuse or neglect their animals and the people who prosecute them and bring them to justice. every time an animal had to be put down, i wept, and i became indignant at the mild sentences most of the violators received. after a couple hours, i turned off the tv and decided to take the garbage out.
Thursday, March 1, 2007
today st. francis, tomorrow the world
today the snow is blowing and school has been called off. the snow has buried the pineapple scraps i put out for the rabbits; it has buried st. francis up to his knees, and much more is yet to come.
yesterday, i helped my brother push his car out after he got stuck in his own driveway. in spite of all the snow, it was a rather mild day for a winter in south dakota. i would take this any day, i thought as i watched my brother driving his car back and forth, trying to work his car out of the ruts, over those cold, merciless days when the thermometer drops far below zero.
i made spaghetti and opened up a myspace account, which was probably a bad idea, read a little bit. if only i could start going for a morning run, i know i would feel so much better. running here is a "weather permitting" type of activity, and the weather is certainly not permitting.
st. francis looks down at the spot where i buried tiger. i consider a story i once read about st. francis taming a wild wolf who had been eating the children of a certain village for his dinner. francis spoke softly to the wolf, and then informed the villagers that the wolf had repented of its sins and promised to take Child off its menu. francis also instructed the villagers to keep the wolf well-fed, probably good advice. the villagers co-existed with the wolf until he died of natural causes.
st. francis could save a wolf, i think, but i was not able to save a dog named tiger.
Friday, February 23, 2007
by the fence
there was a long silence and the twittering of some strange desert bird that didn't quite register in my mind. i could almost hear the violinist trying to clear his parched throat as he rubbed at his cracked lips with the back of his hand, his bow hand. he stared at me, patiently and expectantly.
"well," i asked, "aren't you going to play for me."
"it's no use," he said sadly, "you can't dance."
he reminded me of the wizard of oz, the fraud behind the curtain running the smoke-and-mirrors show. he leaned one shoulder up against the fence. looking down at my hands, i realized i had been nervously biting at my cuticle. everything felt surreal, my senses overloaded, i saw through a fog of bitter tears that continued to come in heaves. "then tell me what to do," i said.
"i can't. i can only play. you have to follow the music. if you don't, it's all wrong." he shook his head and repeated, "all wrong. we can't be held responsible."
the tears came again and i found it hard to breathe for a moment. "then you can't tell me what to do?" i managed. the violinist shook his head grimly. "...and the cheshire cat?"
"he's gone, too." he looked down and kicked at some pebbles on the ground. "he never did help alice. anyway, he could only tell people what they thought they needed to know -- he had no real direction."
"so you killed him?" i asked, indignant, "or had him killed?"
"oh no!" said the violinist, shaking his head violently. "it was them," he said through gritted teeth, looking away as if he was talking to someone else. "millions of them!"
my tears stopped, and i trembled coldly, shocked, broken-down, and disillusioned. the violinist seemed to reflect how i felt, what i had become. but he could make beautiful music. "well?"
"you could pour us a glass of that whisky," he offered.
"but i haven't bought it yet," i whispered.
"...but i know you will. it's already here for me." he began to move away. i trembled at his words and turned to ice.
"will i see you again?" i asked softly, but he was already gone. as usual, only i had heard my words.
she floated through my field of vision, whisked away in someone's arms into another room, the type of image one vaguely remembers as an emotion revealing itself as an image. i handed the assistant my debit card and signed the receipt. she handed me some papers and a clay paw print. i gathered up what remained and left the building.
"well," i asked, "aren't you going to play for me."
"it's no use," he said sadly, "you can't dance."
he reminded me of the wizard of oz, the fraud behind the curtain running the smoke-and-mirrors show. he leaned one shoulder up against the fence. looking down at my hands, i realized i had been nervously biting at my cuticle. everything felt surreal, my senses overloaded, i saw through a fog of bitter tears that continued to come in heaves. "then tell me what to do," i said.
"i can't. i can only play. you have to follow the music. if you don't, it's all wrong." he shook his head and repeated, "all wrong. we can't be held responsible."
the tears came again and i found it hard to breathe for a moment. "then you can't tell me what to do?" i managed. the violinist shook his head grimly. "...and the cheshire cat?"
"he's gone, too." he looked down and kicked at some pebbles on the ground. "he never did help alice. anyway, he could only tell people what they thought they needed to know -- he had no real direction."
"so you killed him?" i asked, indignant, "or had him killed?"
"oh no!" said the violinist, shaking his head violently. "it was them," he said through gritted teeth, looking away as if he was talking to someone else. "millions of them!"
my tears stopped, and i trembled coldly, shocked, broken-down, and disillusioned. the violinist seemed to reflect how i felt, what i had become. but he could make beautiful music. "well?"
"you could pour us a glass of that whisky," he offered.
"but i haven't bought it yet," i whispered.
"...but i know you will. it's already here for me." he began to move away. i trembled at his words and turned to ice.
