City of Morelia
Perhaps what I will remember most about Morelia is the constant ring of church bells across the city. At night I lay and listen as they sing to each other throughout the city like the creatures in the Zocalo treetops -- competing with one another, verse after verse, in an attempt to make their song heard above the noise of the bustling streets.
Mexico City
I am well on my way to "drunk," with my step-brother, in a small rooftop cafe, overlooking the biggest city in the world. You'll be so inspired, Big Ryan said to me...
City of Oaxaca
Cold showers in the morning sun. A seven hour bus ride with two Danish girls. Clouds so close -- pretty sure I could whisper and God would hear. Walking by an open window and have to stop at the sound of dozens of little school children yelling for their teacher's attention. Breakfast with a guy name Mike, from Seattle, and eggs with cheese, covered in a red sauce that tastes like nothing I've ever tasted. And an Internet cafe with a picture of the Space Needle on the wall next to a small sign that reads, in English, We don't speak English!!! And attached to the Samsung desktop computer below the sign is a mouse pad with a graphic of Mickey himself on it.
City of Oaxaca
Met a German named Simon who is twenty and lost his bag on the flight from Berlin to Mexico City. Met a Polish girl name Alexandra who loves Thievery Corporation and who wrote poetry in another language in my journal. Met a Kiwi (from New Zealand) who is dating a guy named Craig that reminds me of a guy back home named Chris Swisher. Met two Danish girls who stop every conversation around them when they laugh. Met another German named Andy who had his appendix removed in Guatemala. Met a Brit named Tony who we called "Bullet Tooth" and who paid fifty pesos for a tattoo in Central America. Met two German girls who were both vegetarians. Met a guy named Mike from Seattle who bought grasshoppers for all of us to snack on. Met two girls from Boston who hate the Yankees. Met a guy from New York who barged into our room at four AM, drunk, and got into a fist fight with one of our sleeping hostel flat-mates...
City of San Cristobal del las Casas
Moments of consciousness on a twelve hour bus ride. I think I just saw a whorehouse, Brandon says. And then we are winding down narrow mountain roads. And then I see lightning storms that flash from behind distant peaks to light up the clear sky above us. And then we are stopped at an oasis of lights, a small bus terminal, that is surrounded by the darkness of night. I wonder if we can get out, Brandon says. I shrug and close my eyes again. When I open them we are still at a small bus terminal, surrounded by darkness, but this time I see Brandon outside, walking back and forth and stretching. And then I realize that it is a different bus terminal, that three hours has passed since I last looked. And then we are winding along again. It is getting light and I can now see some of the richest colors -- reds and blues from the sky with every shade of green the Jumbo Crayon Box ever had to offer below. And there is this fog straight out of a fairytale -- white, thick pillows of fog that seem to steal the pre-dawn light and trap it within, creating an unearthly glow of morning purity. And then later, long after the twelve hour night bus, when writing about the pre-dawn world of San Cristobal... I still feel a shiver brush down my neck and across my arms at the memory of the images I have stolen from this magical land.
City of San Cristobal del las Casas
Have you ever seen one? Brandon points to a colorful depiction of Zapatistas standing in a corn field. Have I ever seen one, asks the guy working the desk at the hostel. Yeah, Brandon says, a Zapatista? His name is Fernando and his hands begin to nervously play with a pen. Yeah, I've seen one or two, he says. I saw them take the Zocalo, the town square, in '97, he says. And I saw truck loads of their dead bodies being hauled away after the army came and pushed them back out to the small villages around here.
Really, Brandon asks. Yeah, he says, we had to go hideout in my house (he points to his left) and from my upstairs I could see the... he pauses... how do you say... artillery? He says. We could see it as the army pushed them into the jungle. It was pretty amazing, he says. There were still bodies laying in ditches along the side of the road for a long time, he says. He looks away now but continues to fidget with his pen. Wow, Brandon says. Yeah man, Fernando says. There was a lot of death. The army even went into the hospitals, where these guys were laying there that had been shot in the arm or in the leg, and they would just walk along all the beds and... He can't go on with the story but he makes a gun with his thumb and index finger and points it downward, then recoils, then points it down again, and so on.
That must have been quite a terrible experience, Brandon says. Yeah man, he agrees slowly. We had a curfew and everything. If you were out past six they would shoot you. It is quiet for a moment. Wow, Brandon says with a whistle. There seems to be nothing else to say. Yeah man, Fernando says again. And now he's moving again, like the movement helps distract him from what he doesn't want to remember. Well, thanks for sharing that with us, Brandon says. No problem, he says. And then we walk out for breakfast. We walk for a while without saying anything. And then Brandon says to me, So should we eat breakfast at the same place or should we try something new?
The Other Half (Between San Cristobal and Palenque)
I wish you could be here
Brother, with me
In Mexico.
Every picture
Is missing its other half.
And for every empty
Beer, there sits
One unopened.
Someday, my brother,
You and your son, and me --
We will see the world.
Because today
I realized that seeing the world
Without you is like
Letting the world see
Only half of me.
Mayan Ruins at Palenque
What a moment this is. To be sitting under a thatched roof. Having a cigarette. In the middle of the jungle. With huge drops of rain flooding from the unseen sky. And a Santana song being plucked on an electric guitar and amplified by a ten inch speaker. While I scribble down pieces of tomorrow's memory. By the flickering light of a hand crafted candle.
Mayan Ruins at Palenque
Arrived around ten. Sopping wet. Slapping at mosquito's already. Thought comes to mind again that we still have no Malaria pills. Cross my fingers between slaps. Spot two Aussie girls we met in San Cristobal and one of them leads us down a trail through the jungle to find an open room. First place we find has nothing left. So we cross a river but the second place is full too. Finally we bump into this guy who can't habla Engles pero tienes dos mas... He shows us the rooms. We cuss and swear at our luck and then we pay him. He leaves. We drop our bags and go have a beer with the two Aussie girls. Just as we settle into a table we are asked to move the table back. Then two performers play the bongos while two more dance with burning torches. I finish my Corona. I'm not feeling 100%, still recovering from food poisoning two days earlier and the Corona didn't help. The place is shutting down and we all say goodnight. We walk through the jungle. It is coming alive with sounds of the night -- crickets maybe, birds, screaming monkeys... and a drunken local playing guitar and singing. We pass him on the way. The smell of weed wafts from the bar at which he plays. Hippies with dreadlocks hanging from beanies sing along. We get to our rooms, turn on the light and in unison both scream. The guy next door comes over and swats the massive roach with his boot. So we climb into bed, wrap up in our sheets and try not to think about all the wildlife that is sharing our room with us. But then we can't sleep because this drunk, and very high, local is belting out "Hotel California" for all he's worth. Brandon and I can't help it and we break into uncontrollable laughter. Then the local covers a Beatles song. And John Lennon's "Imagine" after that. He may have just nearly ruined the song forever and now I'm really starting to feel sick again, like the food poisoning is coming back. I walk to the bathroom. That doesn't help so I stand out behind our room until I get the dry-heaves. I give up on feeling better all together and decide to go to bed and fight the nausea laying down. I lay there, cursing the Corona, until I finally get tired enough to forget about being sick and then I fall asleep.
City of Playa del Carmen
Submerged in water -
Warm, salty, Caribbean.
Face up,
Watching - stars, lights
Of Cozumel, shadows
Of night. Water
Muffles sounds - of Brandon
The girls, drunk
American tourists and trendy
American music.
Can only hear
The sound of my heart
Pumping alcohol through
My bloodstream.
This moment feels
Spiritual - so quiet I think
I might be able to hear
A still, small
Voice. So I ask
And then I wait,
And I wait.
