Pompous, bombastic (adj.)
Thomas Middick opened an envelope from his faculty mail box and read its contents and groaned.
"Five classes!"
He scratched a stray itch roaming somewhere over the surface of the goiter that'd been growing on his cheek since he'd finished his dissertation two years earlier. He scratched at the base of the growth and muttered to himself.
"This is absurd."
Middick looked toward the door of the chair of the philosophy department and waddled his rotund self to it and hit it with his fist several times. He turned the knob and opened the door before the old professor inside could say "come in."
"Roland, I've been assigned five introductory classes next semester."
"I know," Roland said.
Middick's shoulders fell and his disfigured head tilted to the side.
"I can't teach five classes in one semester, Roland, I have research to do. I can't be bothered by..."
"Bothered?"Middick, your contract says you will teach nine classes this year, a majority of them introductory."
"I have my PhD from Harvard, I studied under Smith. I don't have the time or attention or patience to deal with undergraduates."
He was breathing heavily as he said this, which caused the striped sweater he was wearing to rise up and expose the fat above his crotch. Hairs from his belly creeped out from the space between his belt and the bottom of the sweater.
"Middick, let me tell you something. You don't impress me. That's why I gave you that schedule."
Middick's mouth twitched and he blinked and suddenly felt the hem of his sweater chafing against his exposed stomach. His hands fluttered to his midsection and grasped the bottom of the sweater and pulled it over his fat and began to cry.
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Turbid
Muddy, having the sediment disturbed (adj.)
Billy waited, squatting in the brook. His head was down and focused, hands at the ready, his reflection bobbing and waving in the trickles and waves of the small stream as it ran over rocks and sticks. He watched a small oval area where the water was calm, little sparkling crystals of sand and sediment laying the floor of the tiny pool. He could see every shadow, every pebble, every crevice of the pool. His eyes searched them with a regular rhythm.
"C'mon Billy," said an annoyed female voice.
He ignored it. It kept talking.
"Billy, stop being such a poser, you're not outdoorsy."
He didn't move or say anything. He didn't want to. The pool was so calm and clean and clear that he thought that even his voice might disturb his pursuit.
"What the hell, why aren't you saying anything?" the voice demanded.
Then Billy heard footsteps clumsily cracking sticks and swishing branches. The body that belonged to the annoyed voice stood at the edge of the stream. He looked up at his twin sister Christyn standing there, glaring at him, obviously desiring the attention he was giving the water. Billy raised his finger to his mouth and shushed her.
"What are you doing?" Christyn asked.
He looked at her. She disrupted every peace he had ever tried to attain. He tried to be patient with her.
"Mud puppies," he whispered, eyes on the stream, "very hard to find, you have to be very still if you want to see them."
"What? What are you talking about? Mom and Dad are waiting."
Billy closed his eyes, took a breath to try and cope with her, and kept his head down to water and his hands out.
Christyn shook her head, looked around, and sighed. Then she took a big step forward and her foot landed in the center of the calm little pool, splashing droplets of water on Billy's knees as she walked by him. Billy didn't do anything at first. Then he nodded and took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He opened them and looked down at the pool and he saw a turbid cloud of dirt and dust in the middle of it, blooming in the sunlight and blocking anything in the once-peaceful ecology from view. He dropped his hands to the ground and pushed himself up angrily, thoroughly disturbed, and walked in the direction of his family.
Billy waited, squatting in the brook. His head was down and focused, hands at the ready, his reflection bobbing and waving in the trickles and waves of the small stream as it ran over rocks and sticks. He watched a small oval area where the water was calm, little sparkling crystals of sand and sediment laying the floor of the tiny pool. He could see every shadow, every pebble, every crevice of the pool. His eyes searched them with a regular rhythm.
"C'mon Billy," said an annoyed female voice.
He ignored it. It kept talking.
"Billy, stop being such a poser, you're not outdoorsy."
He didn't move or say anything. He didn't want to. The pool was so calm and clean and clear that he thought that even his voice might disturb his pursuit.
"What the hell, why aren't you saying anything?" the voice demanded.
Then Billy heard footsteps clumsily cracking sticks and swishing branches. The body that belonged to the annoyed voice stood at the edge of the stream. He looked up at his twin sister Christyn standing there, glaring at him, obviously desiring the attention he was giving the water. Billy raised his finger to his mouth and shushed her.
"What are you doing?" Christyn asked.
He looked at her. She disrupted every peace he had ever tried to attain. He tried to be patient with her.
"Mud puppies," he whispered, eyes on the stream, "very hard to find, you have to be very still if you want to see them."
"What? What are you talking about? Mom and Dad are waiting."
Billy closed his eyes, took a breath to try and cope with her, and kept his head down to water and his hands out.
Christyn shook her head, looked around, and sighed. Then she took a big step forward and her foot landed in the center of the calm little pool, splashing droplets of water on Billy's knees as she walked by him. Billy didn't do anything at first. Then he nodded and took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He opened them and looked down at the pool and he saw a turbid cloud of dirt and dust in the middle of it, blooming in the sunlight and blocking anything in the once-peaceful ecology from view. He dropped his hands to the ground and pushed himself up angrily, thoroughly disturbed, and walked in the direction of his family.
Trenchant
Cutting, keen (adj.)
[under construction]
The line workers at the London Fog factory gossip as they watch their machines rip and tear and sew fabric, preparing raincoats and clothing for the outlet malls and shops where raincoast and clothing are purchased.
"So I was at the pub," says Martin who pulls a lever, "and the waitress
[under construction]
The line workers at the London Fog factory gossip as they watch their machines rip and tear and sew fabric, preparing raincoats and clothing for the outlet malls and shops where raincoast and clothing are purchased.
"So I was at the pub," says Martin who pulls a lever, "and the waitress
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Indemnify
To make secure against loss, compensate for loss (v.)
Gina remembers everything from her early childhood. Little details: the smell of baby food, the feeling of falling after losing her balance, the feeling of her knees buckling when learning walk, the taste of her fingers in her mouth, and what it was like looking up at everyone.
The most vivid memory she has of her early childhood is of the time she wandered away from her parents in a kids' clothing outlet while her mother and father debated the virtues and vices of a pair of toddler's sandals. She crawled underneath a rack of frilled pink skirts and hobbled her way to exit, which led out into a huge parking lot. Somehow no one at the store saw her, no parent noticed her, and she didn't stop to look at anything. She made it to the door and she put her hands on the glass and pushed.
Gina remembers turning around at the sound of her mother screaming. She remembers the feeling of her mother's hands around her waist and the strength with which she picked her up. She remembers the look on her father's face, a terror hid by stoicism. And she remembers being carried to the aisle of the store that had baby leashes, and the feeling of her mother securing two of them to her, one on each wrist, and how she pulled the straps so hard that she winced with pain from the force.
Gina remembers everything from her early childhood. Little details: the smell of baby food, the feeling of falling after losing her balance, the feeling of her knees buckling when learning walk, the taste of her fingers in her mouth, and what it was like looking up at everyone.
The most vivid memory she has of her early childhood is of the time she wandered away from her parents in a kids' clothing outlet while her mother and father debated the virtues and vices of a pair of toddler's sandals. She crawled underneath a rack of frilled pink skirts and hobbled her way to exit, which led out into a huge parking lot. Somehow no one at the store saw her, no parent noticed her, and she didn't stop to look at anything. She made it to the door and she put her hands on the glass and pushed.
Gina remembers turning around at the sound of her mother screaming. She remembers the feeling of her mother's hands around her waist and the strength with which she picked her up. She remembers the look on her father's face, a terror hid by stoicism. And she remembers being carried to the aisle of the store that had baby leashes, and the feeling of her mother securing two of them to her, one on each wrist, and how she pulled the straps so hard that she winced with pain from the force.
Monday, May 28, 2007
Tyro
Beginner, novice (n.)
[under construction]
Tyrone stood up in the boat and gazed out over the clear Mediterranean when he heard a dull thud and a grown from behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw his father laying on the deck of the small ship with his knees to his chest, shaking. There was a pool of blood beneath his face, growing slowly from a small drip that was dripping from his nose. Tyrone didn't say anything. He ran to his old father and gathered the white-haired main into his arms.
The sun was beginning to set beneath the ocean and a piercing orange light painted them and cast its hue over the entirety of the coast of their native Carthage.
Tyrone didn't frantically set the sails east for the coast as he had done the first time his father had fallen during his lessons in abalone hunting. It was his father's wish to sail out again despite his illness, to continue Tyrone's training--for Tyrone was supposed to inherit his father's business and his reputation. Tyrone's father's hands floated up and touched his young son's face. They were deeply stained with purple dye, the color of their trade. Tyrone had never seen the real flesh color of those hands.
Tyrone had insisted on his father staying home, but these trips were all they had. His mother died in childbirth, and his father wed himself to his work and Tyrone's upbringing in her absence. Tyrone, only a 14-year-old boy, would need to become a man quickly now.
The old man brought his hands down from his sons face, leaving a purple hand print there, and he touched the rivulet of blood trickling from his nostrils. The dye on his fingers mixed with the blood, the red and purple making a deep shade of violet below his nose and his finger tips.
"Father," said Tyrone, beginning to cry, "you can't leave me, I'm only just beginning."
[under construction]
Tyrone stood up in the boat and gazed out over the clear Mediterranean when he heard a dull thud and a grown from behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw his father laying on the deck of the small ship with his knees to his chest, shaking. There was a pool of blood beneath his face, growing slowly from a small drip that was dripping from his nose. Tyrone didn't say anything. He ran to his old father and gathered the white-haired main into his arms.
The sun was beginning to set beneath the ocean and a piercing orange light painted them and cast its hue over the entirety of the coast of their native Carthage.
Tyrone didn't frantically set the sails east for the coast as he had done the first time his father had fallen during his lessons in abalone hunting. It was his father's wish to sail out again despite his illness, to continue Tyrone's training--for Tyrone was supposed to inherit his father's business and his reputation. Tyrone's father's hands floated up and touched his young son's face. They were deeply stained with purple dye, the color of their trade. Tyrone had never seen the real flesh color of those hands.
Tyrone had insisted on his father staying home, but these trips were all they had. His mother died in childbirth, and his father wed himself to his work and Tyrone's upbringing in her absence. Tyrone, only a 14-year-old boy, would need to become a man quickly now.
The old man brought his hands down from his sons face, leaving a purple hand print there, and he touched the rivulet of blood trickling from his nostrils. The dye on his fingers mixed with the blood, the red and purple making a deep shade of violet below his nose and his finger tips.
"Father," said Tyrone, beginning to cry, "you can't leave me, I'm only just beginning."
Stipple
To paint or draw with dots (v.)
Everything is made of molecules and their unified and connected atoms. But there's space between the atoms that make up the molecules, and one time a painter named Dotty who painted large public murals was painting a series of different-sized circles on the side of a building and was carefully outlining the space between two of these painted circles and her arm went through the wall.
Everything is made of molecules and their unified and connected atoms. But there's space between the atoms that make up the molecules, and one time a painter named Dotty who painted large public murals was painting a series of different-sized circles on the side of a building and was carefully outlining the space between two of these painted circles and her arm went through the wall.
Variegated
Many colored (adj.)
Have you ever meditated on the top of a very tall mountain and a toucan shat on your shoulder and you said "oh shit, a toucan just shat on my robe," and an elephant walked by and harumphed and you asked him or her about the laws of the jungle and if there were any robe-shitting rules out there, and imagined that the elephant was walking with a baby elephant that was so small it reminded you of a mouse eventhough elephants are supposed to afraid of mice, and imagined that this tiny elephant was friends with all the mice and he couldn''t understand why his family got so freaked at the dinner circle when he told them honestly where he was spending his spare time, and imagined that the baby's best friend was a mouse named Sam and that Sam was all sorts of interesting colors and was known throughout the forest for being the mac-daddy with all the lady toucans, and you guessed that it was probably a female toucan shitting with delight because she saw Sam hanging out with the tiny baby elephant, therefore causing the disruption of your search for enlightenment?