"will i see you again?" i asked softly, but he was already gone. as usual, only i had heard my words.
she floated through my field of vision, whisked away in someone's arms into another room, the type of image one vaguely remembers as an emotion revealing itself as an image. i handed the assistant my debit card and signed the receipt. she handed me some papers and a clay paw print. i gathered up what remained and left the building.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
the violinist
february 4, 2006.
we took the longest walk we had taken together in months. in spite of the loss of one leg, she kept pulling at the leash until we had reached the mailbox. i would guess the distance from my apartment to the mailbox was at least two full city blocks. even going uphill, she didn't slow.
it was a cloudless day. i carried her back, satisfied that we had made it so far.
february 7, 2006.
i let her out the door and watched her wet beside the tree in front, then called her back inside. it was about 5:30. i drained the navy beans that had been cooking all day in the crock pot, dumped them into a roasting pan, smothered them in tomato sauce and molasses, and added some chopped fresh onion and salt for good measure.
they smelled so good.
shortly after six, i let her out again. the sun had started to set behind the mountains. she walked slowly around the area in front of my apartment and sniffed. this was her usual routine. i watched to see when she was done to make sure she wouldn't bother any people who might walk by and so that i could let her in.
she crouched down, and then immediately raised up again. she looked at me and ran around a bit, then crouched down again and raised up.
i slid on some flip-flops, grabbed her leash, and walked her down to the grass. it had just been watered, and it was cold on my feet. she crouched down. her eyes were wide and staring. i could tell by her body language that she was in distress. i returned to my apartment and paged frantically through my books and magazines on pet health care, but came up with nothing i didn't already know, nothing i wasn't already putting into practice, nothing i hadn't considered or tried.
i remember that night very vividly because mikel came over, and i offered him some beans. sandy was lying on the dining room floor, obviously distressed, and i was doing my best to hold myself together.
mikel left, and i drove to hastings. i bought a book on home vetrinary care, but i knew i was desperate. i got it home, and after several more failed attempts to walk sandy, hoping something would change, that this was just another obstacle to overcome, i sat down and looked for some kind of treatment for this problem. there was nothing but one sentence suggesting the need for professional care.
i don't know why i didn't pick up the phone right then and call the emergency number for my vetrinarian. perhaps i was hoping i would wake up the next morning and discover that the problem had taken care of itself. i carried sandy down the steps in front of my apartment, and put her down. she continued to crouch down. some feces literally fell onto the pavement, and i left them there. i carried her back inside and laid with her on the floor until, mentally exhausted, i fell asleep.
february 8, 2006.
i woke the next morning to find nothing had changed. i repeatedly let her outside, desperately hoping for a sudden improvement, but there was none. i prayed, i forced myself to shave and dress for work, but at 7:30, i was calling my vet.
the receptionist said that my vet was gone, but i could see the other one. i said any vet was fine. her schedule was full, so i had to wait for them to return my call. in the meantime, i called the school where i worked and told them i was not coming in.
the phone rang. i was able to get in at 9:00. i grabbed sandy's file and my car keys, and we were off.
does the phrase, "last chance" really mean anything to us? do we really understand what "never" means, as in, "this is my last chance to drive with sandy in the car," or, "i will never again put this leash on this collar to go for a walk"? we always hope for more, look forward to another time. months later, even when i was locking my apartment for the last time, having left the keys on the counter, i did not leave with a sense of finality. i had closed this door so many times. does it ever really occur to us at the time we are closing a door that this door may never be opened again? or even when our logic knows better, are we still haunted by an irrational sense of anticipation that we will, someday, be doing this again?
as i drove with sandy on the passenger seat, i spoke softly to her. she had put me through some pretty frightening situations before, and all my heart wanted to be hopeful, but there was an impending sense of finality today. yet, i could not imagine driving across town with sandy, and driving back without her.
the waiting area was deserted and quiet, except for one upper-middle-aged woman with a timid white cat in a crate. after signing in, i sat across from the woman with sandy in my arms, trying to comfort her as best i could, haunted by the knowledge that she hadn't been able to relieve herself since 5:30 the night before, trying to imagine the discomfort this would cause, and yet trying to put it out of my mind so i could deal rationally with the situation.
"how old is your dog." this was the typical conversation-starter for the waiting room at my vetrinarian's office, and normally i enjoyed answering such questions because although she was fifteen, she didn't look it. even after her amputation, she normally appeared quite spry. today, however, i felt i was going to break down if i started talking. however, i didn't want to be rude.
"she's fifteen." the woman smiled mildly at this and looked right at sandy. i really was afraid she would start feeling sorry for sandy after noticing the loss of her leg, but she didn't mention it.
instead, she said, "she has human eyes."
the tears started to come, but i managed to smile. "i know," i said.
"...eyes just like a human," the woman repeated softly to herself.
the receptionist called my name, the woman wished me luck.
i don't know how to explain the x-rays, the decision to euthanize, the tranquilizer, the time they gave me alone with sandy, repeating the word "calm" over and over in a soothing voice, both for her benefit and mine. i did manage to keep my head enough to request that the procedure be done outside, not under the white ceiling, not near the jars of gauze and alcohol, the smell of absolute sterility.
she was on my lap on a chair under a tree. it was a perfect day, probably 75 degrees, with a light breeze. i heard my voice distantly, apologizing for not being a better owner, assuring her i was giving her to the perfect master, she wouldn't need me any more. i saw them put the needle in, and it seemed curiously routine, as if i had seen this done many times before. i asked how long it would take. she said, "she is already gone."
i played mozart's requiem in my car as i was leaving, stopping to buy a bottle of single-malt scotch on my way home.
vaguely, as though in another room, came the deep dark strains of the violin. a sudden coldness passed over me, and i felt indescribably out of synch with its strains. something passed over me, and i was irreversibly changed.
from around the corner of the building came the violinist. he was standing on the other side of the chain-link fence. unshaven and slightly overweight in the midsection, he was dressed in a navy suit, but the suit was stained in places, frayed in others. he was playing a violin that was so weathered, it looked like it had been left out in the rain during monsoon season, and then set out in the desert sun to dry.
he stopped playing, looked at me, and bowed.
“so, you’re the violinist?” i inquired.