Then I feel it.
I don't hear it but
A chill washes through me, like
A wave - not a crashing
One but a rolling wave -
The words, I love
And then, you.
City of Playa del Carmen
This is truly paradise. White sands, Caribbean blue stretching out to the horizon and colliding there with the soft colors of the sky. A stiff, salty breeze and my hammock hanging in the shade of palm trees just feet from the surf. Three kids play contentedly, running back and forth between sand and waves, one of the little nino's shorts working their way down his legs as he runs. To the side the rest of the family has thrown up a couple of their own hammocks and sit in the shade playing with cards.
Just off shore, tied to a buoy, sits a small fishing boat with three friends laughing over a cooler of beer, waiting for the evening to head out once more and earn their day's keep. I suddenly think that if I were Cameron Gray... I might not ever return home either.
City of San Cristobal del las Casas (2n time, on our way from Playa Del Carmen to Puerto Angel)
I stand alone, a cigarette in my left hand, outside the small brick building that serves as the San Cristobal bus station, shivering in the chilled, rainy mist of the mountain air (in stark contrast to the warm Caribbean breezes) and I watch two brothers as they shove each other in laughter at their mother's side. They both carry small braids across one arm and cling to miniature baskets that hold little wooden carvings with their other hand. The two boys are mini-me versions of their mother. They follow her as she pedals her own armful of wares, lost in their own private game as they "work."
Back in a nearby village their father, and perhaps even an older brother or two, work the fields or some other task worthy of a man. And someday these two boys will leave their mother's side and join the world of men. Someday they will be forced, out of necessity, to toil endlessly in a field or with armfuls of bricks on some muddy hillside so that a light skinned Spaniard, or even a Gringo, can sit back and enjoy the life of the blessed upper class. And because of all this, or perhaps in spite of it, the endless attempt by one people to break the fee spirits of another people -- these two boys may someday pull long black masks over their faces and drape belts of ammunition across their chests and take up the rusty old weapons of already fallen comrades to follow in the footsteps of El Che. Or perhaps one of them will meet a girl earlier in life and have a family with her. And because of this family he will instead join the Policia de San Cristobal or the Mexican Army. And then these two brothers would be on opposite sides of an age old conflict, like Jacob and Esau, and then maybe someday these two brothers would unwittingly, or even knowingly, take up arms against one another...
But for now these two boys know nothing, nor care for, such complications of life in the state of Chiappas. They are content to laugh, arm in arm, as they spend just another routine day beside their loving mother.
And as I finish my cigarette, flicking it into the puddle at my feet, I suddenly feel an ache within me. An ache for my little brother and for my mother -- for the days when it was only the three of us. Those times when we would ride horses through the woods of our mother's childhood, or when we would follow her -- race behind her -- as she would lead us down the ski slopes toward lunch. Those times on the road, the three of us telling stories, singing and playing games. What a beautiful time in a broken childhood that was. A time when my brother and I knew nothing, nor cared for, the cruel reality that can be life. A time when our days were as simple as sharing a laugh about some private game, arm in arm, as we spent just another routine day with our loving mother.
City of Zipolite
This is a place to come to write a book, I said to Brandon. Later that day I met a guy from Colorado who works as a ski instructor during the winter and who lives here the rest of the year. There is actually several people who are writers who live her, he said to me.
Got me to thinking. What would I write, I wonder, if I actually came to a place like this, if I actually forced myself to finish something for once. It would be a story of two brothers, this I already know, have known for years now. It would be a tragedy too. But it would be a tragedy that gives birth to hope, to inspiration even. Yes, it would be a tragedy that is not -- or rather does not allow itself, to be just that -- a tragedy. The story is there, always there, just under the surface -- hiding, brooding, growing into its own. But I can never seem to grasp hold of it. It is as elusive as happiness itself -- a cliche, I know. But all the same, it is true. Perhaps a setting such as this would indeed help me to find it -- to find them both. Or perhaps only time will coax it from its lair. Never the less, this place really is a place you could come to write a book. If time is the answer, perhaps I will someday return here to do just that.
City of Zipolite
Walking on sand, by the light of a half moon, through ominous barriers of rocks and then you see it. In a soft Mezcal glow, the candlelight dots the elevated sands of a private fairy tale beach called the Alchemista. Stretching up and off to the left, the candlelight winds, like an iridescent serpent, and then nestles itself into the mouth of what can only be a Mexican Camelot -- reborn high on the cliffs, among palms that guard watch over this Pacific hideaway. The soft electronic sounds of a group you will hunt down months later on the Internet because of this very moment are hypnotizing and you sit, sipping your Bohemia in contented silence, on a piece of drift wood suspended by rope next to the bar. Hours later, as you fall asleep in your hammock, perched high in your own little castle, the world begins to fade far away. It fades, and fades, until all you are left with -- all you can see -- are those hundreds of candles. And then you dream.
City of Zipolite
Why are young men consumed by dreams of what will someday be? And old men consumed with stories of what have been?
There are two very different forces here: hope, and fear. Hope for what can be seen in this life, felt in this life, experienced in this life; and fear for none of it being enough, for none of it really mattering -- fear for leaving no legacy, for living a life that made no difference. These two forces work in opposition, like the waves of a mighty ocean, colliding with powerful under currents and shooting skyward -- reaching toward heaven in search of the truth, the reason for all of this. And like the necessary balance between wave and undertow, there seems to be no way to out think the transition from hope to fear, from young to old.
City of Puerto Escondido
Can't get myself to write anything. Won't give in to the journaling. Want to write about waves, a surf board, plans of a sailboat over a beer, surf girls that wear trucker hats and big sunglasses. Want to write about pro surfers, and walking barefoot everyday, the sunsets, the new friendships, the plans and the regrets. Want to capture the view from our hostel -- the palms, the white domed rooftops, the green hills, the sand and the blue Pacific Ocean. Want to capture the view from out beyond the break of the surf -- the jumping schools of fish all around, the steady lull of rolling waves, a Swiss girl -- I think her name was Petra, sitting on her board next to you, the city spreading out in front of you, two locals hurling themselves into flips off of sand dunes.
Want to write about all this -- feelings are so strong I could write a book on all this. But I can't. Only days left now, maybe that's why. Time running out. Best save the writing for the cold fog of the Walla Walla Valley. Best get some breakfast, grab my board and head for the surf.
North of Puerto Escondido (a small village with amazing an amazing surf break)
My friends will never understand, I say to the German girl laying in another hammock beside my own. Even if I try to describe it, I say, they just won't understand. By this I mean the safari trip to get to this place -- the small boat, laden with fruits, vegetables, eggs, a chicken, an old woman and her young son and six, white, excited backpackers with surf boards; and then the pickup truck that wouldn't run, that we had to push start; and then the ride in the back of this truck, down a rough, dirt road; and how Simon and I climbed out the back and stood up above the truck bed roof, the wind in our faces, the beach to our left and strange buffalo all around us, holding on for our lives and yelling with the innocent, wide-eyed excitement of small boys. By this I mean the modest village of huts that sit on the beach and the mixture of brown and black in the children who play just down the beach. By this I mean the twelve to fifteen foot swells crashing only feet from our hammocks and how the sun rises over the water to our left and sets over the water to our right, and how the sun paints the sky in both it's rise and its fall -- in reds and pinks that are so common to a tropical sunset.
And by saying this -- that no one will ever understand, I mean also the quick, natural friendships that have been forged between travelers, strangers and kindred souls. No, my friends will never understand, I say again, and Brandon begins to whistle in the background, I'm in heaven... In heaven...
