Monday, September 11, 2006
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Severance Pay
On to more substantial things: fiction. I've been working on a short story (or something) that my friends know all too well. Okay, I haven't been working on it, therein lies the problem. I'm hoping if I post a little of it here I will pressure myself into actually really working on it and not just avoiding it, playing with it... The idea is extreme guilt or something along those lines. Stop playing with your food and just eat it. Of course, inspiration would be good, too.
This is the beginning of Severance Pay.
Zeke crouched beside the creek and waited for the train. It was braying in the distance, compelling him to pause in the shadows beneath the trestle where the damp vapors of moss and mud saturated the air. He took a deep breath and pulled pieces of the heavy atmosphere into his lungs. Nothing made sense to him, but he knew the essence of Marlaina was here, underneath the trestle, waiting for him to breathe her in. He wanted to pull her right out of the mud. But everything was jumbled together, confusing him. He couldn’t quite tell what was real. He remembered laying here with her, on other dripping summer days, while the trains rumbled overhead, their bodies flowing together, mingling with the mud, but he couldn’t remember what she smelled like anymore.
As the train drew nearer he raised the machete hanging at his side and slowly ran his fingers along the blade, sweeping off the flecks of organic matter and flinging them to the ground. These flecks, he was almost positive, were not Marlaina. They could be cast aside. But a wave of uncertainty passed through him. He lifted the machete to his lips and ran his tongue along it, just to be sure. His tongue did not detect anything familiar, but he didn’t trust it, either. How could he know that it was really his tongue? Maybe if he stopped thinking about it, it would fall out of his mouth, like the machete sometimes fell out of his hand.
Overhead, the trestle shook as it proclaimed in uncertain graffiti letters: THE OC BOYS WHERE HERE. The train rumbled louder as it churned toward him. Suddenly the engine was overhead and the whistle was vibrating its notes into every crevice of his body, permeating his skin. This is what he had been waiting for. Marlaina’s presence engulfed him.
But the engine passed too quickly and pulled Marlaina across the creek and into the woods, away from him. Zeke backed out of the cool shadow of the trestle far enough into the shattered daylight to read the words on the train cars as they clacked by, a long banner of blocky instructions, just for him.
“N-S, C-O-N, Yang Ming, Maersk, Santa Fe, Hyundai, Hanjin, J.B. Hunt, Hub, N-A-C-S, China Shipping, TTX, Burlington Northern Railway, O-O-C-L, Coil Shield.”
The train was picking up speed and Zeke struggled to keep pace with the words. The last car spewed forth fat, unintelligible graffiti and then it was gone, carrying all that remained of Marlaina with it. But Zeke knew what to do. Despite its speed and the last pieces that he didn’t understand, he had captured the rhythm of the train and pulled it, pulsing, inside him. As he stood up the machete started swinging up and down. His lips began to repeat the train’s message in rhythm with the blade.
“N-S, C-O-N, Yang Ming…” And then his legs started to run. He could feel Marlaina growing closer as he became the train.
This is the beginning of Severance Pay.
Zeke crouched beside the creek and waited for the train. It was braying in the distance, compelling him to pause in the shadows beneath the trestle where the damp vapors of moss and mud saturated the air. He took a deep breath and pulled pieces of the heavy atmosphere into his lungs. Nothing made sense to him, but he knew the essence of Marlaina was here, underneath the trestle, waiting for him to breathe her in. He wanted to pull her right out of the mud. But everything was jumbled together, confusing him. He couldn’t quite tell what was real. He remembered laying here with her, on other dripping summer days, while the trains rumbled overhead, their bodies flowing together, mingling with the mud, but he couldn’t remember what she smelled like anymore.
As the train drew nearer he raised the machete hanging at his side and slowly ran his fingers along the blade, sweeping off the flecks of organic matter and flinging them to the ground. These flecks, he was almost positive, were not Marlaina. They could be cast aside. But a wave of uncertainty passed through him. He lifted the machete to his lips and ran his tongue along it, just to be sure. His tongue did not detect anything familiar, but he didn’t trust it, either. How could he know that it was really his tongue? Maybe if he stopped thinking about it, it would fall out of his mouth, like the machete sometimes fell out of his hand.
Overhead, the trestle shook as it proclaimed in uncertain graffiti letters: THE OC BOYS WHERE HERE. The train rumbled louder as it churned toward him. Suddenly the engine was overhead and the whistle was vibrating its notes into every crevice of his body, permeating his skin. This is what he had been waiting for. Marlaina’s presence engulfed him.
But the engine passed too quickly and pulled Marlaina across the creek and into the woods, away from him. Zeke backed out of the cool shadow of the trestle far enough into the shattered daylight to read the words on the train cars as they clacked by, a long banner of blocky instructions, just for him.
“N-S, C-O-N, Yang Ming, Maersk, Santa Fe, Hyundai, Hanjin, J.B. Hunt, Hub, N-A-C-S, China Shipping, TTX, Burlington Northern Railway, O-O-C-L, Coil Shield.”