“yes,” he said, “that’s me.”
we took the longest walk we had taken together in months. in spite of the loss of one leg, she kept pulling at the leash until we had reached the mailbox. i would guess the distance from my apartment to the mailbox was at least two full city blocks. even going uphill, she didn't slow.
it was a cloudless day. i carried her back, satisfied that we had made it so far.
february 7, 2006.
i let her out the door and watched her wet beside the tree in front, then called her back inside. it was about 5:30. i drained the navy beans that had been cooking all day in the crock pot, dumped them into a roasting pan, smothered them in tomato sauce and molasses, and added some chopped fresh onion and salt for good measure.
they smelled so good.
shortly after six, i let her out again. the sun had started to set behind the mountains. she walked slowly around the area in front of my apartment and sniffed. this was her usual routine. i watched to see when she was done to make sure she wouldn't bother any people who might walk by and so that i could let her in.
she crouched down, and then immediately raised up again. she looked at me and ran around a bit, then crouched down again and raised up.
i slid on some flip-flops, grabbed her leash, and walked her down to the grass. it had just been watered, and it was cold on my feet. she crouched down. her eyes were wide and staring. i could tell by her body language that she was in distress. i returned to my apartment and paged frantically through my books and magazines on pet health care, but came up with nothing i didn't already know, nothing i wasn't already putting into practice, nothing i hadn't considered or tried.
i remember that night very vividly because mikel came over, and i offered him some beans. sandy was lying on the dining room floor, obviously distressed, and i was doing my best to hold myself together.
mikel left, and i drove to hastings. i bought a book on home vetrinary care, but i knew i was desperate. i got it home, and after several more failed attempts to walk sandy, hoping something would change, that this was just another obstacle to overcome, i sat down and looked for some kind of treatment for this problem. there was nothing but one sentence suggesting the need for professional care.
i don't know why i didn't pick up the phone right then and call the emergency number for my vetrinarian. perhaps i was hoping i would wake up the next morning and discover that the problem had taken care of itself. i carried sandy down the steps in front of my apartment, and put her down. she continued to crouch down. some feces literally fell onto the pavement, and i left them there. i carried her back inside and laid with her on the floor until, mentally exhausted, i fell asleep.
february 8, 2006.
i woke the next morning to find nothing had changed. i repeatedly let her outside, desperately hoping for a sudden improvement, but there was none. i prayed, i forced myself to shave and dress for work, but at 7:30, i was calling my vet.
the receptionist said that my vet was gone, but i could see the other one. i said any vet was fine. her schedule was full, so i had to wait for them to return my call. in the meantime, i called the school where i worked and told them i was not coming in.
the phone rang. i was able to get in at 9:00. i grabbed sandy's file and my car keys, and we were off.
does the phrase, "last chance" really mean anything to us? do we really understand what "never" means, as in, "this is my last chance to drive with sandy in the car," or, "i will never again put this leash on this collar to go for a walk"? we always hope for more, look forward to another time. months later, even when i was locking my apartment for the last time, having left the keys on the counter, i did not leave with a sense of finality. i had closed this door so many times. does it ever really occur to us at the time we are closing a door that this door may never be opened again? or even when our logic knows better, are we still haunted by an irrational sense of anticipation that we will, someday, be doing this again?
as i drove with sandy on the passenger seat, i spoke softly to her. she had put me through some pretty frightening situations before, and all my heart wanted to be hopeful, but there was an impending sense of finality today. yet, i could not imagine driving across town with sandy, and driving back without her.
the waiting area was deserted and quiet, except for one upper-middle-aged woman with a timid white cat in a crate. after signing in, i sat across from the woman with sandy in my arms, trying to comfort her as best i could, haunted by the knowledge that she hadn't been able to relieve herself since 5:30 the night before, trying to imagine the discomfort this would cause, and yet trying to put it out of my mind so i could deal rationally with the situation.
"how old is your dog." this was the typical conversation-starter for the waiting room at my vetrinarian's office, and normally i enjoyed answering such questions because although she was fifteen, she didn't look it. even after her amputation, she normally appeared quite spry. today, however, i felt i was going to break down if i started talking. however, i didn't want to be rude.
"she's fifteen." the woman smiled mildly at this and looked right at sandy. i really was afraid she would start feeling sorry for sandy after noticing the loss of her leg, but she didn't mention it.
instead, she said, "she has human eyes."
the tears started to come, but i managed to smile. "i know," i said.
"...eyes just like a human," the woman repeated softly to herself.
the receptionist called my name, the woman wished me luck.
i don't know how to explain the x-rays, the decision to euthanize, the tranquilizer, the time they gave me alone with sandy, repeating the word "calm" over and over in a soothing voice, both for her benefit and mine. i did manage to keep my head enough to request that the procedure be done outside, not under the white ceiling, not near the jars of gauze and alcohol, the smell of absolute sterility.
she was on my lap on a chair under a tree. it was a perfect day, probably 75 degrees, with a light breeze. i heard my voice distantly, apologizing for not being a better owner, assuring her i was giving her to the perfect master, she wouldn't need me any more. i saw them put the needle in, and it seemed curiously routine, as if i had seen this done many times before. i asked how long it would take. she said, "she is already gone."
i played mozart's requiem in my car as i was leaving, stopping to buy a bottle of single-malt scotch on my way home.
vaguely, as though in another room, came the deep dark strains of the violin. a sudden coldness passed over me, and i felt indescribably out of synch with its strains. something passed over me, and i was irreversibly changed.
from around the corner of the building came the violinist. he was standing on the other side of the chain-link fence. unshaven and slightly overweight in the midsection, he was dressed in a navy suit, but the suit was stained in places, frayed in others. he was playing a violin that was so weathered, it looked like it had been left out in the rain during monsoon season, and then set out in the desert sun to dry.
he stopped playing, looked at me, and bowed.