Have you ever meditated on the top of a very tall mountain and a toucan shat on your shoulder and you said "oh shit, a toucan just shat on my robe," and an elephant walked by and harumphed and you asked him or her about the laws of the jungle and if there were any robe-shitting rules out there, and imagined that the elephant was walking with a baby elephant that was so small it reminded you of a mouse eventhough elephants are supposed to afraid of mice, and imagined that this tiny elephant was friends with all the mice and he couldn''t understand why his family got so freaked at the dinner circle when he told them honestly where he was spending his spare time, and imagined that the baby's best friend was a mouse named Sam and that Sam was all sorts of interesting colors and was known throughout the forest for being the mac-daddy with all the lady toucans, and you guessed that it was probably a female toucan shitting with delight because she saw Sam hanging out with the tiny baby elephant, therefore causing the disruption of your search for enlightenment?
Saturday, May 26, 2007
Obviate
To make unnecessary, get rid of (v.)
"I think we waste waste," said Dr. Togore.
"But why is your project, which is frankly extremely undeveloped in this proposal, worth funding?" asked a council member.
"I believe the project is worth funding because I'm positive there is material that be harnassed in garbage and shit and all that to make energy. Imagine it! A perpetual motion system of energy. We could do it. I just need the money."
Togore scratched the back of his right ear incessantly, causing his over-sized plastic bifocals to shake and little flakes of dandruff to fall from his red scalp.
"The National Endowment for the Sciences does not carelessly fund projects without significant data or confirmation, or..."
"But look," Togore said, "how do I get data to show you what I'm talking about if I don't have any money for research? That doesn't make much sense, does it?"
"Mr. Togore--"
"Doctor Togore," he said, scratching his ear.
"Yes, Dr. Togore, are you part of a faculty at a university?"
"No," he said.
"Are you a researcher with a laboratory of any kind?"
"No," he said, "unless you count my basement, where I've already completed some promising experiments."
"Your basement."
"Yes, I've found a transition molecule that can be made from all sorts of waste, and can then be made into a clean-burning fuel. My water heater at home uses it. People could put it in their cars. It'd be like Back to the Future, you know? It would totally obviate the entire trash bag, disposal, garbage truck, garbage dump process. And I've been reading the numbers: you guys have shit coming out of your ears in this city. It's gonna start coming out of faucets soon if you don't..."
"We recognize the severity of the problem Mister Togore, and we have read your proposal and found that it is unsuitable for funding."
"Unsuitable?" Togore said, banging the table and standing, "how could you waste such a viable opportunity here? I'm telling I have the..."
Togore stood up, a big beer belly exposed beneath his t-shirt, and approached the bench of council members to speak with them face to face. The men and women turned to each other and the head council member said, nevously,
"Mister Togore, this is highly inappropriate, please leave immediately or we will be forced to remove..."
"Doctor," Togore said, standing in front of them, fists tightly clenched.
"I think we waste waste," said Dr. Togore.
"But why is your project, which is frankly extremely undeveloped in this proposal, worth funding?" asked a council member.
"I believe the project is worth funding because I'm positive there is material that be harnassed in garbage and shit and all that to make energy. Imagine it! A perpetual motion system of energy. We could do it. I just need the money."
Togore scratched the back of his right ear incessantly, causing his over-sized plastic bifocals to shake and little flakes of dandruff to fall from his red scalp.
"The National Endowment for the Sciences does not carelessly fund projects without significant data or confirmation, or..."
"But look," Togore said, "how do I get data to show you what I'm talking about if I don't have any money for research? That doesn't make much sense, does it?"
"Mr. Togore--"
"Doctor Togore," he said, scratching his ear.
"Yes, Dr. Togore, are you part of a faculty at a university?"
"No," he said.
"Are you a researcher with a laboratory of any kind?"
"No," he said, "unless you count my basement, where I've already completed some promising experiments."
"Your basement."
"Yes, I've found a transition molecule that can be made from all sorts of waste, and can then be made into a clean-burning fuel. My water heater at home uses it. People could put it in their cars. It'd be like Back to the Future, you know? It would totally obviate the entire trash bag, disposal, garbage truck, garbage dump process. And I've been reading the numbers: you guys have shit coming out of your ears in this city. It's gonna start coming out of faucets soon if you don't..."
"We recognize the severity of the problem Mister Togore, and we have read your proposal and found that it is unsuitable for funding."
"Unsuitable?" Togore said, banging the table and standing, "how could you waste such a viable opportunity here? I'm telling I have the..."
Togore stood up, a big beer belly exposed beneath his t-shirt, and approached the bench of council members to speak with them face to face. The men and women turned to each other and the head council member said, nevously,
"Mister Togore, this is highly inappropriate, please leave immediately or we will be forced to remove..."
"Doctor," Togore said, standing in front of them, fists tightly clenched.
Gainsay
Deny (v.)
It was the most diffcult thing he'd ever have to do. He had to look her in her pretty face, in those eyes he had watched, wanted, kissed, and laughed into and tell her that he didn't love her any more.
He walked up to her room and knocked on the door. She said come in. He opened it, sat down on the floor, and hugged his knees.
"I have to tell you something," he said.
"That doesn't sound very good," she replied.
"I guess, no, I guess it doesn't," he said.
She leaned forward and put her hands on her crossed loegs.
"I--" he said.
"What?" she asked, the muscles around her eyes constricting, bracing for something.
"I don't feel the same," he said.
"About --me?" she asked.
He looked at her. Her mouth looked like it was going to fold into itself. His tongue tasted dry, like chalk.
"Yeah. It's been, I've just, over time, I don't feel--"
"Do you love me anymore?" she asked. She had been expecting this, in an abstract way.
He folded his lips and closed his eyes and started crying.
"I don't think so," he said.
Then her face got red, she looked down, resting her chin above her shoulder.
"No," she said.
"What?" he looked up.
"No, you can't," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean it doesn't make sense, you can't stop loving me."
"It doesn't make sense," he tried to tell her, "it's not something I wanted, it just..."
"Stopped?"
"Yeah."
"Not possible," her face fell into a pale, unstable calm.
"But--"
"Nope," she said, "that's just not how it works."
"This isn't, I wouldn't be saying this if I didn't feel--"
"You loved me before?" she asked.
Shaking his head, confused, "Yeah."
"And now you don't."
He nodded, crying still.
"That's just not what love is," she said, "either you didn't love me before or you still do now and you're confused."
"This isn't something I can--I, just, it just feels this way."
"No," she said.
"No what?"
He looked at her, she held her head down, too, like her body understood but her mind was pure gainsay, like the two were shouting dissonantly at each other, neither hearing the other, just dischord, just a human with two screaming twins, shrieks echoing into the walls.
She put her hands to her temples and sobbed. She stood up and walked out of the room and out of the house and got in her car, shaking her head as she drove away.
It was the most diffcult thing he'd ever have to do. He had to look her in her pretty face, in those eyes he had watched, wanted, kissed, and laughed into and tell her that he didn't love her any more.
He walked up to her room and knocked on the door. She said come in. He opened it, sat down on the floor, and hugged his knees.
"I have to tell you something," he said.
"That doesn't sound very good," she replied.
"I guess, no, I guess it doesn't," he said.
She leaned forward and put her hands on her crossed loegs.
"I--" he said.
"What?" she asked, the muscles around her eyes constricting, bracing for something.
"I don't feel the same," he said.
"About --me?" she asked.
He looked at her. Her mouth looked like it was going to fold into itself. His tongue tasted dry, like chalk.
"Yeah. It's been, I've just, over time, I don't feel--"
"Do you love me anymore?" she asked. She had been expecting this, in an abstract way.
He folded his lips and closed his eyes and started crying.
"I don't think so," he said.
Then her face got red, she looked down, resting her chin above her shoulder.
"No," she said.
"What?" he looked up.
"No, you can't," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean it doesn't make sense, you can't stop loving me."
"It doesn't make sense," he tried to tell her, "it's not something I wanted, it just..."
"Stopped?"
"Yeah."
"Not possible," her face fell into a pale, unstable calm.
"But--"
"Nope," she said, "that's just not how it works."
"This isn't, I wouldn't be saying this if I didn't feel--"
"You loved me before?" she asked.
Shaking his head, confused, "Yeah."
"And now you don't."
He nodded, crying still.
"That's just not what love is," she said, "either you didn't love me before or you still do now and you're confused."
"This isn't something I can--I, just, it just feels this way."
"No," she said.
"No what?"
He looked at her, she held her head down, too, like her body understood but her mind was pure gainsay, like the two were shouting dissonantly at each other, neither hearing the other, just dischord, just a human with two screaming twins, shrieks echoing into the walls.
She put her hands to her temples and sobbed. She stood up and walked out of the room and out of the house and got in her car, shaking her head as she drove away.
Stint
To be thrifty, set limits (v.)
Rodney Blum takes a long gulp of water before the Congressional Panel on Narcotics Trafficking begins questioning him. He takes a breathe and composes himself. One of the senators clears his old throat and begins the hearing.
"Mr. Blum, you are head of the Federal Commission for Immagration Special Projects, is that right?"
"That's correct," he says.
"And the "special project" you headed most recently was the construction of a wall along our borders with Mexico?"
"Yes, sir," Blum swallows.
The questions begin. They are obvious at first and build to a crescendo of difficultly as the panel tries to piece together each piece of the puzzle of Blum's failure.
"Mr. Blum, did you know that the substance, the concrete substitute, you chose to build the wall with could be broken down and used as a narcotic?"
"No sir, I was not aware that fact until after the decision was made to purchase large quantities of the substance."
"I see," says the congressman.
"And I might add," says Blum, leaning forward, "on the budget Congress approved for the project, that particular concrete substitute was the only material we could afford."
The congressmen looked at one another, peering at each other over their glasses.
"The government's frugality in its subsidizing of special projects will be noted, Mr. Blum."
Rodney Blum takes a long gulp of water before the Congressional Panel on Narcotics Trafficking begins questioning him. He takes a breathe and composes himself. One of the senators clears his old throat and begins the hearing.
"Mr. Blum, you are head of the Federal Commission for Immagration Special Projects, is that right?"
"That's correct," he says.
"And the "special project" you headed most recently was the construction of a wall along our borders with Mexico?"
"Yes, sir," Blum swallows.
The questions begin. They are obvious at first and build to a crescendo of difficultly as the panel tries to piece together each piece of the puzzle of Blum's failure.
"Mr. Blum, did you know that the substance, the concrete substitute, you chose to build the wall with could be broken down and used as a narcotic?"
"No sir, I was not aware that fact until after the decision was made to purchase large quantities of the substance."
"I see," says the congressman.
"And I might add," says Blum, leaning forward, "on the budget Congress approved for the project, that particular concrete substitute was the only material we could afford."
The congressmen looked at one another, peering at each other over their glasses.
"The government's frugality in its subsidizing of special projects will be noted, Mr. Blum."
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Emolument
Salary, Compensation (n.)
Sarah worked one of the carts they have in malls, you know the ones that have stacks of cheap sunglasses or self-help tapes or those bronze things that look like mechanical spiders that you're supposed to rub up and down your scalp to relax yourself? She didn't sell those, though. She sold little plastic stress tubes filled with soap and water that flopped and flipped limply when squeezed. You could buy family packs of them in different sizes or you could buy them individually. They were supposed to make you feel calm after a long day at work. The cart had a big cardboard sign on it that said "Because you deserve it!"