The train was picking up speed and Zeke struggled to keep pace with the words. The last car spewed forth fat, unintelligible graffiti and then it was gone, carrying all that remained of Marlaina with it. But Zeke knew what to do. Despite its speed and the last pieces that he didn’t understand, he had captured the rhythm of the train and pulled it, pulsing, inside him. As he stood up the machete started swinging up and down. His lips began to repeat the train’s message in rhythm with the blade.
“N-S, C-O-N, Yang Ming…” And then his legs started to run. He could feel Marlaina growing closer as he became the train.
Imaginings
Sometimes the whiff of a change in scenery is all I need.
I’m reading about the sensuality of work, the unsubstantial, half-hearted nature of play, and considering how I earn my dough, how I like to play. Elaine Scarry writes, “It is not simply the surface of the body but the deep entirety of its interior that is in work put at risk.” Yes, yes, I know.
And the e-mail arrives. There’s a job posting for two scopists (that’s me) to fill a seven-month (with possibility to extend) position in criminal court at The Hague. Meal and housing allowance provided. It’s vague, but it must be World Court work, that’s what happens at The Hague. I cannot possibly go, couldn’t think of applying. Seven months away from home! The Finlander says, It’s a chance of a lifetime. You must apply.
The inquiring e-mail is sent and we’re all left to dream. I go back to reading Scarry, who is talking about Dickens’s Pip, “If life had required Pip to learn the distinction between the artificial and the real, he might not have had such a difficult time; but he is instead required to make the much more difficult and interesting distinctions between failed artifice and successful artifice, between failed work and successful work, between irresponsible imaginings and responsible imaginings.” Yes, yes indeed.
I’m reading about the sensuality of work, the unsubstantial, half-hearted nature of play, and considering how I earn my dough, how I like to play. Elaine Scarry writes, “It is not simply the surface of the body but the deep entirety of its interior that is in work put at risk.” Yes, yes, I know.
And the e-mail arrives. There’s a job posting for two scopists (that’s me) to fill a seven-month (with possibility to extend) position in criminal court at The Hague. Meal and housing allowance provided. It’s vague, but it must be World Court work, that’s what happens at The Hague. I cannot possibly go, couldn’t think of applying. Seven months away from home! The Finlander says, It’s a chance of a lifetime. You must apply.
The inquiring e-mail is sent and we’re all left to dream. I go back to reading Scarry, who is talking about Dickens’s Pip, “If life had required Pip to learn the distinction between the artificial and the real, he might not have had such a difficult time; but he is instead required to make the much more difficult and interesting distinctions between failed artifice and successful artifice, between failed work and successful work, between irresponsible imaginings and responsible imaginings.” Yes, yes indeed.
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Fishing
Silence. Hmmm. I don't know. Is there such a thing?
"Songwriting is like fishing in a stream; you put in your line and hope you catch something. And I don't think anyone downstream from Bob Dylan ever caught anything." --- Arlo Guthrie
I don't think it was because they're weren't any fish to be had. No. I think everyone downstream was just standing around admiring the fish Dylan landed. Jeez. I mean, what can you say? That's a really cool trout, Bob?
Then, of course, everyone started dreaming about trout and fishing and rods and whatnot. How nice fresh fish tastes. And they weren't even supposed to be fishing in the first place! They were supposed to be pulling their herbs out of their own flower pots. Keep your eyes on your own papers, please.
Okay. And then some, too, were afraid to serve up a meal because the last thing they cooked was absolutely delicious, showed great promise, and they can't be expected to cook like that every day. Of course not. But we have to eat something and if they'd just cut up a few vegetables or throw some meat between a couple slices of bread, or even peanut butter, we could eat a little something and of course we like the way their knife cuts across the bread. Jesus.
Anyway, now I can go back to work in peace and quiet. But silence? Hah!
"Songwriting is like fishing in a stream; you put in your line and hope you catch something. And I don't think anyone downstream from Bob Dylan ever caught anything." --- Arlo Guthrie
I don't think it was because they're weren't any fish to be had. No. I think everyone downstream was just standing around admiring the fish Dylan landed. Jeez. I mean, what can you say? That's a really cool trout, Bob?
Then, of course, everyone started dreaming about trout and fishing and rods and whatnot. How nice fresh fish tastes. And they weren't even supposed to be fishing in the first place! They were supposed to be pulling their herbs out of their own flower pots. Keep your eyes on your own papers, please.
Okay. And then some, too, were afraid to serve up a meal because the last thing they cooked was absolutely delicious, showed great promise, and they can't be expected to cook like that every day. Of course not. But we have to eat something and if they'd just cut up a few vegetables or throw some meat between a couple slices of bread, or even peanut butter, we could eat a little something and of course we like the way their knife cuts across the bread. Jesus.
Anyway, now I can go back to work in peace and quiet. But silence? Hah!
Miss Manners...
What is the etiquette involved in putting links to other blogs on a web site? Should you ask the other person first or just link away to whatever you think is cool?
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
Demise
Today my mechanic took me aside. He said, It’s time. I knew it was coming, but still...