“so, you’re the violinist?” i inquired.
“yes,” he said, “that’s me.”
Wednesday, February 7, 2007
flesh would melt
to evaporate
to turn to steam
to dissipate
i stare at my handwriting scrawled on a 3x5 notecard and sigh. yesterday, during 4th block, i erupted at a student who had rudely slept through my class, then woke up at the end of class and ate handfuls of food she had hidden in her purse.
later that night, i lay awake, trying to remember a line from shakespeare's hamlet. something about sullied flesh melting. or was it thawing? thawing or melting?
it was melting and thawing. but was it melting first, then thawing? that wouldn't make any sense. it had to thaw first, then melt. what was the difference between thawing and melting?
"okay, you know what? you don't need to be here. why do you even come to school?"
"i was listening! i could hear every word you said!"
"there's no way! i called on you to read, and you didn't respond; how could you be listening? why don't you just drop out of school?"
i looked it up. the exact line was :
o, that this too too sullied flesh would melt,
thaw, and resolve itself into a dew!
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
urban legend
some of you have probably heard the story about the boy who was afraid to go to bed at night. if not, let me quickly summarize the plot. in the story, a boy is told by his mother to hang his arm over the edge of his bed so the dog lying underneath would lick his hand and make him feel better so he could go to sleep unafraid. the boy hears a dripping sound, and when he goes to investigate he finds his dog hanging upside down in the bathroom, its throat slit, dripping blood, and the words humans can lick hands, too scrawled on the mirror in the dog's blood.
at this point, most listeners are supposed to experience a chill of terror as the reality of the situation dawns on the little boy. often we cannot truly say how we would feel in a given situation unless we are in the middle of the story ourselves. for example, our protagonist, the boy, had no such reaction. i know it seems contrary to reason, but he was young enough that the implications of what he saw did not sink in right away. he simply turned out the light and plodded down the hall, back to his room.
the boy sat for a while on the edge of the bed, his bare feet dangling a few inches from the floor. he covered his face with his hands and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make himself tired so he could go back to sleep. finally, he stood up and began to walk towards the light switch near the door, when he heard a man's voice say, from under his bed, "aren't you scared?"
the boy stopped and turned around to face the bed. to his surprise, he realized he was not afraid at all. "no," said the boy.
"hmm," said the man under the bed, "well, now, why don't you come closer so i can get a good look at you." the boy walked over to his bed, lifted the edge of his comforter, and looked into the darkened face of a man, rough, unshaven. "that's better," said the man.
"why did you do it?" asked the boy. the man said nothing. there was a long pause. the man's eyes shifted from side to side, but he still didn't say anything. finally, when the boy decided the man must not have heard him, he asked again, "why did you kill my dog?"
"i didn't," said the man, looking up at the boy.
"what do you mean you didn't kill him? then who did?" asked the boy. again, a long pause, and no response from the man. the boy decided to switch the question. "how did you get in?"
"through the window," the man offered eagerly. "your mom always leaves the kitchen window unlocked. it's easy not to be heard if you come through the kitchen."
the boy thought about this for several seconds. finally, the boy repeated his first question, "if you didn't kill my dog, then who did?"
dark furrows formed across the man's forehead. his eyes shifted. "lean in close," he said. the boy sat down on the floor and put his ear next to the man's mouth. "i can't tell you," the man hissed.
"why not!" exclaimed the boy loudly, which resulted in the man startling, bumping his head on the bottom of the bed, and reacting with a series of shushes.
a long painful silence followed which lasted at least an hour. the man lay underneath the boy's bed, the boy sat cross-legged in front of the man. the man closed his eyes, and the boy nodded off several times, slipping in and out of sleep. at one point he had a disturbing dream that the man was hanging from the bathroom ceiling, and his dog was under his bed. the boy woke up to the sound of the man sobbing. "why are you crying?"
the man opened his red eyes. "no reason."
"why are you under the bed anyway?"
"i'm afraid," answered the man.
the boy stretched his arms. he was now wide awake. "you won't tell me who killed my dog, then?"
"i can't."
"if i guess right, would you tell me?"
the man thought for a long time about this before finally saying, "i guess that would be okay."
"okay, then; did you kill my dog?"
"i already told you i did not."
the boy screwed up his face and thought hard. "did my mom kill my dog?"
"no," said the man, with a look of intense sadness. " i think you know the right question to ask," he added.
the boy thought, and thought, and thought, but could come up with nothing.
"i can come up with nothing," said the boy. "did..." but the boy stopped. abruptly, shock and understanding came over the boy, the chill of terror, if that's what you want to call it, and the man started sobbing uncontrollably.
"go ahead," gasped the man between sobs, tears running down his face, "ask it."
the boy's lips trembled, the blood ran out of his face, and everything you would expect to happen to a person sitting around a fire listening to a horror story happened to the boy all at once as he asked his final question.
"did i kill my dog?"
at this point, most listeners are supposed to experience a chill of terror as the reality of the situation dawns on the little boy. often we cannot truly say how we would feel in a given situation unless we are in the middle of the story ourselves. for example, our protagonist, the boy, had no such reaction. i know it seems contrary to reason, but he was young enough that the implications of what he saw did not sink in right away. he simply turned out the light and plodded down the hall, back to his room.
the boy sat for a while on the edge of the bed, his bare feet dangling a few inches from the floor. he covered his face with his hands and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to make himself tired so he could go back to sleep. finally, he stood up and began to walk towards the light switch near the door, when he heard a man's voice say, from under his bed, "aren't you scared?"
the boy stopped and turned around to face the bed. to his surprise, he realized he was not afraid at all. "no," said the boy.