Sarah got the job because she needed money, because when she went with her friends to the mall they always bought all kinds of clothes and accessories and she wanted to buy clothes and accessories too. Their parents gave them an allowance that they could spend on these things. But Sarah's mother couldn't afford an allowance on her nurse's salary since her husband, Sarah's father, ran off with a girl from the accounts payable department in his office. She told Sarah to get a job. So Sarah checked websites for advertisements and sent emails and was hired by a guy who owns all the carts in the mall. He met her, looked her up and down, and said "sure" and showed her the floppy tubes and gave her a contract with very small print that she signed and dated. Sarah was on commission for selling the tubes. She got paid according to how many she sold per day. But Sarah didn't know much about selling things. She just wanted to buy clothes like her friends.
While working she wore a lot of make up and a tucked-in polo shirt and she sat on a stool, hunched over. It sucked because her cart was right outside of the Gap, which was where all her friends bought clothes and accessories. So she would sit there at her cart, hunched over, polo shirt tucked-in, flipping a tube up and down in her hand, daydreaming at the mannequins in the windows of the Gap as potential customers passed by her cart. Every half hour Sarah would look at the sign on her cart and read it under her breath "Because you deserve it!" and then return to staring at the mannequins.
Sarah worked one of the carts they have in malls, you know the ones that have stacks of cheap sunglasses or self-help tapes or those bronze things that look like mechanical spiders that you're supposed to rub up and down your scalp to relax yourself? She didn't sell those, though. She sold little plastic stress tubes filled with soap and water that flopped and flipped limply when squeezed. You could buy family packs of them in different sizes or you could buy them individually. They were supposed to make you feel calm after a long day at work. The cart had a big cardboard sign on it that said "Because you deserve it!"
Sarah got the job because she needed money, because when she went with her friends to the mall they always bought all kinds of clothes and accessories and she wanted to buy clothes and accessories too. Their parents gave them an allowance that they could spend on these things. But Sarah's mother couldn't afford an allowance on her nurse's salary since her husband, Sarah's father, ran off with a girl from the accounts payable department in his office. She told Sarah to get a job. So Sarah checked websites for advertisements and sent emails and was hired by a guy who owns all the carts in the mall. He met her, looked her up and down, and said "sure" and showed her the floppy tubes and gave her a contract with very small print that she signed and dated. Sarah was on commission for selling the tubes. She got paid according to how many she sold per day. But Sarah didn't know much about selling things. She just wanted to buy clothes like her friends.
While working she wore a lot of make up and a tucked-in polo shirt and she sat on a stool, hunched over. It sucked because her cart was right outside of the Gap, which was where all her friends bought clothes and accessories. So she would sit there at her cart, hunched over, polo shirt tucked-in, flipping a tube up and down in her hand, daydreaming at the mannequins in the windows of the Gap as potential customers passed by her cart. Every half hour Sarah would look at the sign on her cart and read it under her breath "Because you deserve it!" and then return to staring at the mannequins.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Proscribe
Ostracize, banish (v.)
guilt
There was once a time that no religion or theory of science mentions when Ostriches were the dominant species on earth. They ruled with a mighty wing and had a great, intricate system of social relationships: governments, economies, familial and work-related castes. Their populations were densest in Western Europe, Ostrich cities rising in mounds of feathery brick along what's now the English channel: modern-day France, Germany, the United Kingdom were populated solely by the Ostrich cosmopolis.
The ostriches co-existed peacefully with other, lesser animals. Wild herds of Homo Erectus, for example, roamed the many undeveloped countrysides grunting and hunting and gathering and staying in their caves of dirt.
In one such cave right outside the Ostrich cosmopolis, a set of Homo Erectus parents gave birth to a strangely hairless and upright son with a large head. The first years of his life were normal. The parents cared for him and raised him, feeding him nuts and berries and small mammals and showing him the Ostrich cities and teaching him about the boundaries of their world. But after what we would call sixteen years, the son began to act very strangely. This son made many strange noises that his parents didn't recognize and squinted at everything with a perplexed face. He pointed at many things, looking perplexed, and made so many different kinds of sounds that his parents, though caring and nurturing, couldn't understand what he was trying to communicate. They shrugged at him when he made these noises and continued with their business, patting him on the head and walking away.
One night the son returned to his parents' cave carrying the body of what looked to be a dead baby chimpanzee. Its face was multilated and its arms were twisted and covered in dried blood. He shoved the corpse in their faces, shaking it back and forth and yelling many noises they could not comprehend. A look of concern came to his mother's eyes, and she reached out to her son, whose eyes were bloodshot and spilling tears. But the son, in a rage, threw the carcass at his mother when she reached for him. Then he grabbed her arm and she winced, her eyes now filled with horror at her child as he gripped her. He began to scream at her, lunging at her with every scream.
The son's father, confused, never before confronted with such a thing, threw himself at his son and yelled to protect his wife. The son didn't stop. He continued yelling and hurting his mother. Then his father grabbed his son by the neck and dragged him to the entrance of their cave and thew him to the ground. Then he grunted again and his eyes darted back and forth as if he were taking a new step into a new world and was looking at the horizon for guidance, as if this was a new step in evolution, as if he was unprepared for the change that he and his kind were undergoing at that very moment. He blinked and pointed his hairy finger to the fields, away from his home, toward the Ostrich cities.
The son rose to his feet, a look of terror and confusion on his face, and he ran in the direction his father pointed.
One custom of the Ostrich cosmopolis should be mentioned specifically. Crimes occured in the cities of Ostriches, but crimes were more indicative of an individual's forgetfulness or absent-mindedness than their maliciousness. It was therefore not society that punished its criminals--the criminals punished themselves because as soon as they committed a crime they remembered the rule that had slipped their mind. Such an individual, immediately after committing a crime, would go out to the outskirts of the city, into the forests and fields, find a nice earthy spot, and bury his or her head in the ground. Since the Ostriches communicated by blinks and weaves of their necks, they instinctually punished themselves through isolation. In those moments buried in the dirt and soil, the criminals would wait until their time was up. They knew when this was--every individual knew how much time to spend proscribed, every crime had its own appropriate period of separation. After a recalcitrant individual spent a proportionate amount of time without interacting socially, he or she would lift his or her head out of the ground and return, resocialized, to the city. The Ostriches didn't know why or how they did this. There were no explanations or books or speeches or justifications in their community. They all naturally obeyed the social order.
After several days of delirious wandering through valleys, in meadows, and across rivers, the son found the top of a small hill and looked down into an Ostrich city. The paths and mounds that composed the city glistened in the sun, and he was attracted to its complexity. Surely, he thought, animals that could build this would understand him.
On his way to the city he saw a strange thing. In several fields, very far apart, he saw three ostriches with their heads buried in the ground, their chests expanding and retracting with their breaths. He stopped to consider these and muttered several noises to himself. He walked on without disturbing them.
When the son reached the edge of the city he was exhausted from his experience at home and his days of desultory travel. He was met by a delegation of Ostriches, who circled around him. He stood completely still during this process and the birds, because of his stillness, found him acceptable. They brought him to the hut of one individual who had a spare bed and gave the son water and grain to eat. They showed him a mattress next to the resident's mattress where he could sleep. After eating and making many noises to the Ostriches, he laid down on the mattress and fell into a deep slumber. The group looked at one another, blinked and swayed their necks in approval, and left the son in peace.
That night there came a piercing shriek from the tent where the son slept. It was not mammalian, but avian. It echoed through the streets of the Ostrich city, and a herd of individuals ran to their guest's tent. They found the son beating his host with his fists, his face calm, his eyes closed and tense. Blood stained the dirt beneath the now inert corpse of the host ostrich, its body quivering limply after each successive strike.
The herd blinked and weaved at one another frantically and two of them ran to the son and pushed him back with their necks and legs. The son's eyes opened and he gasped and was overwhelmed by the chaotic flapping and kicking all around him. Through the legs of the ostriches he saw the corpse of the bird that had been so kind to him and felt a surge of confusion and pain in his chest. He began to make noises, pitiful and sad noises, and cried, choking on his noises. He repeated them over and over again while the other Ostriches kicked and flailed at him.
After several minutes of blink and weave discussion, the birds decided what they would do with the son. One of the stronger birds kicked the son in the head and the son passed out, his screams silenced and his body hitting the floor. The herd dragged him into the night to the outskirts of their city. They dragged him over rocks and in between trees and through streams. They found a flat meadow and then they buried the son's head in the dirt according to their custom.
After an hour, the son woke up. His eyes, ears, nose, and his mouth were filled with soil. He experienced the blackness of his proscription and lifted his head out of the ground in terror. He coughed, the dirt fillinf every orifice of his face. He made a noise as he did this, looking out into the night and finding that he was alone, and he coughed and began to cry. The noise he made as he sobbed and coughed sounded like "gylt, gylt."
guilt
- O.E. gylt "crime, sin, fault, fine," of unknown origin, though some suspect a connection to O.E. gieldan "to pay for, debt," but O.E.D. editors find this "inadmissible phonologically." The mistaken use for "sense of guilt" is first recorded 1690. Guilt by association first recorded 1941. Guilty is from O.E. gyltig, from gylt.
There was once a time that no religion or theory of science mentions when Ostriches were the dominant species on earth. They ruled with a mighty wing and had a great, intricate system of social relationships: governments, economies, familial and work-related castes. Their populations were densest in Western Europe, Ostrich cities rising in mounds of feathery brick along what's now the English channel: modern-day France, Germany, the United Kingdom were populated solely by the Ostrich cosmopolis.
The ostriches co-existed peacefully with other, lesser animals. Wild herds of Homo Erectus, for example, roamed the many undeveloped countrysides grunting and hunting and gathering and staying in their caves of dirt.
In one such cave right outside the Ostrich cosmopolis, a set of Homo Erectus parents gave birth to a strangely hairless and upright son with a large head. The first years of his life were normal. The parents cared for him and raised him, feeding him nuts and berries and small mammals and showing him the Ostrich cities and teaching him about the boundaries of their world. But after what we would call sixteen years, the son began to act very strangely. This son made many strange noises that his parents didn't recognize and squinted at everything with a perplexed face. He pointed at many things, looking perplexed, and made so many different kinds of sounds that his parents, though caring and nurturing, couldn't understand what he was trying to communicate. They shrugged at him when he made these noises and continued with their business, patting him on the head and walking away.
One night the son returned to his parents' cave carrying the body of what looked to be a dead baby chimpanzee. Its face was multilated and its arms were twisted and covered in dried blood. He shoved the corpse in their faces, shaking it back and forth and yelling many noises they could not comprehend. A look of concern came to his mother's eyes, and she reached out to her son, whose eyes were bloodshot and spilling tears. But the son, in a rage, threw the carcass at his mother when she reached for him. Then he grabbed her arm and she winced, her eyes now filled with horror at her child as he gripped her. He began to scream at her, lunging at her with every scream.
The son's father, confused, never before confronted with such a thing, threw himself at his son and yelled to protect his wife. The son didn't stop. He continued yelling and hurting his mother. Then his father grabbed his son by the neck and dragged him to the entrance of their cave and thew him to the ground. Then he grunted again and his eyes darted back and forth as if he were taking a new step into a new world and was looking at the horizon for guidance, as if this was a new step in evolution, as if he was unprepared for the change that he and his kind were undergoing at that very moment. He blinked and pointed his hairy finger to the fields, away from his home, toward the Ostrich cities.