That night I awake in a cold sweat -- shivering and damp. And it happens several times. But then Martin, the Austrian guy in another hammock next to me, wakes me up. Look, he says. And when I do I see a giant orb of red, still half buried by the Pacific Ocean, cresting the horizon in a single moment of pure brilliance that stretches on for what seems like an eternity. Neither of us says anything and as I roll over in search of one more hour of sleep I notice that I am no longer wet and no longer shivering.
City of Puerto Escondido
Bar Fly, on the roof,
The Milky Way
Overhead. DJ spins
Downstairs - drum and bass.
A low table, pillows,
A hookah,
With Manzana flavored tobacco
And nine new friends.
Feeling of being back
Home,
At the Green Lantern
With the boys.
And a girl -
Is there always a girl?
From Holland,
With dark skin, and still
Darker eyes
Who is twenty-eight and works
With children at risk
In Amsterdam.
Feelings of driving
To Portland
And what its like
To talk to a friend,
Who is a girl,
For three hours without
An awkward
Pause.
The beach,
With two cold Dos XX,
Brandon and Simon,
An Austrian named Martin,
Two Swiss guys and
Two German girls who smile
In the darkness.
Surrounded by fishing boats
And covered by a blanket of
Stars overhead.
And a feeling of night,
Walking alone,
Smoking a cigarette and then one more.
Sunday, December 19, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Through the Years -- High School and Earlier
Goodbye Grandpa (Spring of '98)
When it rains it pours... the words to a song I had never heard before that day. Somehow they seemed fitting as I sat on my Shorty's skateboard in the middle of a deserted Tacoma skate park and watched it rain. I sat next to my little brother, watching cars splash by on the street and pretended that the drops of water that ran down my face were tears -- tears that would take away the blood that pounded through my head. I could still hear my dad's voice breaking as he had tried to tell me the bad news. Ryan... my dad died... The words haunted me as I sat there, hoping the rain could drown out the aching feeling in my chest, trying all the while to picture my grandpa's face.
"Screw this rain." My little brother, Shane, said.
I looked at him. His face was wet as well; I wondered if it was only the rain. He sat next to me, his "skateboarding is not a crime" hat loosely fit backwards -- he looked just like cousin Jay as he stared up at the falling rain. It hurt to watch him, like it had hurt to listen to my dad cry on the phone. I forced myself to watch him, forced myself to feel the pain, and still no tears came. What the hell is wrong with me, I thought to myself.
Finally I looked away from Shane, and stopped trying. I watched the cars again and wished that we had been able to find someone in the parking lot earlier to buy us some Boones.
"Fuck it." I said. "I'm gonna skate anyway. Rain or no rain."
Shane nodded and we both jumped on our boards. My body burned with adrenaline as I skated. There was an intensity, a passion, in those few minutes -- skating in the pouring rain, that I had never felt before. The faster I skated the flats, the higher I climbed the quarter pipe walls, the harder my bare arms and hands scraped against the wet pavement, the less I thought about grandpa. We skated until night came. Then, soaked, bloody and exhausted, we got in our car and silently fled the park.
It was still raining as we drove through Tacoma, taking the long way to the Interstate. Car headlights, a Chevron station, a Motel 6, even the soft glow of stoplights seemed to glare through the fogged up windows of our '85 Ford Tempo. I suddenly felt like I was in the middle of a dream. In the wet, foggy glare of the city nothing seemed real. The Smashing Pumpkin's song, Disarm, played from our stock stereo deck and I tried to convince myself that nobody had died, that this was all a dream. We hit the Interstate and I smiled at the dream world that was surrounded me. I was no longer driving, but now flying -- weaving my way through traffic in slow motion, every moment an eternity. And then Shane yelled, "cop!"
Just like that my dream ended. As I passed a Washington State Patrol car sitting in the dark on the side of the freeway I looked down at my speedometer. It read 85 mph.
"Shit." I said.
"Is he coming?" My brother asked.
I looked in my mirror and watched as the cop pulled onto the freeway, the words to the song I had heard this morning coming back to me. "When it rains it pours."
"Shit." I said again.
Shane looked back, and said, "Yep, he's three cars back. We're screwed."
"Not if I can help it." I said.
"Is there anybody in the next lane?" I asked him.
"No. You're clear all the way over." He said, reading my mind.
Hoping that the heavy traffic behind me would hide my maneuver, I swerved across four lanes, just barely catching the off-ramp in time. Once we got off the freeway I headed for a BP station a block away. As I whipped the car around the back of the building, I said, "C'mon bro, I'll buy you a coffee or something."
As we went inside I looked for the cop but didn't see him. Shane opened the door for me.
"Damn, that was close." He said.
"Too close." I echoed.
After we bought our coffee and sat in the parking lot for a couple of minutes, we started home again. We didn't see any more cops but we did drive the speed limit the rest of the way. As I drove with the stock radio on softly -- if we turned it up any louder you would hear the blown speaker buzz in the back -- I tried to again find the dreamy existence in which I was able to fly. Only this time it all seemed to real and all I could think about was how I had never heard my dad break down like that before and how I didn't want to have to see it when I got home. It wasn't until I went to bed late that night -- my chest still aching from the stress of the day, my eyes still dammed up -- that I finally found my dream world once again.
Straight Edge (Fall of '97)
"Hey bro, you ever had one of these?"
I looked up from my potato salad, fork in hand, to see what my cousin, Jay, was talking about.
"What's up?" I asked him. He tossed a pack of cigarettes at me and then lit the one he had taken for himself.
"Kools. Ever had one?" He said as he inhaled. I watched him hold it in, like it was a blunt, like it was the last breath he would ever take.
"It's good shit." He said, still holding in his breath. Finally he breathed out a long cloud of cigarette smoke and I looked at the pack lying on the picnic table in front of me.
"Can't say I've ever had one. What's so great about them?" I asked. Jay sucked in another deep breath.
"Just try one." He said. I put down my fork and took the pack of smokes.
"You need a light?" He asked. I searched my swim trunks.
"Yeah, I must have lost mine." I said to him. He tossed me his lighter, a yellow Bic.
"Mellow Yellow." He said, sucking in another breath of smoke. I looked at his cigarette. It was almost gone already.
"Whose are these?" I asked him, lifting a cigarette to my lips.
"Aunt Patty's." He said. "They're the best menthols out there." I lifted the lighter and turned slightly to shield the wind.
"Damn wind." I muttered. I had never smoked a menthol before.
"Yeah," he laughed. "Gotta love these killer Columbia Gorge winds. C'mon, let's take a walk." He said, jumping up from a lawn chair. "The boat won't be back for a while still and I'm sick of sitting on my ass."
I finally lit my cigarette, then ran barefoot to catch up to him.
"How do you like that smoke?" He said to me.
"Yeah, it rocks." I said. I took another drag and held it in like my cousin had. The brand name said it all. It tasted like I was smoking wintergreen gum.
We walked in silence after that, enjoying the late summer day, the afternoon wind swirling empty bags of chips and paper plates into an awkward sort of dance that followed us through the Riverfront Park. The sun had set low enough to cast shadows across the grassy park and we had to walk around them to keep in the warm sunlight. Finally I finished my cigarette and now wished that I had brought the entire pack with us.
"Damn, bro." Jay said. "It feels good to be clean." He had just gotten out of treatment last week.
I smiled. It felt good to hear him say that. I had been clean for six months or so and I was stoked that we were both clean. We had spent every day together that week -- riding motorcycles, skating, staying up late, talking, smoking... It had been just like old times. As I walked along the windy bank of the Columbia River with him now I wished that the week would never end.
"Straight edge." He said, jumping up onto a picnic table. "Only way to go, bro." I jumped up next to him and a squirrel ran out from under the table. Picking up a pine cone that sat on top of the weathered table, I flung it sidearm after him.