"hmm," said the man under the bed, "well, now, why don't you come closer so i can get a good look at you." the boy walked over to his bed, lifted the edge of his comforter, and looked into the darkened face of a man, rough, unshaven. "that's better," said the man.
"why did you do it?" asked the boy. the man said nothing. there was a long pause. the man's eyes shifted from side to side, but he still didn't say anything. finally, when the boy decided the man must not have heard him, he asked again, "why did you kill my dog?"
"i didn't," said the man, looking up at the boy.
"what do you mean you didn't kill him? then who did?" asked the boy. again, a long pause, and no response from the man. the boy decided to switch the question. "how did you get in?"
"through the window," the man offered eagerly. "your mom always leaves the kitchen window unlocked. it's easy not to be heard if you come through the kitchen."
the boy thought about this for several seconds. finally, the boy repeated his first question, "if you didn't kill my dog, then who did?"
dark furrows formed across the man's forehead. his eyes shifted. "lean in close," he said. the boy sat down on the floor and put his ear next to the man's mouth. "i can't tell you," the man hissed.
"why not!" exclaimed the boy loudly, which resulted in the man startling, bumping his head on the bottom of the bed, and reacting with a series of shushes.
a long painful silence followed which lasted at least an hour. the man lay underneath the boy's bed, the boy sat cross-legged in front of the man. the man closed his eyes, and the boy nodded off several times, slipping in and out of sleep. at one point he had a disturbing dream that the man was hanging from the bathroom ceiling, and his dog was under his bed. the boy woke up to the sound of the man sobbing. "why are you crying?"
the man opened his red eyes. "no reason."
"why are you under the bed anyway?"
"i'm afraid," answered the man.
the boy stretched his arms. he was now wide awake. "you won't tell me who killed my dog, then?"
"i can't."
"if i guess right, would you tell me?"
the man thought for a long time about this before finally saying, "i guess that would be okay."
"okay, then; did you kill my dog?"
"i already told you i did not."
the boy screwed up his face and thought hard. "did my mom kill my dog?"
"no," said the man, with a look of intense sadness. " i think you know the right question to ask," he added.
the boy thought, and thought, and thought, but could come up with nothing.
"i can come up with nothing," said the boy. "did..." but the boy stopped. abruptly, shock and understanding came over the boy, the chill of terror, if that's what you want to call it, and the man started sobbing uncontrollably.
"go ahead," gasped the man between sobs, tears running down his face, "ask it."
the boy's lips trembled, the blood ran out of his face, and everything you would expect to happen to a person sitting around a fire listening to a horror story happened to the boy all at once as he asked his final question.
"did i kill my dog?"
Monday, January 22, 2007
the ballad of the cheshire cat
the cheshire cat was dead, i thought, or sleeping. i sat down on a rock, stared at the fat orange cat lying motionlessly on the ground, and took a drink of water. i extended my leg and prodded the cat with the toe of my shoe.
dead.
he's not my cat, i reminded myself.
i heaved a sigh and stood up, placing my hands on my hips, examining the house in front of me. it was a dilapidated trailer. did the people who live here kill the cat, or did it just wander here and die? or, did someone else kill the cat and leave it here for the people who lived in the trailer to find? i didn't have a clue, and i was frustrated with myself for having left my apartment for a mindless walk in the first place.
in any case, i decided, animal control should be contacted. deciding not to knock on the trailer, i walked over to the house on the corner of the road and knocked. i have this thing about talking to people i don't know, especially in an awkward situation like this, so waiting to see if somebody would answer the door seemed to take at least a full two minutes. i made myself breathe deeply the whole time. finally, the door was opened by an older man wearing a straw hat. "hello, can i help you."
i was direct. "is that your cat?" i gestured.
the man in the hat looked bewildered. "i'm sorry...?" he shrugged, grimaced slightly. his face was beet-red, as if he had been working out in the sun all day long.
"the cat over there," i motioned with my hand, "he's dead."
"dead," he said, his tone completely neutral. an old woman wearing garden gloves appeared behind the man in the hat, a sour look plastered to her face as she studied mine.
"dead," i repeated. my pits were sweating. i hated talking to strange people. why was this taking so long?
"can we help you?" the woman asked, the look of disgust on her face increasing.
this isn't burger king, i thought. i glanced over at the cheshire cat lying vacantly on the side of the road. he was still dead. "do you have a telephone?"
the old man and woman exchanged glances. he clicked his tongue and asked suspiciously, "do you need to make a call?"
"well," i began. here was the climax of our conversation, when my intentions would be fully revealed. i forced myself to go on. "i was thinking maybe you could call animal control and tell them about the cat." revelation.
i thought my request was pretty reasonable, but it was met with a duet of no's. an explanation followed. "we wouldn't dare call animal control," said the man.