The son rose to his feet, a look of terror and confusion on his face, and he ran in the direction his father pointed.
One custom of the Ostrich cosmopolis should be mentioned specifically. Crimes occured in the cities of Ostriches, but crimes were more indicative of an individual's forgetfulness or absent-mindedness than their maliciousness. It was therefore not society that punished its criminals--the criminals punished themselves because as soon as they committed a crime they remembered the rule that had slipped their mind. Such an individual, immediately after committing a crime, would go out to the outskirts of the city, into the forests and fields, find a nice earthy spot, and bury his or her head in the ground. Since the Ostriches communicated by blinks and weaves of their necks, they instinctually punished themselves through isolation. In those moments buried in the dirt and soil, the criminals would wait until their time was up. They knew when this was--every individual knew how much time to spend proscribed, every crime had its own appropriate period of separation. After a recalcitrant individual spent a proportionate amount of time without interacting socially, he or she would lift his or her head out of the ground and return, resocialized, to the city. The Ostriches didn't know why or how they did this. There were no explanations or books or speeches or justifications in their community. They all naturally obeyed the social order.
After several days of delirious wandering through valleys, in meadows, and across rivers, the son found the top of a small hill and looked down into an Ostrich city. The paths and mounds that composed the city glistened in the sun, and he was attracted to its complexity. Surely, he thought, animals that could build this would understand him.
On his way to the city he saw a strange thing. In several fields, very far apart, he saw three ostriches with their heads buried in the ground, their chests expanding and retracting with their breaths. He stopped to consider these and muttered several noises to himself. He walked on without disturbing them.
When the son reached the edge of the city he was exhausted from his experience at home and his days of desultory travel. He was met by a delegation of Ostriches, who circled around him. He stood completely still during this process and the birds, because of his stillness, found him acceptable. They brought him to the hut of one individual who had a spare bed and gave the son water and grain to eat. They showed him a mattress next to the resident's mattress where he could sleep. After eating and making many noises to the Ostriches, he laid down on the mattress and fell into a deep slumber. The group looked at one another, blinked and swayed their necks in approval, and left the son in peace.
That night there came a piercing shriek from the tent where the son slept. It was not mammalian, but avian. It echoed through the streets of the Ostrich city, and a herd of individuals ran to their guest's tent. They found the son beating his host with his fists, his face calm, his eyes closed and tense. Blood stained the dirt beneath the now inert corpse of the host ostrich, its body quivering limply after each successive strike.
The herd blinked and weaved at one another frantically and two of them ran to the son and pushed him back with their necks and legs. The son's eyes opened and he gasped and was overwhelmed by the chaotic flapping and kicking all around him. Through the legs of the ostriches he saw the corpse of the bird that had been so kind to him and felt a surge of confusion and pain in his chest. He began to make noises, pitiful and sad noises, and cried, choking on his noises. He repeated them over and over again while the other Ostriches kicked and flailed at him.
After several minutes of blink and weave discussion, the birds decided what they would do with the son. One of the stronger birds kicked the son in the head and the son passed out, his screams silenced and his body hitting the floor. The herd dragged him into the night to the outskirts of their city. They dragged him over rocks and in between trees and through streams. They found a flat meadow and then they buried the son's head in the dirt according to their custom.
After an hour, the son woke up. His eyes, ears, nose, and his mouth were filled with soil. He experienced the blackness of his proscription and lifted his head out of the ground in terror. He coughed, the dirt fillinf every orifice of his face. He made a noise as he did this, looking out into the night and finding that he was alone, and he coughed and began to cry. The noise he made as he sobbed and coughed sounded like "gylt, gylt."
Monday, May 21, 2007
Vulpine
Like a fox, crafty (adj.)
Jason Guar opened the door and its hinges moaned and little bells tinkled magically as it shut behind him. His feet creaked the wood as he walked the plank of the trading post. He held his briefcase confidently and unbuttoned the top button of his business shirt.
Shelves surrounded him, full to the edges with authentic-looking Pueblo trinkets and souvenirs: baskets, vases, homemade fishing poles, t-shirts, knitted hats, quilts, pillows and pillow cases, moccasins, totem poles, drums, snuff boxes, painted pocket knives, dream catchers with feathers and feather headdresses. Every single piece he saw had a similar insignia painted on it--the face of a cat, or coyote, or fox-- a sharp face with two ears and two sly slits for eyes. Everything seemed to be hand-made and in great quantity.
Guar walked up to a shelf with a box of key chains and held one in his hand. It was a piece of smooth burnt wood with a fox face painted on it in white.
"Like that key chain?" the voice of an old man boomed from his right. It startled him. He put the key chain on the shelf and looked toward the end of the aisle. The question was said with an unnecessarily loud volume, as if the speaker were close to deaf, so Guar returned responded with what he thought was an appropriate loudness,
"Oh, yes, very much!" he said.
Guar heard some shuffling to his right and saw a old man appear at the end of the aisle. He looked about five feet tall and had bright white hair. He looked concerned.
"Alright, I can hear you son, don't need to shout."
The old man shuffled his legs toward Guar and spoke again.
"How can I help you?"
"Actually," Guar said, "I'm not looking for something, I'm looking for someone. Herbert Lobos?"
"Herbert Lobos?" the man repeated.
"Yes, Mr. Herbert Lobos."
The old man looked at the key chain Guar had put back on the edge of the shelf. Then he slowly raised his arm and put it back in the pile of key chains like it.
"Hmmm," he said, "I'm Herbert Lobos," he said, looking up at Guar.
"Oh, well," said Guar, surprised, "that's very helpful. Mr. Lobos, I'm Jason Guar from the Internal Revenue Service and I need to ask you a few urgent questions about your taxes."
"From where?" the man asked.
"Oh, I'm from the Internal Revenue Service. The IRS."
Lobos looked Guar up and down.
"Never heard of it," he said.
Guar looked around, nodding, and blinked largely and obviously several times.
"Well, that would explain quite a bit actually."
He removed several pieces of paper from his briefcase looked over a series of printed numbers.
"Mr. Lobos, you owe the United States government $143, 562.73 in federal income taxes. You owe the state of New Mexico $65,783.23 in state income taxes."
Lobos hobbled next to Guar so his chin almost pressed againt Guar's upper arm and squinted at the forms.
"Oh," he said.
"Somehow, you've avoided paying taxes for over nine years Mr. Lobos. The IRS sent me to make sure everything in your store was here and to warn you of this. If you don't pay the government back you will be in serious trouble.
"Hmmm," Lobos said, "trouble."
"Yes, quite a bit of trouble," Guar said in his most administrative-sounding voice.
Lobos blinked and looked up at Guar. The old man was like a nymph, like a god and a child and an animal combined. Guar watched him as he nodded.
"Okay," Lobos said, "I'll have the money for you tomorrow."
Guar took a breath in and nodded, humoring Lobos.
"All the money, Mr. Lobos, by tomorrow?"
"Yes, I'll have the money for you tomorrow."
"Well, uhm, okay, then, do you need these amounts?"
"No, that's okay, " he said, "I will see you tomorrow."
Guar, not knowing what else to do, closed his briefcase and continued nodding. Then he said,
"Okay, well, I'll leave these papers here just in case. I'll be back for them tomorrow."
"Good," said the old man, who stuck out his leathery hand for a shake. Guar took it and pumped it twice. The man's hand was warm, like earthy clay. Guar took a short breathe and turned around and walked out the door, bells tinkling as it shut behind him.
The next day, Guar pulled into the trading post parking lot. He walked to the front door and opened it. The hinges moaned, but the bells didn't tinkle when the door shut. There were no bells. The Guar looked up. There was nothing inside the store. It was completely empty. Guar's feet creaked on the wood as he took small steps in circles to scan and make sure of what he saw. He saw empty shelves and sunlight catching plumes of dust floating in the air. Guar walked to the counter and saw the papers he had left with Lobos the day before. The key chain with the white fox face painted on it was lying on top of them.
Jason Guar opened the door and its hinges moaned and little bells tinkled magically as it shut behind him. His feet creaked the wood as he walked the plank of the trading post. He held his briefcase confidently and unbuttoned the top button of his business shirt.
Shelves surrounded him, full to the edges with authentic-looking Pueblo trinkets and souvenirs: baskets, vases, homemade fishing poles, t-shirts, knitted hats, quilts, pillows and pillow cases, moccasins, totem poles, drums, snuff boxes, painted pocket knives, dream catchers with feathers and feather headdresses. Every single piece he saw had a similar insignia painted on it--the face of a cat, or coyote, or fox-- a sharp face with two ears and two sly slits for eyes. Everything seemed to be hand-made and in great quantity.
Guar walked up to a shelf with a box of key chains and held one in his hand. It was a piece of smooth burnt wood with a fox face painted on it in white.
"Like that key chain?" the voice of an old man boomed from his right. It startled him. He put the key chain on the shelf and looked toward the end of the aisle. The question was said with an unnecessarily loud volume, as if the speaker were close to deaf, so Guar returned responded with what he thought was an appropriate loudness,
"Oh, yes, very much!" he said.
Guar heard some shuffling to his right and saw a old man appear at the end of the aisle. He looked about five feet tall and had bright white hair. He looked concerned.
"Alright, I can hear you son, don't need to shout."
The old man shuffled his legs toward Guar and spoke again.
"How can I help you?"
"Actually," Guar said, "I'm not looking for something, I'm looking for someone. Herbert Lobos?"
"Herbert Lobos?" the man repeated.
"Yes, Mr. Herbert Lobos."
The old man looked at the key chain Guar had put back on the edge of the shelf. Then he slowly raised his arm and put it back in the pile of key chains like it.
"Hmmm," he said, "I'm Herbert Lobos," he said, looking up at Guar.
"Oh, well," said Guar, surprised, "that's very helpful. Mr. Lobos, I'm Jason Guar from the Internal Revenue Service and I need to ask you a few urgent questions about your taxes."
"From where?" the man asked.
"Oh, I'm from the Internal Revenue Service. The IRS."
Lobos looked Guar up and down.
"Never heard of it," he said.
Guar looked around, nodding, and blinked largely and obviously several times.
"Well, that would explain quite a bit actually."
He removed several pieces of paper from his briefcase looked over a series of printed numbers.
"Mr. Lobos, you owe the United States government $143, 562.73 in federal income taxes. You owe the state of New Mexico $65,783.23 in state income taxes."
Lobos hobbled next to Guar so his chin almost pressed againt Guar's upper arm and squinted at the forms.
"Oh," he said.
"Somehow, you've avoided paying taxes for over nine years Mr. Lobos. The IRS sent me to make sure everything in your store was here and to warn you of this. If you don't pay the government back you will be in serious trouble.
"Hmmm," Lobos said, "trouble."
"Yes, quite a bit of trouble," Guar said in his most administrative-sounding voice.
Lobos blinked and looked up at Guar. The old man was like a nymph, like a god and a child and an animal combined. Guar watched him as he nodded.
"Okay," Lobos said, "I'll have the money for you tomorrow."
Guar took a breath in and nodded, humoring Lobos.
"All the money, Mr. Lobos, by tomorrow?"
"Yes, I'll have the money for you tomorrow."
"Well, uhm, okay, then, do you need these amounts?"
"No, that's okay, " he said, "I will see you tomorrow."
Guar, not knowing what else to do, closed his briefcase and continued nodding. Then he said,
"Okay, well, I'll leave these papers here just in case. I'll be back for them tomorrow."
"Good," said the old man, who stuck out his leathery hand for a shake. Guar took it and pumped it twice. The man's hand was warm, like earthy clay. Guar took a short breathe and turned around and walked out the door, bells tinkling as it shut behind him.