"Did you know that NOFX is a straight edge band?" Jay asked. I shook my head and watched as the squirrel stopped and came back to check out the cone I had chucked at him.
"No." I said. "Never knew that. I love that band though."
I could hear a smile in Jay's voice. "Yeah, we had some great times listening to that band." He said.
"Hell yeah." I said, looking back at my cousin.
"You remember that time we got drunk and went bowling in Seattle?" He said.
"Of course I do." I said. "That was the first time I ever heard them." It was also the first time I had ever been drunk. "You remember that porno with Terri Hatcher that was on TV in the hotel room that night?" I said.
He grinned. "Holy shit, that was classic." He said and we both laughed.
We then started singing our favorite NOFX songs after that. We stood on top of a worn out picnic table, the sun disappearing from the clear sky, the wind creating small tornadoes of garbage and screamed out NOFX at the canyon walls across the river until the boat came back to shore. It was a moment of innocent happiness, a moment that neither of us wanted to end, a moment that I -- and I think Jay too -- will always remember with a smile. But in the end it was only a moment.
Dream (Sometime Between '96-'97)
Life is a cigarette
Cradled in fate's hands.
It is my cigarette,
My fate,
My hands.
Such peace
I find in its breath,
Quieting life,
Awakening beauty,
Reminding me of you.
It whispers to dream,
Dream me alive,
Dream away pain,
Dream you are here,
Just dream.
Death Took Me for a Walk (Sometime Between '94-'95)
Death took me for a walk.
It would not reveal to me where
We were headed, or why.
But then again,
Death never does. As we walked,
Death showed me many things.
I saw a tree
On which hung delicious fruit.
But at it base
Dead grass grew.
I saw a young child laughing
Next to him an old woman in tears.
Where can this be,
I dared to ask.
It cannot be heaven
For a see pain and sadness.
But would hell hold
A young innocent child within?
This is life,
Is what Death said.
It holds within the key
To joy and the key to pain.
It is up to you
Which you will choose.
When it rains it pours... the words to a song I had never heard before that day. Somehow they seemed fitting as I sat on my Shorty's skateboard in the middle of a deserted Tacoma skate park and watched it rain. I sat next to my little brother, watching cars splash by on the street and pretended that the drops of water that ran down my face were tears -- tears that would take away the blood that pounded through my head. I could still hear my dad's voice breaking as he had tried to tell me the bad news. Ryan... my dad died... The words haunted me as I sat there, hoping the rain could drown out the aching feeling in my chest, trying all the while to picture my grandpa's face.
"Screw this rain." My little brother, Shane, said.
I looked at him. His face was wet as well; I wondered if it was only the rain. He sat next to me, his "skateboarding is not a crime" hat loosely fit backwards -- he looked just like cousin Jay as he stared up at the falling rain. It hurt to watch him, like it had hurt to listen to my dad cry on the phone. I forced myself to watch him, forced myself to feel the pain, and still no tears came. What the hell is wrong with me, I thought to myself.
Finally I looked away from Shane, and stopped trying. I watched the cars again and wished that we had been able to find someone in the parking lot earlier to buy us some Boones.
"Fuck it." I said. "I'm gonna skate anyway. Rain or no rain."
Shane nodded and we both jumped on our boards. My body burned with adrenaline as I skated. There was an intensity, a passion, in those few minutes -- skating in the pouring rain, that I had never felt before. The faster I skated the flats, the higher I climbed the quarter pipe walls, the harder my bare arms and hands scraped against the wet pavement, the less I thought about grandpa. We skated until night came. Then, soaked, bloody and exhausted, we got in our car and silently fled the park.
It was still raining as we drove through Tacoma, taking the long way to the Interstate. Car headlights, a Chevron station, a Motel 6, even the soft glow of stoplights seemed to glare through the fogged up windows of our '85 Ford Tempo. I suddenly felt like I was in the middle of a dream. In the wet, foggy glare of the city nothing seemed real. The Smashing Pumpkin's song, Disarm, played from our stock stereo deck and I tried to convince myself that nobody had died, that this was all a dream. We hit the Interstate and I smiled at the dream world that was surrounded me. I was no longer driving, but now flying -- weaving my way through traffic in slow motion, every moment an eternity. And then Shane yelled, "cop!"
Just like that my dream ended. As I passed a Washington State Patrol car sitting in the dark on the side of the freeway I looked down at my speedometer. It read 85 mph.
"Shit." I said.
"Is he coming?" My brother asked.
I looked in my mirror and watched as the cop pulled onto the freeway, the words to the song I had heard this morning coming back to me. "When it rains it pours."
"Shit." I said again.
Shane looked back, and said, "Yep, he's three cars back. We're screwed."
"Not if I can help it." I said.
"Is there anybody in the next lane?" I asked him.
"No. You're clear all the way over." He said, reading my mind.
Hoping that the heavy traffic behind me would hide my maneuver, I swerved across four lanes, just barely catching the off-ramp in time. Once we got off the freeway I headed for a BP station a block away. As I whipped the car around the back of the building, I said, "C'mon bro, I'll buy you a coffee or something."
As we went inside I looked for the cop but didn't see him. Shane opened the door for me.
"Damn, that was close." He said.
"Too close." I echoed.
After we bought our coffee and sat in the parking lot for a couple of minutes, we started home again. We didn't see any more cops but we did drive the speed limit the rest of the way. As I drove with the stock radio on softly -- if we turned it up any louder you would hear the blown speaker buzz in the back -- I tried to again find the dreamy existence in which I was able to fly. Only this time it all seemed to real and all I could think about was how I had never heard my dad break down like that before and how I didn't want to have to see it when I got home. It wasn't until I went to bed late that night -- my chest still aching from the stress of the day, my eyes still dammed up -- that I finally found my dream world once again.
Straight Edge (Fall of '97)
"Hey bro, you ever had one of these?"
I looked up from my potato salad, fork in hand, to see what my cousin, Jay, was talking about.
"What's up?" I asked him. He tossed a pack of cigarettes at me and then lit the one he had taken for himself.
"Kools. Ever had one?" He said as he inhaled. I watched him hold it in, like it was a blunt, like it was the last breath he would ever take.
"It's good shit." He said, still holding in his breath. Finally he breathed out a long cloud of cigarette smoke and I looked at the pack lying on the picnic table in front of me.
"Can't say I've ever had one. What's so great about them?" I asked. Jay sucked in another deep breath.
"Just try one." He said. I put down my fork and took the pack of smokes.
"You need a light?" He asked. I searched my swim trunks.
"Yeah, I must have lost mine." I said to him. He tossed me his lighter, a yellow Bic.
"Mellow Yellow." He said, sucking in another breath of smoke. I looked at his cigarette. It was almost gone already.
"Whose are these?" I asked him, lifting a cigarette to my lips.
"Aunt Patty's." He said. "They're the best menthols out there." I lifted the lighter and turned slightly to shield the wind.
"Damn wind." I muttered. I had never smoked a menthol before.
"Yeah," he laughed. "Gotta love these killer Columbia Gorge winds. C'mon, let's take a walk." He said, jumping up from a lawn chair. "The boat won't be back for a while still and I'm sick of sitting on my ass."
I finally lit my cigarette, then ran barefoot to catch up to him.
"How do you like that smoke?" He said to me.
"Yeah, it rocks." I said. I took another drag and held it in like my cousin had. The brand name said it all. It tasted like I was smoking wintergreen gum.