We took the Trooper for one last trip this summer to the U.P. We let her do easy jobs, a trip to the lakeshore on a paved road, that sort of thing. We knew we wouldn’t be forging streams, picking berries off of logging roads, climbing up into the hills to chase old graveyards. On the way home, in Grand Rapids, she turned over 180,000 miles.
The first sign that even a paved existence was going to be too much was at Best Buy. I approached her quietly, she refused to budge. The tow truck had to come the next morning and haul her away. But we still had hope. A new fuel filter and she ran for a few days. Then she left me stranded at IUSB in the pouring rain.
The Finlander tried to make things right with her, but in the end the tow truck had to haul her back to the mechanic again. He replaced the fuel pump, a rusty pipe, some other assembly things. And he gave me the news, one bad pothole and she’s liable to break in two. And we had just bought her new tires, too.
We took the Trooper for one last trip this summer to the U.P. We let her do easy jobs, a trip to the lakeshore on a paved road, that sort of thing. We knew we wouldn’t be forging streams, picking berries off of logging roads, climbing up into the hills to chase old graveyards. On the way home, in Grand Rapids, she turned over 180,000 miles.
The first sign that even a paved existence was going to be too much was at Best Buy. I approached her quietly, she refused to budge. The tow truck had to come the next morning and haul her away. But we still had hope. A new fuel filter and she ran for a few days. Then she left me stranded at IUSB in the pouring rain.
The Finlander tried to make things right with her, but in the end the tow truck had to haul her back to the mechanic again. He replaced the fuel pump, a rusty pipe, some other assembly things. And he gave me the news, one bad pothole and she’s liable to break in two. And we had just bought her new tires, too.
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Posing
After disappearing for a few days, then showing up on the dining room wall under the picture of Jesus walking on water, which resulted in her eviction to the cherry tree, Louise is back, posing on the cannas.
Animal Whispers
We were standing on the shore, watching the swans. The Naturalist told me to enjoy them now, Potato Creek has finally gotten permission to shoot them come November. I know, I know, they destroy the habitat for other things, blah, blah, blah. Perhaps if we could talk to them…
I met an animal whisperer last winter. She gave me her card. She had just come from counseling a bull that had outlived his productive stud life. His owners had decided to castrate him instead of putting him down. Still, he was a little depressed. But she was able to talk him through it. She told me if my goats needed counseling to give her a call. My goats seem pretty happy, but you never know.
While we were watching the swans the Librarian shouted, Look, a Kingfisher. I’m glad she pointed him out, because I don’t know my birds. I’m trying, but… The Kingfisher lit on the top of a dead tree out in the lake and cawed at us, which probably isn’t right either because caw is the sound made by crow-like birds. The Naturalist said he was just saying hi, but I could have sworn he had something else to say. We tried to take his picture, but of course he flew away. It’s too bad the animal whisperer wasn’t there. Maybe she could have interpreted what he wanted to say.
I met an animal whisperer last winter. She gave me her card. She had just come from counseling a bull that had outlived his productive stud life. His owners had decided to castrate him instead of putting him down. Still, he was a little depressed. But she was able to talk him through it. She told me if my goats needed counseling to give her a call. My goats seem pretty happy, but you never know.
While we were watching the swans the Librarian shouted, Look, a Kingfisher. I’m glad she pointed him out, because I don’t know my birds. I’m trying, but… The Kingfisher lit on the top of a dead tree out in the lake and cawed at us, which probably isn’t right either because caw is the sound made by crow-like birds. The Naturalist said he was just saying hi, but I could have sworn he had something else to say. We tried to take his picture, but of course he flew away. It’s too bad the animal whisperer wasn’t there. Maybe she could have interpreted what he wanted to say.
Monday, September 04, 2006
Herd on the Prairie
My friend the librarian, who advises me to never loan out my books, has loaned her Lakeville prairie out to a pony herd. They're eating up her wildflowers, but in the end I think it's going to be okay. They seem like a pretty friendly crowd.
Sunday, September 03, 2006
Pear Butter
A week ago the pears were unyielding, you couldn’t coax them off the tree. They teased me with a red blush, but I could tell they weren’t going anywhere. So I left them alone to do their thing. There’s no arguing with a green pear. Towards the end of the week I wandered past their hideout again, only to find they were ripe, falling on the ground. Now the aroma of pear butter is wafting out the windows, saturating the air.
I can’t work the same magic with pears that my friends the Byzantine monks in Eagle Harbor, Michigan can. They have secret recipes tucked away. At the Jam Pot they have shelves and shelves of their talents on display, butters and jams and other delicious things. Maybe their recipes are sweeter because they pray five hours a day.
The Man-Child and his friends have wandered into the monks’ territory this Labor Day. While I slept and dreamed of being 18, they drove through the night, crossed the Mackinac Bridge, through the Seney Wildlife Refuge, and onto the Keweenaw. While I’m stirring pear butter in Indiana, they’re making memories on Brockway Mountain, grilling salmon on the lakeshore, eating the monks’ bakery.
This is good, the way I dreamed it would someday be.
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