The next day, Guar pulled into the trading post parking lot. He walked to the front door and opened it. The hinges moaned, but the bells didn't tinkle when the door shut. There were no bells. The Guar looked up. There was nothing inside the store. It was completely empty. Guar's feet creaked on the wood as he took small steps in circles to scan and make sure of what he saw. He saw empty shelves and sunlight catching plumes of dust floating in the air. Guar walked to the counter and saw the papers he had left with Lobos the day before. The key chain with the white fox face painted on it was lying on top of them.
Sartorial
Pertaining to tailors (adj.)
The poet Virgil died in a little town called Piedigrotta in Northern Italy. In the center of Piedigrotta there is a place called the Round Square. There are two tailor shops in the Round Square, Tamado's and Rozzini's, one on either side of the plaza. The two best tailors in all of Italy occupy these shops. They do not take business from one another, in a marvel of market competition they actually exist in a kind of harmony with each other. Since they are the best tailors in a country known for its garments, many wealthy sybarites come from all over the world to the Round Square for their tailoring. If Rozzini can't take a customer, he calls Tamado and makes an appointment-- and vice versa.
One day a particularly imaginative and literary investment banker named Sebastian Harris had an idea while watching Rozzini spin around him and make little chalk marks on his cuffs and inseam and sleeves.
"Rozzini?"
"Yah yah?"
"I have an idea."
"What is your idea, senore?"
"The festival for Virgil is coming up right?"
"Yes yes, the day the great poet died in our town. Always a nice time of year here."
"Well, I was thinking just now that it would be interesting to see you and Tamado make suits for each other at the same time."
"I do not understand, senore, what you mean."
"Well, you and Tamado are masters. Watching you work is real poetry, and I think it would be great fun, an epic kind of event, if both of you tailored suits for one another simultaneously."
"Where and why and for what would we do this?" the old man asked, a perpetual smile on his face.
"Out there," Harris pointed to the Round Square, "during Virgil's festival."
Rozzini looked down, a measuring tape thrown about his shoulders.
"This seems difficult logistically," he said, "Tamado and I are busy busy men, and also, to cut a suit requires great stillness from the person one is fitting it to. Two tailors at the same time would most likely cancel themselves out if such a thing were attempted."
"Well," replied Harris, "I'd make sure all the appointments were taken care of. And we could hold a benefit for the church and the schools, advertise around. It would be great for the town. Events bring people. People bring money..."
Harris' eyes lit up with creation as the possibility of this distended in his mind, each second another possible facet of the event birthing into his imagination. His business-busy mind milled over the marketing strategies, the possible investors, tourist agencies, and pamphlets. After a few seconds of this Rozzini kneeled on the floor by Harris' feet and ran his hand quickly up Harris' inseam to wake him up from the dream. Harris took a quick breath in and looked around the room.
"You dream you dream, senore, like Virgil our poet. And his spirit smiles at you, but I do not think this one will be a reality."
Harris raised his dark, virile eyebrows and watched Rozzini return to his work, his fingers floating magically across the seams and cuffs of the suit.
The end of the business day arrived and Rozzini was finishing a stitch in a blazer when his phone rang.
"Alo?"
"Rozzini?"
"Ciao, Tamado, my friend, how goes it?"
"A man called Harris came to see me today."
Rozzini's forehead furrowed, he recognized the name but in his senility had forgotten why it sounded familiar.
"A man named who?" he asked.
"Harris."
"Harris?"
"Yes, Harris."
He pauses, getting lost in the folds of what looks like a thousand shirts hanging from the ceiling of his shop. He blinks and tries to sound like he remembers.
"Harris, oh yes yes, Harris."
"He mentioned an event to me that I found interesting but a little, ehm, disquieting."
"Oh, Harris!" Rozzini triumphantly remembered, "disquieting?"
"Did he propose to you that we make suits for one another to raise money for the town at the festival?"
"Yah yah that is what he said. He said it would bring many people and that we could raise money for the schools and the church."
"What do you think of it?" Tamado asked.
"I know our children need new desks at the primary school," Rozzini said, "and that the windows at the church have needed a cleaning since Virgil's wake," he chuckled, "And this man Harris is very passionate about the idea, as a tribute somehow..."
"Tribute?"
"Yah yah, that it would be for the festival of Virgil if we did this."
Then a feeling arose in Rozzini, a youthful, wise, absurd kind of feeling. He felt it in his knees and thighs and shoulders, a fuzziness, a warmth, and it produced a smile on his face. It was as if the universe were contained in its entirety within that moment, on the phone with Tamado, and all the little particulars of his being came together for him to feel all at once, his 84 years mushed warmly into one emotion. It caused him to say,
"I think we should it, my friend."
An electricity ran through his fingers.
"We should?" asked Tamado.
"Yah yah, I will call Harris to tell him we will do it."
It is the day of the festival. On a stage in the center of the Round Square stand the mayor of Piedigrotta and Harris. They wave to a large crowd, the townspeople and tourists talking at a pleasant volume to one another. Next to Harris stands Rozzini and Tamado wearing smock-like drapes of suit cloth ready to be tailored. The mayor points to the two men, who nod in response. They face one another to begin.
At first the men reach for the same places, trying to measure and mark each other, but their hands hit. Their heads bump, and several people chuckle in the crowd. The men stand back from one another and take a breath. They try again and, after several more comical interferences, Rozzini kneels to do the cuffs of Tamado's pants and Tamado, simultaneously, measures the neck of Rozzini's blazer. They find that they can fit together. After this they examine one another's sleeves, each taking the opposite arm to compliment the other, and it becomes a harmonic dance between them, each of them bending to match and comprimse with the other's movements.
The audience is captivated, and after ten minutes, the tailors stand back from one another, looking each other up and down, and they nod and face the crowd. They audience cheers and yells their names in the same collective breath as the name of Virgil--as if the two men are, in their fitted harmony, a sartorial avatar of the poet himself.
The poet Virgil died in a little town called Piedigrotta in Northern Italy. In the center of Piedigrotta there is a place called the Round Square. There are two tailor shops in the Round Square, Tamado's and Rozzini's, one on either side of the plaza. The two best tailors in all of Italy occupy these shops. They do not take business from one another, in a marvel of market competition they actually exist in a kind of harmony with each other. Since they are the best tailors in a country known for its garments, many wealthy sybarites come from all over the world to the Round Square for their tailoring. If Rozzini can't take a customer, he calls Tamado and makes an appointment-- and vice versa.
One day a particularly imaginative and literary investment banker named Sebastian Harris had an idea while watching Rozzini spin around him and make little chalk marks on his cuffs and inseam and sleeves.
"Rozzini?"
"Yah yah?"
"I have an idea."
"What is your idea, senore?"
"The festival for Virgil is coming up right?"
"Yes yes, the day the great poet died in our town. Always a nice time of year here."
"Well, I was thinking just now that it would be interesting to see you and Tamado make suits for each other at the same time."
"I do not understand, senore, what you mean."
"Well, you and Tamado are masters. Watching you work is real poetry, and I think it would be great fun, an epic kind of event, if both of you tailored suits for one another simultaneously."
"Where and why and for what would we do this?" the old man asked, a perpetual smile on his face.
"Out there," Harris pointed to the Round Square, "during Virgil's festival."
Rozzini looked down, a measuring tape thrown about his shoulders.
"This seems difficult logistically," he said, "Tamado and I are busy busy men, and also, to cut a suit requires great stillness from the person one is fitting it to. Two tailors at the same time would most likely cancel themselves out if such a thing were attempted."
"Well," replied Harris, "I'd make sure all the appointments were taken care of. And we could hold a benefit for the church and the schools, advertise around. It would be great for the town. Events bring people. People bring money..."
Harris' eyes lit up with creation as the possibility of this distended in his mind, each second another possible facet of the event birthing into his imagination. His business-busy mind milled over the marketing strategies, the possible investors, tourist agencies, and pamphlets. After a few seconds of this Rozzini kneeled on the floor by Harris' feet and ran his hand quickly up Harris' inseam to wake him up from the dream. Harris took a quick breath in and looked around the room.
"You dream you dream, senore, like Virgil our poet. And his spirit smiles at you, but I do not think this one will be a reality."
Harris raised his dark, virile eyebrows and watched Rozzini return to his work, his fingers floating magically across the seams and cuffs of the suit.
The end of the business day arrived and Rozzini was finishing a stitch in a blazer when his phone rang.
"Alo?"
"Rozzini?"
"Ciao, Tamado, my friend, how goes it?"
"A man called Harris came to see me today."
Rozzini's forehead furrowed, he recognized the name but in his senility had forgotten why it sounded familiar.
"A man named who?" he asked.
"Harris."
"Harris?"
"Yes, Harris."
He pauses, getting lost in the folds of what looks like a thousand shirts hanging from the ceiling of his shop. He blinks and tries to sound like he remembers.
"Harris, oh yes yes, Harris."
"He mentioned an event to me that I found interesting but a little, ehm, disquieting."
"Oh, Harris!" Rozzini triumphantly remembered, "disquieting?"
"Did he propose to you that we make suits for one another to raise money for the town at the festival?"
"Yah yah that is what he said. He said it would bring many people and that we could raise money for the schools and the church."
"What do you think of it?" Tamado asked.
"I know our children need new desks at the primary school," Rozzini said, "and that the windows at the church have needed a cleaning since Virgil's wake," he chuckled, "And this man Harris is very passionate about the idea, as a tribute somehow..."
"Tribute?"
"Yah yah, that it would be for the festival of Virgil if we did this."
Then a feeling arose in Rozzini, a youthful, wise, absurd kind of feeling. He felt it in his knees and thighs and shoulders, a fuzziness, a warmth, and it produced a smile on his face. It was as if the universe were contained in its entirety within that moment, on the phone with Tamado, and all the little particulars of his being came together for him to feel all at once, his 84 years mushed warmly into one emotion. It caused him to say,
"I think we should it, my friend."
An electricity ran through his fingers.
"We should?" asked Tamado.
"Yah yah, I will call Harris to tell him we will do it."
It is the day of the festival. On a stage in the center of the Round Square stand the mayor of Piedigrotta and Harris. They wave to a large crowd, the townspeople and tourists talking at a pleasant volume to one another. Next to Harris stands Rozzini and Tamado wearing smock-like drapes of suit cloth ready to be tailored. The mayor points to the two men, who nod in response. They face one another to begin.
At first the men reach for the same places, trying to measure and mark each other, but their hands hit. Their heads bump, and several people chuckle in the crowd. The men stand back from one another and take a breath. They try again and, after several more comical interferences, Rozzini kneels to do the cuffs of Tamado's pants and Tamado, simultaneously, measures the neck of Rozzini's blazer. They find that they can fit together. After this they examine one another's sleeves, each taking the opposite arm to compliment the other, and it becomes a harmonic dance between them, each of them bending to match and comprimse with the other's movements.
The audience is captivated, and after ten minutes, the tailors stand back from one another, looking each other up and down, and they nod and face the crowd. They audience cheers and yells their names in the same collective breath as the name of Virgil--as if the two men are, in their fitted harmony, a sartorial avatar of the poet himself.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Unprepossessing
Unattractive (adj.)
"Watch this!" Timmy said.
"What now?" Tommy asked, rolling his eyes.
"I just learned this, watch, they're gonna chase each other."
Timmy put two rectangular magnets on the table and pushed one towards the other. He bumped one into another like bumper cars, but nothing happened.
"Wait, it worked before," Timmy said anxiously.
"What did it do?"
"The one pushed the other one away, like magic, I promise."
"Whatever," Tommy said as he walked away.
"Watch this!" Timmy said.
"What now?" Tommy asked, rolling his eyes.