We walked in silence after that, enjoying the late summer day, the afternoon wind swirling empty bags of chips and paper plates into an awkward sort of dance that followed us through the Riverfront Park. The sun had set low enough to cast shadows across the grassy park and we had to walk around them to keep in the warm sunlight. Finally I finished my cigarette and now wished that I had brought the entire pack with us.
"Damn, bro." Jay said. "It feels good to be clean." He had just gotten out of treatment last week.
I smiled. It felt good to hear him say that. I had been clean for six months or so and I was stoked that we were both clean. We had spent every day together that week -- riding motorcycles, skating, staying up late, talking, smoking... It had been just like old times. As I walked along the windy bank of the Columbia River with him now I wished that the week would never end.
"Straight edge." He said, jumping up onto a picnic table. "Only way to go, bro." I jumped up next to him and a squirrel ran out from under the table. Picking up a pine cone that sat on top of the weathered table, I flung it sidearm after him.
"Did you know that NOFX is a straight edge band?" Jay asked. I shook my head and watched as the squirrel stopped and came back to check out the cone I had chucked at him.
"No." I said. "Never knew that. I love that band though."
I could hear a smile in Jay's voice. "Yeah, we had some great times listening to that band." He said.
"Hell yeah." I said, looking back at my cousin.
"You remember that time we got drunk and went bowling in Seattle?" He said.
"Of course I do." I said. "That was the first time I ever heard them." It was also the first time I had ever been drunk. "You remember that porno with Terri Hatcher that was on TV in the hotel room that night?" I said.
He grinned. "Holy shit, that was classic." He said and we both laughed.
We then started singing our favorite NOFX songs after that. We stood on top of a worn out picnic table, the sun disappearing from the clear sky, the wind creating small tornadoes of garbage and screamed out NOFX at the canyon walls across the river until the boat came back to shore. It was a moment of innocent happiness, a moment that neither of us wanted to end, a moment that I -- and I think Jay too -- will always remember with a smile. But in the end it was only a moment.
Dream (Sometime Between '96-'97)
Life is a cigarette
Cradled in fate's hands.
It is my cigarette,
My fate,
My hands.
Such peace
I find in its breath,
Quieting life,
Awakening beauty,
Reminding me of you.
It whispers to dream,
Dream me alive,
Dream away pain,
Dream you are here,
Just dream.
Death Took Me for a Walk (Sometime Between '94-'95)
Death took me for a walk.
It would not reveal to me where
We were headed, or why.
But then again,
Death never does. As we walked,
Death showed me many things.
I saw a tree
On which hung delicious fruit.
But at it base
Dead grass grew.
I saw a young child laughing
Next to him an old woman in tears.
Where can this be,
I dared to ask.
It cannot be heaven
For a see pain and sadness.
But would hell hold
A young innocent child within?
This is life,
Is what Death said.
It holds within the key
To joy and the key to pain.
It is up to you
Which you will choose.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Through the Years -- A Piece of Published Work
No Other Picture (Published in the WWC Gadfly, '02-'03)
This boy sits, crossed legged on a hard wooden floor -- on the other side of the window, staring at a white canvas. Wet pools of color -- reds, yellows and blues lay next to him, drying minute-by-unused-minute. Screams of laughter pierce the thin glass that separates him from inspiration. Smoke from a cigar seeps through the closed window and within his reach; and he blinks, lowers his head and runs a clammy hand through his shaggy, uncombed hair because of it. He then glances around his studio-bedroom. There are dozens of paintings -- some on the wall, some merely resting against it on the hard wooden floor. All of them are of a girl... the same girl, really. The only difference in any of the paintings is the color of the girl's eyes. With a long, slow sigh the boy turns back to the white piece of canvas in front of him. A Harley roars by beneath his window and he runs his hand across the canvas -- feeling for something he can't manage to see, or hear, or smell; and yet something he knows to be there -- hidden, hiding. A band finishes their set and another begins their own at the small bar across the street. The same Harley rides by, going the other way this time, and still the boy searches the white canvas. Finally he gives up, letting his hand drop to the paints at his side. Knowing there is no other picture he can paint, the boy closes his eyes to remember, and picks up his brush. This time, he decides to begin with the eyes.
This boy sits, crossed legged on a hard wooden floor -- on the other side of the window, staring at a white canvas. Wet pools of color -- reds, yellows and blues lay next to him, drying minute-by-unused-minute. Screams of laughter pierce the thin glass that separates him from inspiration. Smoke from a cigar seeps through the closed window and within his reach; and he blinks, lowers his head and runs a clammy hand through his shaggy, uncombed hair because of it. He then glances around his studio-bedroom. There are dozens of paintings -- some on the wall, some merely resting against it on the hard wooden floor. All of them are of a girl... the same girl, really. The only difference in any of the paintings is the color of the girl's eyes. With a long, slow sigh the boy turns back to the white piece of canvas in front of him. A Harley roars by beneath his window and he runs his hand across the canvas -- feeling for something he can't manage to see, or hear, or smell; and yet something he knows to be there -- hidden, hiding. A band finishes their set and another begins their own at the small bar across the street. The same Harley rides by, going the other way this time, and still the boy searches the white canvas. Finally he gives up, letting his hand drop to the paints at his side. Knowing there is no other picture he can paint, the boy closes his eyes to remember, and picks up his brush. This time, he decides to begin with the eyes.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Through the Years -- Excerpts from 2000-2002
His Girl (5/13/00)
Pictures are being taken
Again of couples --
My brother with his.
Jen laughs at them,
Calls them sick
Then accuses my cousin
of never touching her
Like that anymore --
like my brother touches
His girl.
Dreams (10/12/00)
"Hell yeah." Cam said. "We'll do it for sure."
It was March, the snow was melting, girls were wearing less clothes -- it was as good a time as any for dreaming.
"We can take off in the late fall." I said. "And spend the winter along the Mediterranean somewhere."
Cam was single again, I had not yet met my now-ex-girlfriend and we were both dropping out of our classes.
"Then we can travel up north when it gets warmer." I said.
"Just you and me." Cam said.
"We have to do it." I said.
"For sure." Cam said.
It is late fall now. I am in Spokane, living with my mom. This week I found a job. Next I look for a car. Cam is here too, for now. He will soon go back to Walla Walla and I will stay here to dream alone.
Untitled (10/26/00)
It is just after ten AM, Thursday. Warm sunlight flashes across white Ford trucks. Air is frosty, snow is on it's way. Irish Cream and mocha, the usual, a used art textbook, notes, my journal. Mornings like this one -- coffee tastes better, soft background jazz sounds live. Blankets of leaves -- even death is warm and comforting in the fall. Was Seattle ever so colorful? All I can remember now is the rain.
What do I Want from Life at Age 20? (10/26/00)
I want to know God. Not my parent's God, not my church's God, not my ex-girlfriend's God. I want to know my God. I want to know people. I want to know friends. Not fuck-buddies, not party favors, not single servings, not lab partners, not weekend getaways. I want the boys. But I want my best friend to someday be a girl. I want reality, not Dazed & Confused. I'm tired of parties that won't end, one-night-stands, pretty-boys and daddy's-girls. I want life. I want to see the Mediterranean and the Irish coast. I want to live out of a backpack and not shave for six months. I want to live in a four bedroom house on South Hill, or in an apartment in West Seattle, with a view of the city skyline in my living room window. I want to drive a silver, or maybe a black, Audi S-4. I want a soul mate, not a wife. I want kids, but not until I am ready to leave the city lights and the rush hour traffic, or the Thursday night live jazz, or the weekends at Schweitzer, Mt Hood or Whistler-Blackcomb. Then I will be ready to "grow up." Then I will be ready to have a family, to teach freshman writing classes. Then I will be ready for the Volvo wagon, and a chocolate Lab, or a Golden Retriever. But not yet.