"our neighbors have called them on us a number of times because of our dogs," the woman added. i looked sideways at an outdoor kennel made from light wood and chicken wire. two small dogs lay on a cracked concrete floor, next to a large water bowl. although the dogs didn't appear to be in distress, they didn't seem like the sort of dogs that would cause any great disturbance. in fact they hadn't even barked when i answered the door. why had the neighbors contacted animal control?
all at once the unpleasant old people seemed patently childish and uneducated. forcing myself to check the rolling of my eyes, i nodded as if in understanding, thanked them, and walked away.
twenty minutes later, i was in my apartment, smelling of sweat and dust. i picked up the phone and dialed the number for animal control while i poured myself a glass of cold grapefruit juice. they assured me they would retrieve the dead cat. why don't you check into the neighbors on the corner of the road -- yes, the neighbors with the two dogs, i wanted to add, but did not.
slipping the leash on my dog, i took her for a short walk, then jumped in the shower briefly to rinse off the dirt and sweat. the mirror above the sink was foggy when i stepped out, and i had to wipe it with a towel before i could check my face. what i saw startled me. i can't explain it, but something was changed, i no longer seemed to be me, or at least not the same person as i was the last time i looked in this mirror. to make matters worse, i was grinning nervously and uncontrollably from ear to ear.
later, i drove by the spot in the road where i had last seen the cheshire cat. he was gone. animal control had done their job.
dead.
he's not my cat, i reminded myself.
i heaved a sigh and stood up, placing my hands on my hips, examining the house in front of me. it was a dilapidated trailer. did the people who live here kill the cat, or did it just wander here and die? or, did someone else kill the cat and leave it here for the people who lived in the trailer to find? i didn't have a clue, and i was frustrated with myself for having left my apartment for a mindless walk in the first place.
in any case, i decided, animal control should be contacted. deciding not to knock on the trailer, i walked over to the house on the corner of the road and knocked. i have this thing about talking to people i don't know, especially in an awkward situation like this, so waiting to see if somebody would answer the door seemed to take at least a full two minutes. i made myself breathe deeply the whole time. finally, the door was opened by an older man wearing a straw hat. "hello, can i help you."
i was direct. "is that your cat?" i gestured.
the man in the hat looked bewildered. "i'm sorry...?" he shrugged, grimaced slightly. his face was beet-red, as if he had been working out in the sun all day long.
"the cat over there," i motioned with my hand, "he's dead."
"dead," he said, his tone completely neutral. an old woman wearing garden gloves appeared behind the man in the hat, a sour look plastered to her face as she studied mine.
"dead," i repeated. my pits were sweating. i hated talking to strange people. why was this taking so long?
"can we help you?" the woman asked, the look of disgust on her face increasing.
this isn't burger king, i thought. i glanced over at the cheshire cat lying vacantly on the side of the road. he was still dead. "do you have a telephone?"
the old man and woman exchanged glances. he clicked his tongue and asked suspiciously, "do you need to make a call?"
"well," i began. here was the climax of our conversation, when my intentions would be fully revealed. i forced myself to go on. "i was thinking maybe you could call animal control and tell them about the cat." revelation.
i thought my request was pretty reasonable, but it was met with a duet of no's. an explanation followed. "we wouldn't dare call animal control," said the man.
"our neighbors have called them on us a number of times because of our dogs," the woman added. i looked sideways at an outdoor kennel made from light wood and chicken wire. two small dogs lay on a cracked concrete floor, next to a large water bowl. although the dogs didn't appear to be in distress, they didn't seem like the sort of dogs that would cause any great disturbance. in fact they hadn't even barked when i answered the door. why had the neighbors contacted animal control?
all at once the unpleasant old people seemed patently childish and uneducated. forcing myself to check the rolling of my eyes, i nodded as if in understanding, thanked them, and walked away.
twenty minutes later, i was in my apartment, smelling of sweat and dust. i picked up the phone and dialed the number for animal control while i poured myself a glass of cold grapefruit juice. they assured me they would retrieve the dead cat. why don't you check into the neighbors on the corner of the road -- yes, the neighbors with the two dogs, i wanted to add, but did not.
slipping the leash on my dog, i took her for a short walk, then jumped in the shower briefly to rinse off the dirt and sweat. the mirror above the sink was foggy when i stepped out, and i had to wipe it with a towel before i could check my face. what i saw startled me. i can't explain it, but something was changed, i no longer seemed to be me, or at least not the same person as i was the last time i looked in this mirror. to make matters worse, i was grinning nervously and uncontrollably from ear to ear.
later, i drove by the spot in the road where i had last seen the cheshire cat. he was gone. animal control had done their job.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
the letter
january 2, 2007
the aberdeen american news
124 s. second st., p.o. box 4430
aberdeen, south dakota 57402
to the editor:
regarding tuesday’s headline, my heart goes out to anyone who has been maltreated by this unjust, antiquated, and ill-conceived ordinance. a dog who bites once should not be labeled aggressive. in fact, most of what we label aggression in dogs is actually normal canine behavior. as humans, if we spit in another person’s face, give a person unwanted contact, or call someone by a profane name, we increase the likelihood of inspiring aggression in an ordinarily non-aggressive individual. likewise, if we send the wrong messages to a dog, the response will be unpredictable.
here some best practices: 1. avoid eye contact. 2. never pet a dog on top of the head or scruff. 3. never pet a dog that isn’t completely calm. 3. keep a safe distance. 4. never offer a dog your hand, either palm up or palm down. dogs can’t tell the difference. 5. educate yourself. 6. use common sense.
if animal welfare laws were effective, and if humans were more educated and well-behaved, the number of incidents of dog to human aggression would be negligible. in the meantime, in the unlikely chance someone’s dog should happen to bite me, and I should need medical attention, they won’t hear how it happened from me. aberdeen does not serve the best interests of either you or your pet.
sincerely,
vegancowboy
the aberdeen american news
124 s. second st., p.o. box 4430
aberdeen, south dakota 57402
to the editor:
regarding tuesday’s headline, my heart goes out to anyone who has been maltreated by this unjust, antiquated, and ill-conceived ordinance. a dog who bites once should not be labeled aggressive. in fact, most of what we label aggression in dogs is actually normal canine behavior. as humans, if we spit in another person’s face, give a person unwanted contact, or call someone by a profane name, we increase the likelihood of inspiring aggression in an ordinarily non-aggressive individual. likewise, if we send the wrong messages to a dog, the response will be unpredictable.