"I just learned this, watch, they're gonna chase each other."
Timmy put two rectangular magnets on the table and pushed one towards the other. He bumped one into another like bumper cars, but nothing happened.
"Wait, it worked before," Timmy said anxiously.
"What did it do?"
"The one pushed the other one away, like magic, I promise."
"Whatever," Tommy said as he walked away.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Venerate
Revere (v.)
Toby was an extremely precocious fifth grader who, when his class was assigned the task of memorizing "Paul Revere's Ride" by Longfellow, asked his teacher:
"Was 'Revere' really the man's name?"
"Yes, Toby, it was his name," she assured him.
"Hmm," Toby paused, searching for the right word as he looked around at his classmates busily whispering the lines of the poem to themselves, he said:
"Doesn't that seem terribly...convienient to you?"
Toby was an extremely precocious fifth grader who, when his class was assigned the task of memorizing "Paul Revere's Ride" by Longfellow, asked his teacher:
"Was 'Revere' really the man's name?"
"Yes, Toby, it was his name," she assured him.
"Hmm," Toby paused, searching for the right word as he looked around at his classmates busily whispering the lines of the poem to themselves, he said:
"Doesn't that seem terribly...convienient to you?"
Cozen
Cheat; hoodwink; swindle (v.)
You wouldn't think so but in the alternate universe where advertising characters are the actual existing persons and humans are the manufactured vessels for marketing goods and services, the Charmin Snuggle Bear is a seedy bastard.
For instance: he takes Tony the Tiger's money every time they play poker at the Jolly Green Giant's house because Snuggle knows that Tony will always get drunk on cheap peach schnopps and go all in, even if his mortgage is at stake (which actually happened once). Every month the Giant watches Tony at his table at the end of night holding his furry head in his hands muttering "grrreat" under his jungle cat's breath as Snuggle rakes in the bills with a smile on his soft snout.
Also: Snuggle wrecked the home of Mickey and Minnie Mouse. He seduced Minnie when they met on a cruise to Scandanvia and he got her so wrapped up in his cuddly cozy fur and gentle whispers that she left Mickey. The lawyers went to their work and Minnie pinched Mickey for $1.5 million settlement. A few months later, after Minnie moved in with Snuggle in a bungalow on the Dutch side of St. Thomas, Minnie told Snuggle that she was pregnant. He hugged her. Comforted her. Laid with her all night until she fell asleep. Then he woke up around midnight and left without a trace, except for a fake name signed in the logbook of the St. Thomas branch of Carribbean Bank and a withdrawal agreement for $1 million to be transferred to a Swiss bank under the name "Charming."
Now he lives in Sedona, Arizona. He's a real estate agent there, selling pueblo-looking houses in the red rocks and playing poker with the Giant and Tony and the gang. He has the highest selling rate in his agency. Minnie has no idea where he is, he hasn't heard from her in eight years, and he plans to keep it that way. He does his laundry late at night at a laundromat when everyone else is sleeping.
You wouldn't think so but in the alternate universe where advertising characters are the actual existing persons and humans are the manufactured vessels for marketing goods and services, the Charmin Snuggle Bear is a seedy bastard.
For instance: he takes Tony the Tiger's money every time they play poker at the Jolly Green Giant's house because Snuggle knows that Tony will always get drunk on cheap peach schnopps and go all in, even if his mortgage is at stake (which actually happened once). Every month the Giant watches Tony at his table at the end of night holding his furry head in his hands muttering "grrreat" under his jungle cat's breath as Snuggle rakes in the bills with a smile on his soft snout.
Also: Snuggle wrecked the home of Mickey and Minnie Mouse. He seduced Minnie when they met on a cruise to Scandanvia and he got her so wrapped up in his cuddly cozy fur and gentle whispers that she left Mickey. The lawyers went to their work and Minnie pinched Mickey for $1.5 million settlement. A few months later, after Minnie moved in with Snuggle in a bungalow on the Dutch side of St. Thomas, Minnie told Snuggle that she was pregnant. He hugged her. Comforted her. Laid with her all night until she fell asleep. Then he woke up around midnight and left without a trace, except for a fake name signed in the logbook of the St. Thomas branch of Carribbean Bank and a withdrawal agreement for $1 million to be transferred to a Swiss bank under the name "Charming."
Now he lives in Sedona, Arizona. He's a real estate agent there, selling pueblo-looking houses in the red rocks and playing poker with the Giant and Tony and the gang. He has the highest selling rate in his agency. Minnie has no idea where he is, he hasn't heard from her in eight years, and he plans to keep it that way. He does his laundry late at night at a laundromat when everyone else is sleeping.
Oratorio
Dramatic poem set to music (n.)
"An Ode to Pomo"
(Listen to John Cage's 4:33 while reading the following.)
I can see myself:
I look up the word.
I write it down.
I write down the definition.
Then I think:
"Oh, I could write
a dramatic poem
while listening to music
and then note the music
I was listening to--
that'd be cool."
Then I put something
on the stereo
and begin to picture
what is happening
in the music,
what the sound makes
in my thoughts,
and I begin to write
a poem feverishly
as if, in my weakness,
I need it out on the page.
And then I stop.
And so does the song.
And then when
I am
finished, I look at the words--
right there in front of me.
"An Ode to Pomo"
(Listen to John Cage's 4:33 while reading the following.)
I can see myself:
I look up the word.
I write it down.
I write down the definition.
Then I think:
"Oh, I could write
a dramatic poem
while listening to music
and then note the music
I was listening to--
that'd be cool."
Then I put something
on the stereo
and begin to picture
what is happening
in the music,
what the sound makes
in my thoughts,
and I begin to write
a poem feverishly
as if, in my weakness,
I need it out on the page.
And then I stop.
And so does the song.
And then when
I am
finished, I look at the words--
right there in front of me.
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Taper
Candle (n.)
The purple one of St. Martin de Porres I bought at Shopper's in Virginia as a gag gift.
The memorial one with Lauren's father's name at the yearly Fight Against Cancer festival on the mall.
The one that smells like pines and makes our house not smell like shit.
The ones that still sit in the back of the kitchen cabinet in the house where I grew up that my parents keep for emergencies.
The ones on restaurant tables that never shed enough light to make anything brighter but somehow make all the difference in terms of atmosphere.
The Shabbat ones.
The ones with light bulbs that people plug in.
The one that the little boy held at the funeral for his friend that I took a picture of for the newspaper.
The one they sing about in Rent.
The ones in Paris in San Chapelle that a woman was kneeling in front of and praying to in French.
Every single one every used to write by after everyone else had gone to sleep, and all the wax that dripped onto all tables where they stood.
The purple one of St. Martin de Porres I bought at Shopper's in Virginia as a gag gift.
The memorial one with Lauren's father's name at the yearly Fight Against Cancer festival on the mall.
The one that smells like pines and makes our house not smell like shit.
The ones that still sit in the back of the kitchen cabinet in the house where I grew up that my parents keep for emergencies.
The ones on restaurant tables that never shed enough light to make anything brighter but somehow make all the difference in terms of atmosphere.
The Shabbat ones.
The ones with light bulbs that people plug in.
The one that the little boy held at the funeral for his friend that I took a picture of for the newspaper.
The one they sing about in Rent.
The ones in Paris in San Chapelle that a woman was kneeling in front of and praying to in French.
Every single one every used to write by after everyone else had gone to sleep, and all the wax that dripped onto all tables where they stood.
Agog
Highly excited; intensely curious (adj.)
When Allen Ginsberg published "Howl" and started reading parts of it in public places, people were flitting all over the place to buy it and read it and they started asking each other what it meant and when they did this a particular kind of saliva gathered in abstract places on their lower lips as they discussed their interpretations, feeling vain but justified in their serious poetric engagement with the universe as they dragged on their poorly rolled joints and they found themselves screaming the many passages of poem--the louder they yelled it the clearer, it seemed, its truth became.
When Allen Ginsberg published "Howl" and started reading parts of it in public places, people were flitting all over the place to buy it and read it and they started asking each other what it meant and when they did this a particular kind of saliva gathered in abstract places on their lower lips as they discussed their interpretations, feeling vain but justified in their serious poetric engagement with the universe as they dragged on their poorly rolled joints and they found themselves screaming the many passages of poem--the louder they yelled it the clearer, it seemed, its truth became.
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
Extrude
To push out or force (v.)
Maggie was one of the girls who sat at the table near the windows of the cafeteria, huddled with a group of the boys that smoked and drank and stayed out late, which somehow made them cool. Maggie, because these cool guys found her attractive, was orbited into the group her freshman year when they caught sight of her blond hair and trim legs. They showed an interest in her. And to little Maggie from middle school this was a blessing, a gift. To be a part of something, to have older boys like you, give you rides to school, call you and invite you out was like running around with the gods. Which is what it felt like to her: the parties in dark basements, in the backseats of parents' cars, the fuzzy numbness and adult sting of illegal liquor, the tongues of the boys warm in her mouth, their whispers and breath on her face--this all became normal, the usual godly galavants. She lied to her parents, like the boys told her to, and she wore skimpy little outfits that she would let them take off of her in their cars and at their parties. Each new step in their world was a logical progression from the last until the floor became the ceiling, which was the only thing she saw when they were having their way with her.
When she got pregnant sophomore year, she told the boy she thought was responsible when they were sitting together at the table near the windows in the cafeteria. The next day none of them would talk to her. They wouldn't even look at her. When she approached, they saw her in their periphery and moved away, forming a wall with their broad shoulders. The other girls, the other members of the harem she had once belonged to, began giggling at her and saying strange, snide, and sarcastic things to her, the meanings of which she couldn't comprehend.
When her parents found out they had a similar look on their faces. They shook their heads and at each other and wondered out loud what had happened to their little Maggie from middle school. They decided that she should have the baby and that it would be given up for adoption. And when Maggie was in the last throws of labor and the nurses were telling her to push harder she couldn't help thinking about the boys at the table near the windows in the cafeteria, the way they turned away from her after forcing her out of her childhood.
She screamed as she heaved, and was only silent after she heard the cry of the new life that had been extruded out of her.
Maggie was one of the girls who sat at the table near the windows of the cafeteria, huddled with a group of the boys that smoked and drank and stayed out late, which somehow made them cool. Maggie, because these cool guys found her attractive, was orbited into the group her freshman year when they caught sight of her blond hair and trim legs. They showed an interest in her. And to little Maggie from middle school this was a blessing, a gift. To be a part of something, to have older boys like you, give you rides to school, call you and invite you out was like running around with the gods. Which is what it felt like to her: the parties in dark basements, in the backseats of parents' cars, the fuzzy numbness and adult sting of illegal liquor, the tongues of the boys warm in her mouth, their whispers and breath on her face--this all became normal, the usual godly galavants. She lied to her parents, like the boys told her to, and she wore skimpy little outfits that she would let them take off of her in their cars and at their parties. Each new step in their world was a logical progression from the last until the floor became the ceiling, which was the only thing she saw when they were having their way with her.
When she got pregnant sophomore year, she told the boy she thought was responsible when they were sitting together at the table near the windows in the cafeteria. The next day none of them would talk to her. They wouldn't even look at her. When she approached, they saw her in their periphery and moved away, forming a wall with their broad shoulders. The other girls, the other members of the harem she had once belonged to, began giggling at her and saying strange, snide, and sarcastic things to her, the meanings of which she couldn't comprehend.
When her parents found out they had a similar look on their faces. They shook their heads and at each other and wondered out loud what had happened to their little Maggie from middle school. They decided that she should have the baby and that it would be given up for adoption. And when Maggie was in the last throws of labor and the nurses were telling her to push harder she couldn't help thinking about the boys at the table near the windows in the cafeteria, the way they turned away from her after forcing her out of her childhood.