Untitled (11/07/00)
Sky is gray today, and cold, settling down like a crisp, newly-washed sheet. There was snow painted in patches of white on the hills above your house this morning. A bird flies overhead, chirps to stay warm I think, to remind itself that it must hurry now, that winter is coming.
You sip your mocha between drags off a clove cigarette. You smoke much like that bird's sharp chirp and think about your brother's offer. You wonder if it would be any different -- life? You?
You forget to sip your mocha, light another smoke instead. No wind this morning. Just the chill of an oncoming Eastern Washington winter. You'll be wearing your coat to town soon. When you can't take it anymore -- the frost on your face, your cigarette, the hippie couple wandering by... you go back inside.
Church (11/12/00)
As I drove home from work tonight I began to think about what happened in church earlier today, and about how that blubbering old fool -- with his gray beard and thick glasses, had sobbed his way through the alter of prayer, and about how we had all knelt there -- eyes closed and heads bowed, and how I had, between his sobs -- in those brief seconds of sniffled intermission, been oddly reminded of a time when I was ten and slept on my parents floor -- only to awaken in the cold, moon-lit bedroom to the sounds of their love making.
I don't know why exactly my thoughts went back to that night when I was ten and was too afraid to sleep in my own bed... Only that this sobbing wreck of a man was kneeling up at the front and that I wished he would just stop, even prayed that he would stop. Please. God. Stop.
Untitled (1/24/01)
Wednesday morning... well, almost afternoon now. Sun came out this morning - made the snow seem brighter, more pure, almost hopeful. You sit, alone at the Mercury Cafe, the usual in front of you -- Irish Cream mocha, journal, cigarettes. How have you been, asks the guy who made your coffee. The owner? You suddenly find it odd you have never learned his name. You really ought to pay more attention to these sort of things. Watching cars, dusty cars -- a Jeep, Subaru, Honda, a city bus -- reminds you again of the drive home from Seattle last night. Listening to Counting Crows as you climbed the mountain pass and headed East. Leads you to think of the movie, Snatch -- with Brad Pitt, for some reason. And of gypsies, rogues without a home. You are sympathetic. Not a bad road to travel... a security of it's own. Still, five hours on Interstate 90 in a civic... that drive never felt so long with Andy and Jason. Or with Shane. Or Brandon. The good thing about gypsies is that they travel in numbers, with Winnebago's, and dogs.
You watched 60 Minutes last night, killing time before you called your cousin, Matt... the story of the Dave Matthews Band. You laid on the couch, about to fall asleep. But a producer for the band said something that made you sit up, made you forget about how early you had to get up tomorrow morning. Most people wait for inspiration to strike them, he said. He grinned then, under his thin white beard, and said, you end up spending a whole lot of time waiting... You have to go in search of inspiration, he said. You nodded to yourself and then laid back down on the couch. That makes sense, you thought to yourself. And then you went to call Matt, and found out that Fawnia was is jail. A DWI, he said. Her second offense, you said. Damn, that sucks.
The sky is clouding over now. Even so, the businessman who strolls by your window smiles at you, or perhaps just to his own reflection. He smiles in spite of the clouds. Perhaps the sun is fading into a gray light that blankets this snow covered city, but he doesn't seem to notice. The glory of the morning sun is still fresh in our memories. For today it is enough -- the memory of a brilliant morning.
The College Church (2/26/01)
I have this recurring feeling, like a dream but less tangible. It is like I am at the College Church, after vespers. Everyone is there -- Zach, Brandon, Holley, Jeremy, Stefan, Cam and Marshal, Swisher is there, Giovanni, Mascarenas, Anni, her fiance. There are more too, like there always is after vespers at the College Church. I roam from circle to circle. There are hugs, handshakes, even kisses. They are all making plans, for tonight, for tomorrow, for next year. I am invited. But I can't go, I say. I have plans. Plans of my own. They can understand. I mean, after all, we all have to do what we have to do, right? There are more hugs now, more handshakes. Take it easy, I say. We'll miss you, they say. And I turn to leave. But once I leave the room I realize that I've used the wrong door. I'm in the bathroom now, or the sanctuary -- it doesn't matter. So now I have to go back inside. That's what matters. And here is the thing. This doesn't happen just once, or twice. After enough times nobody takes me seriously anymore. I am stuck in this room and I can't seem to find the door that leads away from here. And my biggest fear is that by the time I find the door I want it will be too late, that I will have given up on leaving all together, that I will have gone to Holley's or to Fackenthalls, with them, and their plans, not mine.
An Old Movie (3/09/01)
Sherry's restaurant. Sometime after 2 AM. You sit in a corner booth with your cousin and a girl you don't know. Drinking coffee and smoking. Reminds me of the good 'ole times, high school. When this was enough. Coffee. Black. Two ashtrays, three packs of Camels. Cell phones lying silent, a fact you are strangely OK with tonight. Chapstick. Lighters. Empty packets of sugar. Dust size pieces of ash that dance across the table when you laugh or when this strange girl sweeps her hand out and flicks habitually at the full ashtray. She tells you this -- that she is strange. Some story about her best friend calling her such. You make a smart ass comment about it and then she starts to tell another story. The seconds seem to slip into slow motion every time she smiles. It's an infectious smile and for the better part of the night the three of you are all just smiling stupidly at each other because of it. At some point you think this girl reminds you a lot of Rebekah.
Anyway. Hours pass and still the three of you just sit there. Talking. Smoking. And drinking coffee. You watch your cousin as she talks. There is a sparkle deep in his left eye. It carries over -- brightening his right one also. His face glows too. And he keeps grinning at her. Like he's drunk or something. Only he's not. Later he tells you that as he sat there and watched this girl he couldn't help but wonder if this is how Ryan and Audra felt when they met. But anyway, like I said -- you sit there now. There is a cigarette in your right hand. And you watch your cousin as this strange girl talks. When she is done your cousin talks for a while. And then she starts again. At some point the scene before you begins to fade. Until it seems they are only whispering to each other. Until everything becomes black and white. Like a memory. Or an old movie. You see them now -- in black and white, whispering to each other. They are alone there, on the other side of the bench. You can't help but think of Jason Lee, and two chicks tonguing each other. "Now that, my friend, was a shared moment." And yet that simple explanation seems cheap at this point. Finally the moment is broken. This strange girl turns to you and asks, "so what about you? Ever fallen in love?" You give her a smart ass reply and she smiles. You can tell she wants to press it, but she doesn't. She instead turns back to your cousin and once more the scene fades into black and white.
Hoping it is Enough (1/08/02)
Lying on Shane's bed, reading the last twenty pages of a book. Brandon sits nearby at the computer. I try to ignore the intermittent curses mixed with sighs of relief. At times he even cries out in glee. I've just turned over a new page when Shane walks through the door. I glance up at him as he steps past me. He holds his cordless phone in his right hand, like it's a bad report card. His face is expressionless, the color of ash collecting on a snowy grave. Moisture clouds his blue eyes. "Where's my cigarettes?" He asks. Brandon hits the escape key on his keyboard and pauses his video game. "Hey buddy," he starts to say. The smile disappears from his face as he turns to Shane. "Bad talk with Sam?" He asks. Shane closes his eyes, running his hands through the dirty-blond shag that covers his head. "Fuck." He exhales. "What the hell happened?" I ask. I start to say something more but he cuts me off. "Please," he says. "Just... don't." I close my book. Shane grabs a pack of Camel lights off of his computer. He takes one out and sticks it in his mouth. Brandon and I glance at each other. I shrug. For a moment no one says anything. No one moves. The three of us just wait. Brandon and I wait for Shane. Shane I think seems to look much like someone waiting to wake up from a dream. "Sam's pregnant." He says. With that my little brother turns and heads for the front door. After what he's just said finally sinks in I abandon my book all together and follow after him. Brandon tries to comfort the boy as the three of us stand out on the porch to our college housing apartment. I light up a cigarette and smoke in silence. No words seem adequate, so I just smoke, and listen -- hoping it is enough.