here some best practices: 1. avoid eye contact. 2. never pet a dog on top of the head or scruff. 3. never pet a dog that isn’t completely calm. 3. keep a safe distance. 4. never offer a dog your hand, either palm up or palm down. dogs can’t tell the difference. 5. educate yourself. 6. use common sense.
if animal welfare laws were effective, and if humans were more educated and well-behaved, the number of incidents of dog to human aggression would be negligible. in the meantime, in the unlikely chance someone’s dog should happen to bite me, and I should need medical attention, they won’t hear how it happened from me. aberdeen does not serve the best interests of either you or your pet.
sincerely,
vegancowboy
she cheated on her final
she cheated. she cried. i arranged a second chance. she cried some more. her father came in. i arranged a third chance. she was late. why do i do this to myself? she tells me she is in trouble with her probation officer. my weakness is that i actually care.
Friday, January 5, 2007
ramones poster
for much of the day afterwards i hunched guiltily behind my desk, students approaching me for help, me wanting to hide from everything. at 3:00 i met with my principal, and at 3:30 i was back in my room with a student who had received detention for creating a unique response to the question "why did the chicken cross the road?" in the art teacher's class. ('why did the chicken cross the road? to suck a dick.') middle school.
i had students serve detention for half an hour, and i always told them they could do one of three things: 1. read. 2. work on homework. 3. stare blankly at the wall. however, if the student chose option three, he or she could not lay his or her head down. invariably, students chose one of the first two options.
today, however, i was not in the proper state of mind to effectively make detention unpleasant, so i spent the next half hour leaning back in my chair, drinking a tepid cup of tea i had forgotten in gulps.
'have you ever listened to the ramones?'
'excuse me?'
he pulled a chair up in front of my desk and sat down. 'have you ever listened to the ramones?' he repeated.
'oh,' i said drily, 'yeah.'
'i have a huge ramones poster in my room. i mean, it's so big next to everything else i can hardly think about anything else when i'm in there.' i had no idea why he was telling me this. he stopped and looked at me like he was waiting for me to respond.
after a few seconds, i sighed, not knowing what to say. 'yes, i do listen to the ramones.'
'oh.' he sat there in front of my desk for several minutes while i paged blankly through a discarded issue of the smithsonian magazine. i started to skim an article about a study that proved fish could feel pain. 'so what's your favorite song?' this kid would not give up.
'my favorite ramones song?'
'yeah.'
it has always somewhat annoyed me to cast an immediate value judgement without adequate forethought, so i paused for several seconds, looking back to my article. it wasn't until i was dismissing the student and he was walking down the hall before i called out after him, 'i wanna be sedated.'
driving home, i found myself ejecting mozart's requiem from my cd player and putting in a ramones cd that i had left in my car for some reason. all the way home i listened to 'i wanna be sedated' on repeat, loudly. in my apartment, i downed two tall glasses of fresh water before working on lesson plans. i read a book until ten, did some quick yoga, then went to bed.
the following day, early in the morning, i went for my usual run. again, i heard the violin and drum. i would hear them every day i ran, but only when i ran. thirteen months would pass before i would hear the music apart from my run, and when i heard it next, i would be sitting on a chair under a tree, holding a dying friend in my arms.
i had students serve detention for half an hour, and i always told them they could do one of three things: 1. read. 2. work on homework. 3. stare blankly at the wall. however, if the student chose option three, he or she could not lay his or her head down. invariably, students chose one of the first two options.
today, however, i was not in the proper state of mind to effectively make detention unpleasant, so i spent the next half hour leaning back in my chair, drinking a tepid cup of tea i had forgotten in gulps.
'have you ever listened to the ramones?'
'excuse me?'
he pulled a chair up in front of my desk and sat down. 'have you ever listened to the ramones?' he repeated.
'oh,' i said drily, 'yeah.'
'i have a huge ramones poster in my room. i mean, it's so big next to everything else i can hardly think about anything else when i'm in there.' i had no idea why he was telling me this. he stopped and looked at me like he was waiting for me to respond.
after a few seconds, i sighed, not knowing what to say. 'yes, i do listen to the ramones.'
'oh.' he sat there in front of my desk for several minutes while i paged blankly through a discarded issue of the smithsonian magazine. i started to skim an article about a study that proved fish could feel pain. 'so what's your favorite song?' this kid would not give up.
'my favorite ramones song?'
'yeah.'
it has always somewhat annoyed me to cast an immediate value judgement without adequate forethought, so i paused for several seconds, looking back to my article. it wasn't until i was dismissing the student and he was walking down the hall before i called out after him, 'i wanna be sedated.'
driving home, i found myself ejecting mozart's requiem from my cd player and putting in a ramones cd that i had left in my car for some reason. all the way home i listened to 'i wanna be sedated' on repeat, loudly. in my apartment, i downed two tall glasses of fresh water before working on lesson plans. i read a book until ten, did some quick yoga, then went to bed.
the following day, early in the morning, i went for my usual run. again, i heard the violin and drum. i would hear them every day i ran, but only when i ran. thirteen months would pass before i would hear the music apart from my run, and when i heard it next, i would be sitting on a chair under a tree, holding a dying friend in my arms.