She screamed as she heaved, and was only silent after she heard the cry of the new life that had been extruded out of her.
Tuesday, May 15, 2007
Sylvan
Pertaining to the woods; rustic (adj.)
One of the reasons I enjoy watching the television show Lost is because I have a very powerful physiological nostalgia when I see people from a developed human culture with refridgerators and central air and sepctic systems and electricity and bouncy office chairs and concrete buildings with rectangular windows--people from this place, the place I am from--running, climbing, scavenging for their lives, drinking rainwater and hunting, using only what they need and needing everything they consume. It makes me wonder about what it means to survive for creatures inside this house of culture and civilization we've created for ourselves; makes me wonder to the point where I'm wishing that survival did not mutate away from the pursuit of happiness as much as it has. It makes me want clear lines drawn separating what I need to live, from what is excessive--bceause a more basic, animal-style, lost-on-an-island kind of culture is one that, while probably difficult, has those lines. This makes me a luddite, a secessionist, a Thoreau-type of eceentric that wants to throw away the things that make life easy, comfortable, manageable, in the name of something more vague and natural and brute. Someone that wants an existence cleaner of material superficialities and more dirty from living. More full of living than inert things designed to protect me from the welter that life in its most sylvan form entails.
It's a deep longing within me, somewhere among the proteins of my gentic material, that gets a jealous pleasure from watching characters live in a way I've never lived, characters that live in a way I might always be too scared to attempt, characters living in a way I might always have to watch from the rectangular window of some concrete building.
One of the reasons I enjoy watching the television show Lost is because I have a very powerful physiological nostalgia when I see people from a developed human culture with refridgerators and central air and sepctic systems and electricity and bouncy office chairs and concrete buildings with rectangular windows--people from this place, the place I am from--running, climbing, scavenging for their lives, drinking rainwater and hunting, using only what they need and needing everything they consume. It makes me wonder about what it means to survive for creatures inside this house of culture and civilization we've created for ourselves; makes me wonder to the point where I'm wishing that survival did not mutate away from the pursuit of happiness as much as it has. It makes me want clear lines drawn separating what I need to live, from what is excessive--bceause a more basic, animal-style, lost-on-an-island kind of culture is one that, while probably difficult, has those lines. This makes me a luddite, a secessionist, a Thoreau-type of eceentric that wants to throw away the things that make life easy, comfortable, manageable, in the name of something more vague and natural and brute. Someone that wants an existence cleaner of material superficialities and more dirty from living. More full of living than inert things designed to protect me from the welter that life in its most sylvan form entails.
It's a deep longing within me, somewhere among the proteins of my gentic material, that gets a jealous pleasure from watching characters live in a way I've never lived, characters that live in a way I might always be too scared to attempt, characters living in a way I might always have to watch from the rectangular window of some concrete building.
Odium
Detestation; hatefulness; disrepute
Ferg pushed open the saloon-style doors and saw a blind woman dovening over a player paino--her fingers hovering over it and her mouth twisted in a lost kind of angst. Several men, broad-backed, sat at a table near her. One of them wore a backwards hat. They all fisted pints of beer, sighing and looking down at their sweaty forearms resting on the table.
There were no windows in the place, no flourescent lights or advertisements. Just a few bare lightbulbs fixed into the ceiling where exposed ventilation tubes crawled in a endless monochromatic confusion. Ferg fingered the card he received in the mail the day before inviting him to an exclusive party at a bar he had never heard of. The directions he followed took him on a familiar highway to an exit he had never seen before.
He sat down on a stool at the bar, which was to the left of the bank of tables and the piano. To his left there was an older looking man with an enervated face and no shirt. His fists were wrapped in gauze and ragged cloth. In one hand he grasped a glass and with the other he steadied a dead body of what looked to be a younger version of himself. The corpse had its own stool.
Next to the boy was a man whose arms and legs looked to be tied in sevreal knots, only a nose and an eye showing through the mess of his limbs. Two young men sat on either side of the tangled man, and checked their watches every minute as if they didn't want to be late for an appointment.
At the end of the bar, to Ferg's right, was a clown dressed all out like he had just come from the circus, a big blue tear painted on his right cheek. The clown touched his face and sipped a beer and talked about the weather with a man wearing the ashy shirt and overalls of a firefighter. The firefighter flicked a zippo on and off, his eyes getting lost in the flame.
The bartender, who was dressed as Abraham Lincoln, approached Ferg from behind the bar.
"Invitation, please," he said.
Ferg unfolded the paper from his pocket, Lincoln looked at it and nodded, putting the paper in his apron.
"First time at The Odium?" he asked.
"Yeah," said Ferg.
"Well, what can I get you?"
"Actually, I have a question. I got that card in the mail with a note saying the manager wanted a story written about this place. Do you know where I could find him, or her?"
"We don't have a manager," Lincoln said, "do you work for a newspaper?"
"No," Ferg said, "I'm just a college student, well, grad student, actually. I'm getting my MFA in creative writing."
"Hmmm," said Lincoln.
"The note, uhm, said there might be a publishing opportunity for me, do you know anything about that?"
Ferg twisted the watch on his wrist, and saw the corpse sitting next to the boxer begin to fall as the boxer caught it with his free hand. The firefighter chuckled at something.
Lincoln cracked a faint grin.
"To be honest, kid," he said, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
Ferg turned to the table and chairs, the four men still hunched together at their table, and the women still dovening back and forth at the player piano, her hands still floating over the keys as they played themselves. Ferg heard the clown ask for another pint and he looked around for the door that he came in through, but he couldn't find it.
Ferg pushed open the saloon-style doors and saw a blind woman dovening over a player paino--her fingers hovering over it and her mouth twisted in a lost kind of angst. Several men, broad-backed, sat at a table near her. One of them wore a backwards hat. They all fisted pints of beer, sighing and looking down at their sweaty forearms resting on the table.
There were no windows in the place, no flourescent lights or advertisements. Just a few bare lightbulbs fixed into the ceiling where exposed ventilation tubes crawled in a endless monochromatic confusion. Ferg fingered the card he received in the mail the day before inviting him to an exclusive party at a bar he had never heard of. The directions he followed took him on a familiar highway to an exit he had never seen before.
He sat down on a stool at the bar, which was to the left of the bank of tables and the piano. To his left there was an older looking man with an enervated face and no shirt. His fists were wrapped in gauze and ragged cloth. In one hand he grasped a glass and with the other he steadied a dead body of what looked to be a younger version of himself. The corpse had its own stool.
Next to the boy was a man whose arms and legs looked to be tied in sevreal knots, only a nose and an eye showing through the mess of his limbs. Two young men sat on either side of the tangled man, and checked their watches every minute as if they didn't want to be late for an appointment.
At the end of the bar, to Ferg's right, was a clown dressed all out like he had just come from the circus, a big blue tear painted on his right cheek. The clown touched his face and sipped a beer and talked about the weather with a man wearing the ashy shirt and overalls of a firefighter. The firefighter flicked a zippo on and off, his eyes getting lost in the flame.
The bartender, who was dressed as Abraham Lincoln, approached Ferg from behind the bar.
"Invitation, please," he said.
Ferg unfolded the paper from his pocket, Lincoln looked at it and nodded, putting the paper in his apron.
"First time at The Odium?" he asked.
"Yeah," said Ferg.
"Well, what can I get you?"
"Actually, I have a question. I got that card in the mail with a note saying the manager wanted a story written about this place. Do you know where I could find him, or her?"
"We don't have a manager," Lincoln said, "do you work for a newspaper?"
"No," Ferg said, "I'm just a college student, well, grad student, actually. I'm getting my MFA in creative writing."
"Hmmm," said Lincoln.
"The note, uhm, said there might be a publishing opportunity for me, do you know anything about that?"
Ferg twisted the watch on his wrist, and saw the corpse sitting next to the boxer begin to fall as the boxer caught it with his free hand. The firefighter chuckled at something.
Lincoln cracked a faint grin.
"To be honest, kid," he said, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
Ferg turned to the table and chairs, the four men still hunched together at their table, and the women still dovening back and forth at the player piano, her hands still floating over the keys as they played themselves. Ferg heard the clown ask for another pint and he looked around for the door that he came in through, but he couldn't find it.
Monday, May 14, 2007
Tantamount
Equivalent in effect or value (adj.)
July in Chicago. Robby and Bobby sit on Robby's stoop watching people walk past them, everyone squinting and sweating. Bobby asks Robby for a dollar and, being a benevolent friend, he obliges.
But Bobby isn't automatically grateful.
"I wanted a dollar," he says.
"I just gave you a dollar," responds Robby.
"No you didn't."
"Yes, I did."
"No. You gave me four quarters."
"Right," Robby nods, "that's a dollar."
"No, that's four quarters."
"Man, four quarters is a freaking dollar."
"Nuh-uh, it isn't," Bobby shakes his head, "it's four freaking quarters."
"Same damn thing," says Robby, sweating.
"I want a soda. Machine on the corner only takes dollars. Not the same thing."
"What're you talking about? I just saw some fat guy putting nickels and dimes in that thing yesterday."
Bobby pauses and reflects on this.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Robby assures him.
Bobby gets up from the stoop, a stain left on the step where he was sitting, and comes back with a cold can of Coke-a-cola. He rubs it against his face and rolls it on the back of his neck.
"So?" Robby asks.
Bobby opens the can and takes a long swig. Then he looks up and scratches his chin with his free hand in playful thought and says,
"You were right. Same damn thing."
July in Chicago. Robby and Bobby sit on Robby's stoop watching people walk past them, everyone squinting and sweating. Bobby asks Robby for a dollar and, being a benevolent friend, he obliges.
But Bobby isn't automatically grateful.
"I wanted a dollar," he says.
"I just gave you a dollar," responds Robby.
"No you didn't."
"Yes, I did."
"No. You gave me four quarters."
"Right," Robby nods, "that's a dollar."
"No, that's four quarters."
"Man, four quarters is a freaking dollar."
"Nuh-uh, it isn't," Bobby shakes his head, "it's four freaking quarters."
"Same damn thing," says Robby, sweating.
"I want a soda. Machine on the corner only takes dollars. Not the same thing."
"What're you talking about? I just saw some fat guy putting nickels and dimes in that thing yesterday."
Bobby pauses and reflects on this.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," Robby assures him.
Bobby gets up from the stoop, a stain left on the step where he was sitting, and comes back with a cold can of Coke-a-cola. He rubs it against his face and rolls it on the back of his neck.
"So?" Robby asks.
Bobby opens the can and takes a long swig. Then he looks up and scratches his chin with his free hand in playful thought and says,
"You were right. Same damn thing."
Facetious
Joking (often inapproptiately); humorous (adj.)
When Christmas came around at the college radio station, the managers of the station shoved a plastic bag from a liquor store in front of me and told me to take a piece of paper out of it. Secret Santa, they said. I looked up at these people who didn't understand my music and were not my friends, and I took out a scrap of an old memo with "Drew Nitsky" scribbled on it. Drew was the head of the hip-hop department. I didn't know him at all, except for the fact that he was white and from Long Island and walked around wearing the hood of a hooded sweatshirt over his head, his pants sagging down from his hips, and wore unlaced designer sneakers in the summer and unlaced designer boots in the winter. I had to buy this person a gift. The radio people said, "Make it funny. Don't spend too much."
I had two ideas about what to get Drew Nitsky, both of them facetious and bookish:
My first idea was to give him an old copy of Langston Hughes' The Ways of White Folks, a collection of short stories whose main theme is white culture's belittlement of black culture through paternal admiration for its "wild" and "magical" art. It would be a "funny uh-oh" kind of joke.