Jazz (10/25/02)
Need to say something
About this very moment. But
To do it justice
Would take more, I fear,
Than this tired poet
Can conjure at such an hour.
Just something
In the Jazz - a Coltrane like feel,
Southern Comfort
In piano keys, a bit
Of dance in the way the saxophone
Plays, with a snare
That makes your eyebrows raise...
Tap-ta-tap-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta
Tap.
Leaves (11/14/02)
Leaves dance playfully, intertwined
In a soft wind-blown
Free fall. For a moment
There are hundreds of them, floating
In orchestrated patterns --
Giant, golden snowflakes that come to rest
Lightly on one another,
Creating a warm blanket
In the brisk, waxing sunlight of fall.
Rain has passed on
To fields not so green
And yet the taste remains.
A squirrel leaps from leaf
To leaf -- an acorn the size of his head
Held somehow in his mouth -- looking
Much like a small kitten
Experiencing snow
For the very first time.
Untitled (11/14/02)
Long before his tongue pushes past her soft, playful lips their eyes meet in an embrace not so unlike their first kiss. They have tried to hide it, to deny that there is an it, but they know it -- have always known it -- and not that it can never be, but that they can never control it. But it is the earlier of the two notions, that it can never be, which prompts him to pull away. Only for a moment though, because her hands pull him back down on top of her. The taste of her mouth is much like the empty eight dollar bottle of Merlot on the desk next to her bed. His head is swimming now and he blames the wine. It is easier that way -- more convenient than the alternative. The world outside the locked bedroom door grows awkwardly quiet until all he can hear is the quick beat of this girl's heart. When they are both tired, when the alcohol has worn off, when it goes as far as it will -- on this night at least, he climbs off of her. She lays there and watches his shadow as he gets dressed without a word. When he is clothed he goes to the door, then pauses there. "Don't tell anyone. Please." He says. And then he turns and walks out through her bedroom door.
A Random Starbucks Quote (Unknown, self-professed 84 year old man)
"I'm open to girls from the age of 16 to 83 and their is a standing offer for a free orgasm lesson in the backseat of my Ford Focus. If they orgasm, it's free. But if I orgasm, they charge me $7.50. It's like a French whore. Business is business and love is bullshit."
Pictures are being taken
Again of couples --
My brother with his.
Jen laughs at them,
Calls them sick
Then accuses my cousin
of never touching her
Like that anymore --
like my brother touches
His girl.
Dreams (10/12/00)
"Hell yeah." Cam said. "We'll do it for sure."
It was March, the snow was melting, girls were wearing less clothes -- it was as good a time as any for dreaming.
"We can take off in the late fall." I said. "And spend the winter along the Mediterranean somewhere."
Cam was single again, I had not yet met my now-ex-girlfriend and we were both dropping out of our classes.
"Then we can travel up north when it gets warmer." I said.
"Just you and me." Cam said.
"We have to do it." I said.
"For sure." Cam said.
It is late fall now. I am in Spokane, living with my mom. This week I found a job. Next I look for a car. Cam is here too, for now. He will soon go back to Walla Walla and I will stay here to dream alone.
Untitled (10/26/00)
It is just after ten AM, Thursday. Warm sunlight flashes across white Ford trucks. Air is frosty, snow is on it's way. Irish Cream and mocha, the usual, a used art textbook, notes, my journal. Mornings like this one -- coffee tastes better, soft background jazz sounds live. Blankets of leaves -- even death is warm and comforting in the fall. Was Seattle ever so colorful? All I can remember now is the rain.
What do I Want from Life at Age 20? (10/26/00)
I want to know God. Not my parent's God, not my church's God, not my ex-girlfriend's God. I want to know my God. I want to know people. I want to know friends. Not fuck-buddies, not party favors, not single servings, not lab partners, not weekend getaways. I want the boys. But I want my best friend to someday be a girl. I want reality, not Dazed & Confused. I'm tired of parties that won't end, one-night-stands, pretty-boys and daddy's-girls. I want life. I want to see the Mediterranean and the Irish coast. I want to live out of a backpack and not shave for six months. I want to live in a four bedroom house on South Hill, or in an apartment in West Seattle, with a view of the city skyline in my living room window. I want to drive a silver, or maybe a black, Audi S-4. I want a soul mate, not a wife. I want kids, but not until I am ready to leave the city lights and the rush hour traffic, or the Thursday night live jazz, or the weekends at Schweitzer, Mt Hood or Whistler-Blackcomb. Then I will be ready to "grow up." Then I will be ready to have a family, to teach freshman writing classes. Then I will be ready for the Volvo wagon, and a chocolate Lab, or a Golden Retriever. But not yet.
Untitled (11/07/00)
Sky is gray today, and cold, settling down like a crisp, newly-washed sheet. There was snow painted in patches of white on the hills above your house this morning. A bird flies overhead, chirps to stay warm I think, to remind itself that it must hurry now, that winter is coming.
You sip your mocha between drags off a clove cigarette. You smoke much like that bird's sharp chirp and think about your brother's offer. You wonder if it would be any different -- life? You?
You forget to sip your mocha, light another smoke instead. No wind this morning. Just the chill of an oncoming Eastern Washington winter. You'll be wearing your coat to town soon. When you can't take it anymore -- the frost on your face, your cigarette, the hippie couple wandering by... you go back inside.
Church (11/12/00)
As I drove home from work tonight I began to think about what happened in church earlier today, and about how that blubbering old fool -- with his gray beard and thick glasses, had sobbed his way through the alter of prayer, and about how we had all knelt there -- eyes closed and heads bowed, and how I had, between his sobs -- in those brief seconds of sniffled intermission, been oddly reminded of a time when I was ten and slept on my parents floor -- only to awaken in the cold, moon-lit bedroom to the sounds of their love making.
I don't know why exactly my thoughts went back to that night when I was ten and was too afraid to sleep in my own bed... Only that this sobbing wreck of a man was kneeling up at the front and that I wished he would just stop, even prayed that he would stop. Please. God. Stop.
Untitled (1/24/01)
Wednesday morning... well, almost afternoon now. Sun came out this morning - made the snow seem brighter, more pure, almost hopeful. You sit, alone at the Mercury Cafe, the usual in front of you -- Irish Cream mocha, journal, cigarettes. How have you been, asks the guy who made your coffee. The owner? You suddenly find it odd you have never learned his name. You really ought to pay more attention to these sort of things. Watching cars, dusty cars -- a Jeep, Subaru, Honda, a city bus -- reminds you again of the drive home from Seattle last night. Listening to Counting Crows as you climbed the mountain pass and headed East. Leads you to think of the movie, Snatch -- with Brad Pitt, for some reason. And of gypsies, rogues without a home. You are sympathetic. Not a bad road to travel... a security of it's own. Still, five hours on Interstate 90 in a civic... that drive never felt so long with Andy and Jason. Or with Shane. Or Brandon. The good thing about gypsies is that they travel in numbers, with Winnebago's, and dogs.