Wednesday, January 3, 2007
the violin and drum
the sound of a violin and drum remind me of my morning runs. sleep would be clinging to my face like a cotton pillow when i would lift myself out of bed and stretch. my small white terrier would be under my feet, excited that her pack was up and alert. a long drink of water, perhaps some fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, would wash the last cobwebs away, and i would be out the door.
it was the coolest part of the day, the only tolerable part sometimes, too cold during other parts of the season. but mostly it would be cool like a piece of citrus fruit left out on the table overnight, the perfect weather for exercising, and the only time to go, as far as i was concerned; i hated people watching me, especially hypocrites who would sit on vinyl kitchen chairs on the patios in front of their apartments, the self-loathing coming from them like thick clouds of noxious gas i would have to run through. early morning was the only time for me. i would stretch my legs one last time on the steps leading down from the walkway in front of my apartment, and i was off.
probably the most peculiar thing about my runs was that i would never really go anywhere special, just around and around the perimeter of the complex, yet i would leave arizona altogether. i still remember the first time this happened: the clear stars in the sky, the sad moon, the soft lamps illuminating hibiscus, oleander, young palms, and a good amount of foliage that was unknown to me and lent to the sense of otherworldliness that would evolve as my heart rate increased and the sweat ran down the back of my neck and cooled. that night i ran around the apartment complex six times, which was about three miles. as i ran, my senses were heightened and i began to hear a violin and a drum, and i realized i was no longer in the desert.
awareness broke over me like cold water suddenly waking me from a long dream, and i realized the sounds i heard and the sense i got were not something outside me at all, but that i was a part of them. neither was it my running that created them, but it was the only way i became a part of the sound. the sound i heard was rich, not like a fiddle played jovially, but a deep, rich sound. by contrast, the drum beat rythmically, earnestly, but not impatiently. together, the music brought something that could be described only as a sense of complete awareness, yet complete contentedness, a spell broken only by the end of the run, the moist heaving of breath, the opening of my apartment door, and the rising of the sun.
i walked my dog, then showered, letting the water run down my back like rain. after a fifteen minute stretch, i hopped into my car, popped mozart's requiem into the cd player, and headed off for the school where i taught middle school reading.
i was chairman of our school's poetry club, and we were meeting this particular morning, so i decided to make a quick stop by the supermarket for some breakfast. i got a sack full of tangelos shared them with the students, having half a notion that tangelos were the product of some unnatural genetic experiment, which gave me an inexplicably guilty sensation as if the sweet juice running down our hands was somehow polluted. like antifreeze -- sweet, yet deadly.
it wasn't until halfway through first class period that i heard the violin again. this time there was no drum, but it was the same violin strain, very distinct. haunting, almost in the style of itzhak perlman, but sadder and more beautiful. it made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. i was right in the middle of pointing out a context clue to one of my students when it made me stop and listen. the student looked up. she was unsure why i had stopped speaking, but didn't ask.
the music now was distant and more faint. i couldn't tell if the sound was coming from inside my chest or through the wall of the next room, but it was there, and the music was the same. i was touched. what was the last time i had felt like this?
it was the coolest part of the day, the only tolerable part sometimes, too cold during other parts of the season. but mostly it would be cool like a piece of citrus fruit left out on the table overnight, the perfect weather for exercising, and the only time to go, as far as i was concerned; i hated people watching me, especially hypocrites who would sit on vinyl kitchen chairs on the patios in front of their apartments, the self-loathing coming from them like thick clouds of noxious gas i would have to run through. early morning was the only time for me. i would stretch my legs one last time on the steps leading down from the walkway in front of my apartment, and i was off.
probably the most peculiar thing about my runs was that i would never really go anywhere special, just around and around the perimeter of the complex, yet i would leave arizona altogether. i still remember the first time this happened: the clear stars in the sky, the sad moon, the soft lamps illuminating hibiscus, oleander, young palms, and a good amount of foliage that was unknown to me and lent to the sense of otherworldliness that would evolve as my heart rate increased and the sweat ran down the back of my neck and cooled. that night i ran around the apartment complex six times, which was about three miles. as i ran, my senses were heightened and i began to hear a violin and a drum, and i realized i was no longer in the desert.
awareness broke over me like cold water suddenly waking me from a long dream, and i realized the sounds i heard and the sense i got were not something outside me at all, but that i was a part of them. neither was it my running that created them, but it was the only way i became a part of the sound. the sound i heard was rich, not like a fiddle played jovially, but a deep, rich sound. by contrast, the drum beat rythmically, earnestly, but not impatiently. together, the music brought something that could be described only as a sense of complete awareness, yet complete contentedness, a spell broken only by the end of the run, the moist heaving of breath, the opening of my apartment door, and the rising of the sun.
i walked my dog, then showered, letting the water run down my back like rain. after a fifteen minute stretch, i hopped into my car, popped mozart's requiem into the cd player, and headed off for the school where i taught middle school reading.
i was chairman of our school's poetry club, and we were meeting this particular morning, so i decided to make a quick stop by the supermarket for some breakfast. i got a sack full of tangelos shared them with the students, having half a notion that tangelos were the product of some unnatural genetic experiment, which gave me an inexplicably guilty sensation as if the sweet juice running down our hands was somehow polluted. like antifreeze -- sweet, yet deadly.
it wasn't until halfway through first class period that i heard the violin again. this time there was no drum, but it was the same violin strain, very distinct. haunting, almost in the style of itzhak perlman, but sadder and more beautiful. it made me want to laugh and cry at the same time. i was right in the middle of pointing out a context clue to one of my students when it made me stop and listen. the student looked up. she was unsure why i had stopped speaking, but didn't ask.
the music now was distant and more faint. i couldn't tell if the sound was coming from inside my chest or through the wall of the next room, but it was there, and the music was the same. i was touched. what was the last time i had felt like this?
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