You watched 60 Minutes last night, killing time before you called your cousin, Matt... the story of the Dave Matthews Band. You laid on the couch, about to fall asleep. But a producer for the band said something that made you sit up, made you forget about how early you had to get up tomorrow morning. Most people wait for inspiration to strike them, he said. He grinned then, under his thin white beard, and said, you end up spending a whole lot of time waiting... You have to go in search of inspiration, he said. You nodded to yourself and then laid back down on the couch. That makes sense, you thought to yourself. And then you went to call Matt, and found out that Fawnia was is jail. A DWI, he said. Her second offense, you said. Damn, that sucks.
The sky is clouding over now. Even so, the businessman who strolls by your window smiles at you, or perhaps just to his own reflection. He smiles in spite of the clouds. Perhaps the sun is fading into a gray light that blankets this snow covered city, but he doesn't seem to notice. The glory of the morning sun is still fresh in our memories. For today it is enough -- the memory of a brilliant morning.
The College Church (2/26/01)
I have this recurring feeling, like a dream but less tangible. It is like I am at the College Church, after vespers. Everyone is there -- Zach, Brandon, Holley, Jeremy, Stefan, Cam and Marshal, Swisher is there, Giovanni, Mascarenas, Anni, her fiance. There are more too, like there always is after vespers at the College Church. I roam from circle to circle. There are hugs, handshakes, even kisses. They are all making plans, for tonight, for tomorrow, for next year. I am invited. But I can't go, I say. I have plans. Plans of my own. They can understand. I mean, after all, we all have to do what we have to do, right? There are more hugs now, more handshakes. Take it easy, I say. We'll miss you, they say. And I turn to leave. But once I leave the room I realize that I've used the wrong door. I'm in the bathroom now, or the sanctuary -- it doesn't matter. So now I have to go back inside. That's what matters. And here is the thing. This doesn't happen just once, or twice. After enough times nobody takes me seriously anymore. I am stuck in this room and I can't seem to find the door that leads away from here. And my biggest fear is that by the time I find the door I want it will be too late, that I will have given up on leaving all together, that I will have gone to Holley's or to Fackenthalls, with them, and their plans, not mine.
An Old Movie (3/09/01)
Sherry's restaurant. Sometime after 2 AM. You sit in a corner booth with your cousin and a girl you don't know. Drinking coffee and smoking. Reminds me of the good 'ole times, high school. When this was enough. Coffee. Black. Two ashtrays, three packs of Camels. Cell phones lying silent, a fact you are strangely OK with tonight. Chapstick. Lighters. Empty packets of sugar. Dust size pieces of ash that dance across the table when you laugh or when this strange girl sweeps her hand out and flicks habitually at the full ashtray. She tells you this -- that she is strange. Some story about her best friend calling her such. You make a smart ass comment about it and then she starts to tell another story. The seconds seem to slip into slow motion every time she smiles. It's an infectious smile and for the better part of the night the three of you are all just smiling stupidly at each other because of it. At some point you think this girl reminds you a lot of Rebekah.
Anyway. Hours pass and still the three of you just sit there. Talking. Smoking. And drinking coffee. You watch your cousin as she talks. There is a sparkle deep in his left eye. It carries over -- brightening his right one also. His face glows too. And he keeps grinning at her. Like he's drunk or something. Only he's not. Later he tells you that as he sat there and watched this girl he couldn't help but wonder if this is how Ryan and Audra felt when they met. But anyway, like I said -- you sit there now. There is a cigarette in your right hand. And you watch your cousin as this strange girl talks. When she is done your cousin talks for a while. And then she starts again. At some point the scene before you begins to fade. Until it seems they are only whispering to each other. Until everything becomes black and white. Like a memory. Or an old movie. You see them now -- in black and white, whispering to each other. They are alone there, on the other side of the bench. You can't help but think of Jason Lee, and two chicks tonguing each other. "Now that, my friend, was a shared moment." And yet that simple explanation seems cheap at this point. Finally the moment is broken. This strange girl turns to you and asks, "so what about you? Ever fallen in love?" You give her a smart ass reply and she smiles. You can tell she wants to press it, but she doesn't. She instead turns back to your cousin and once more the scene fades into black and white.
Hoping it is Enough (1/08/02)
Lying on Shane's bed, reading the last twenty pages of a book. Brandon sits nearby at the computer. I try to ignore the intermittent curses mixed with sighs of relief. At times he even cries out in glee. I've just turned over a new page when Shane walks through the door. I glance up at him as he steps past me. He holds his cordless phone in his right hand, like it's a bad report card. His face is expressionless, the color of ash collecting on a snowy grave. Moisture clouds his blue eyes. "Where's my cigarettes?" He asks. Brandon hits the escape key on his keyboard and pauses his video game. "Hey buddy," he starts to say. The smile disappears from his face as he turns to Shane. "Bad talk with Sam?" He asks. Shane closes his eyes, running his hands through the dirty-blond shag that covers his head. "Fuck." He exhales. "What the hell happened?" I ask. I start to say something more but he cuts me off. "Please," he says. "Just... don't." I close my book. Shane grabs a pack of Camel lights off of his computer. He takes one out and sticks it in his mouth. Brandon and I glance at each other. I shrug. For a moment no one says anything. No one moves. The three of us just wait. Brandon and I wait for Shane. Shane I think seems to look much like someone waiting to wake up from a dream. "Sam's pregnant." He says. With that my little brother turns and heads for the front door. After what he's just said finally sinks in I abandon my book all together and follow after him. Brandon tries to comfort the boy as the three of us stand out on the porch to our college housing apartment. I light up a cigarette and smoke in silence. No words seem adequate, so I just smoke, and listen -- hoping it is enough.
Jazz (10/25/02)
Need to say something
About this very moment. But
To do it justice
Would take more, I fear,
Than this tired poet
Can conjure at such an hour.
Just something
In the Jazz - a Coltrane like feel,
Southern Comfort
In piano keys, a bit
Of dance in the way the saxophone
Plays, with a snare
That makes your eyebrows raise...
Tap-ta-tap-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta
Tap.
Leaves (11/14/02)
Leaves dance playfully, intertwined
In a soft wind-blown
Free fall. For a moment
There are hundreds of them, floating
In orchestrated patterns --
Giant, golden snowflakes that come to rest
Lightly on one another,
Creating a warm blanket
In the brisk, waxing sunlight of fall.
Rain has passed on
To fields not so green
And yet the taste remains.
A squirrel leaps from leaf
To leaf -- an acorn the size of his head
Held somehow in his mouth -- looking
Much like a small kitten
Experiencing snow
For the very first time.
Untitled (11/14/02)
Long before his tongue pushes past her soft, playful lips their eyes meet in an embrace not so unlike their first kiss. They have tried to hide it, to deny that there is an it, but they know it -- have always known it -- and not that it can never be, but that they can never control it. But it is the earlier of the two notions, that it can never be, which prompts him to pull away. Only for a moment though, because her hands pull him back down on top of her. The taste of her mouth is much like the empty eight dollar bottle of Merlot on the desk next to her bed. His head is swimming now and he blames the wine. It is easier that way -- more convenient than the alternative. The world outside the locked bedroom door grows awkwardly quiet until all he can hear is the quick beat of this girl's heart. When they are both tired, when the alcohol has worn off, when it goes as far as it will -- on this night at least, he climbs off of her. She lays there and watches his shadow as he gets dressed without a word. When he is clothed he goes to the door, then pauses there. "Don't tell anyone. Please." He says. And then he turns and walks out through her bedroom door.
A Random Starbucks Quote (Unknown, self-professed 84 year old man)
"I'm open to girls from the age of 16 to 83 and their is a standing offer for a free orgasm lesson in the backseat of my Ford Focus. If they orgasm, it's free. But if I orgasm, they charge me $7.50. It's like a French whore. Business is business and love is bullshit."