My second idea was to give him a copy of Milan Kundera's The Joke. That, I thought, would tell itself.
They had the Christmas party in the student center. All the DJ's and department chairs came and ate bad frosted cookies, the ones you eat because you've eaten them every Christmas and no matter how stale or pointlessly sweet they are you continue to eat them. The time came for gift-giving. My name and Drew's were called somewhere in the middle of what seemed like a list of four-hundred names.
"Dave had Drew, what'd ya get him Dave?" asked one of the managers, trying to manufacture comedy.
No one laughed.
I walked over to Drew and gave him a book wrapped in comic strips from an old newspaper. Charlie Browns and Family Circuses and Garfields. He ripped it open, hooded head hanging over the gift. He examined the used copy of Kundera's first novel and he looked up at me.
"Oh," he said, "thanks."
"What is it?" someone from Metal Rock asked.
"A book. It's called The Joke," Nitsky said.
Silence.
"They told me it was supposed to be funny," I said to everyone.
When Christmas came around at the college radio station, the managers of the station shoved a plastic bag from a liquor store in front of me and told me to take a piece of paper out of it. Secret Santa, they said. I looked up at these people who didn't understand my music and were not my friends, and I took out a scrap of an old memo with "Drew Nitsky" scribbled on it. Drew was the head of the hip-hop department. I didn't know him at all, except for the fact that he was white and from Long Island and walked around wearing the hood of a hooded sweatshirt over his head, his pants sagging down from his hips, and wore unlaced designer sneakers in the summer and unlaced designer boots in the winter. I had to buy this person a gift. The radio people said, "Make it funny. Don't spend too much."
I had two ideas about what to get Drew Nitsky, both of them facetious and bookish:
My first idea was to give him an old copy of Langston Hughes' The Ways of White Folks, a collection of short stories whose main theme is white culture's belittlement of black culture through paternal admiration for its "wild" and "magical" art. It would be a "funny uh-oh" kind of joke.
My second idea was to give him a copy of Milan Kundera's The Joke. That, I thought, would tell itself.
They had the Christmas party in the student center. All the DJ's and department chairs came and ate bad frosted cookies, the ones you eat because you've eaten them every Christmas and no matter how stale or pointlessly sweet they are you continue to eat them. The time came for gift-giving. My name and Drew's were called somewhere in the middle of what seemed like a list of four-hundred names.
"Dave had Drew, what'd ya get him Dave?" asked one of the managers, trying to manufacture comedy.
No one laughed.
I walked over to Drew and gave him a book wrapped in comic strips from an old newspaper. Charlie Browns and Family Circuses and Garfields. He ripped it open, hooded head hanging over the gift. He examined the used copy of Kundera's first novel and he looked up at me.
"Oh," he said, "thanks."
"What is it?" someone from Metal Rock asked.
"A book. It's called The Joke," Nitsky said.
Silence.
"They told me it was supposed to be funny," I said to everyone.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Connubial/Contusion
Pertaining to marriage (adj.) / Bruise (n.)
When he was reading Mark and Lindsay their vows, Lindsay caught Father Mudd looking down the low-cut v-neck of her wedding dress through his horn-rimmed glasses. Being quick to anger and suspicious of Catholicism, Lindsay took her right hand from her fiance's and punched Father Mudd in the eye.
The ceremony was cancelled, and afterwards Father Mudd could be seen holding an icebag over a black eye as dark as the rims of his horn-rimmed glasses.
When he was reading Mark and Lindsay their vows, Lindsay caught Father Mudd looking down the low-cut v-neck of her wedding dress through his horn-rimmed glasses. Being quick to anger and suspicious of Catholicism, Lindsay took her right hand from her fiance's and punched Father Mudd in the eye.
The ceremony was cancelled, and afterwards Father Mudd could be seen holding an icebag over a black eye as dark as the rims of his horn-rimmed glasses.
Distend
Expand; swell out (v.)
At any given moment:
There might be a woman who eats a piece of blueberry pie everyday to unwind from work who finds that her pant-suit pants no longer fit.
There might be a clown that ties a large balloon to a canister of helium for a little girl and the girl watches in wonder at the latex as it stretches--the color becoming deep and three-dimensional as it expands and hits the sunlight.
There might be a physicist working the late shift at a supercollider who falls asleep at the dials and wakes to a strange sound and sees an explosion of gaseous particles on his screen, a spectrum of hues arrayed in sparkles and helixes and waves moving outward and won't know if he's dreaming.
There might be a man whose 5oth birthday is tomorrow, and as he sleeps in his bed next to his wife the night before dreams of squirrels that drink lemon-flavored seltzer and inflate into balls of fur, their fuzzy tails dangling in the breeze as they float upward into a sky made of viagra.
There might be a teenager who feels the fall of his father from the position of hero-leader he has always occupied and a terrible, open meadow of possibility unrolls before him, distending into four horizons that surround him, and cries himself to sleep for what simultaneously feels like no reason at all and every single reason he's ever known.
There might be a Japanese college student from Hiroshima that visits the Museum of Science in Los Alamos, New Mexico and sees the black and white footage of the atomic bomb being detonated, the flash and expansion and columnal cloud rising out of the desert ground, which gives him that strange sensation that a mind feels when it opens up.
At any given moment:
There might be a woman who eats a piece of blueberry pie everyday to unwind from work who finds that her pant-suit pants no longer fit.
There might be a clown that ties a large balloon to a canister of helium for a little girl and the girl watches in wonder at the latex as it stretches--the color becoming deep and three-dimensional as it expands and hits the sunlight.
There might be a physicist working the late shift at a supercollider who falls asleep at the dials and wakes to a strange sound and sees an explosion of gaseous particles on his screen, a spectrum of hues arrayed in sparkles and helixes and waves moving outward and won't know if he's dreaming.
There might be a man whose 5oth birthday is tomorrow, and as he sleeps in his bed next to his wife the night before dreams of squirrels that drink lemon-flavored seltzer and inflate into balls of fur, their fuzzy tails dangling in the breeze as they float upward into a sky made of viagra.
There might be a teenager who feels the fall of his father from the position of hero-leader he has always occupied and a terrible, open meadow of possibility unrolls before him, distending into four horizons that surround him, and cries himself to sleep for what simultaneously feels like no reason at all and every single reason he's ever known.
There might be a Japanese college student from Hiroshima that visits the Museum of Science in Los Alamos, New Mexico and sees the black and white footage of the atomic bomb being detonated, the flash and expansion and columnal cloud rising out of the desert ground, which gives him that strange sensation that a mind feels when it opens up.
Foment
Stir up; instigate (v.)
Shakla Mana's anarchy always came first, before her cooking. Her poilitical views were firmly rooted in an advocacy for chaos--the chef job was completely practical. She wasn't an unreasonable anarchist. She didn't always talk about bringing down the government and corporations in shards of glass, flesh and flames. She did not have any black t-shirts with the red A struck violently through a broken circle. She had tatoos, but they were small and spread throughout her body--sets of three words each, the same concept translated into as many langauges as was possible--"order" it said on her ankle, her shoulder blade, her wrist. Her conversation didn't give her away. She would lead busboys, waiters, managers, customers to her side of things Socratically, asking questions with open eyes and a calm smile that invariably led to some truth about institutional absurdity.
She also liked to play pranks on her staff. She thought it was the third best anarchic activity after protesting and conversation. Whoopee cushions, fake rats, plastic spiders, tops turned off the salt shakers, pressurized ketchup containers were spread throughout her Washington, DC restaurant.
One Wednesday Shakla was stirring a big pot of marinara sauce next to the three line chefs she called Huey, Dewey, and Louie. They all had backwards hats and greasy facial hair, working the grill like a chorus. Huey alerted her to something.
"Special guest in the house tonight," he said.
"Very special," echoed Dewey.
They slapped raw meat on the grill and smoke rose up into their faces.
"Big time," said Louie.
Shakla raised her eyebrows at them.
"Who?" she asked.
They all looked up from the grill, each fisting a flipper.
"Rumsfeld," they said as a chorus.
"You mean--"
"Donald," said Huey.
"H," said Louie.
"Rumsfeld," said Dewey.
"Big time," repeated Louie, after a pause.
The meat sizzled, proteins and blood bubbling and evaporating.
"Is that right," she said, stirring the red sauce.
"Yup," said Dewey.
"And how do we know this?" she asked.
"Busboy Ted said the top of the salt shaker fell off at table nine and, there he was, apologizing to Rummy himself and his old wife for the mishap."
"Yeah," said Dewey, "Ted said there's a group of secret service guys that all ordered the salmon special a few tables away."
"I see," Shakla said.
The possibilities chased through her mind. The memories of protests, burned effigies of this man, conversations in candlelit rooms with tapestries and Metallica playing about splashing blood on the entrance of the Pentagon, the myriad "what-ifs" and "Man-if-I-saw-that-guy-I'ds." She couldn't let this pass her by. It was too good. She looked down into the sauce and thought.
Then it came to her. Shakla knew what she was going to do.
"What'd he order?" she asked the trio.
"Burger and fries," said Huey.
"Land of the brave," said Dewey.
"Big time," said Louie.
"Alright," said Shakla, "I'll be right back. When his burger's ready--I'll take it to him."
She went to her office in the back of the kitchen, grabbed something from a desk drawer and quickly ran out. She grabbed the plate, burger and fries sitting fresh on the white china.
She had a fog of nervous energy in her stomach, but she acted without thought, without consideration. She brought the plate to the table, weaving around the other customers and busboys and waiters. The secret service men waiting for their salmon looked over their shoulders as she approached. One of them on the end of the table noticed a small metal ring around the middle finger of Shakla's left hand. The agent whispered something to the crew, they all turned around to watch.
She arrived, set the burger down and said,
"Hello Mr. Rumsfeld, I'm Shakla Mana, head chef in the kitchen. I just wanted to welcome you and your wife and say that no matter how our politics might differ, which they do, we all have to eat."
"Well, thank you very much for that," he said nodding and smiling at her.
"Enjoy your burger, sir," she said, "it was nice meeting you."
"You, too," Rumsfeld said.
And she reached her hand out to shake his and he grasped it and there was a buzz, his arm tensing and snapping away from her. The secret service men jumped up and grabbed her hand--a gag buzzer folded on the inside of her left palm and a smile reaching across her face.
Shakla Mana's anarchy always came first, before her cooking. Her poilitical views were firmly rooted in an advocacy for chaos--the chef job was completely practical. She wasn't an unreasonable anarchist. She didn't always talk about bringing down the government and corporations in shards of glass, flesh and flames. She did not have any black t-shirts with the red A struck violently through a broken circle. She had tatoos, but they were small and spread throughout her body--sets of three words each, the same concept translated into as many langauges as was possible--"order" it said on her ankle, her shoulder blade, her wrist. Her conversation didn't give her away. She would lead busboys, waiters, managers, customers to her side of things Socratically, asking questions with open eyes and a calm smile that invariably led to some truth about institutional absurdity.
She also liked to play pranks on her staff. She thought it was the third best anarchic activity after protesting and conversation. Whoopee cushions, fake rats, plastic spiders, tops turned off the salt shakers, pressurized ketchup containers were spread throughout her Washington, DC restaurant.
One Wednesday Shakla was stirring a big pot of marinara sauce next to the three line chefs she called Huey, Dewey, and Louie. They all had backwards hats and greasy facial hair, working the grill like a chorus. Huey alerted her to something.
"Special guest in the house tonight," he said.
"Very special," echoed Dewey.
They slapped raw meat on the grill and smoke rose up into their faces.
"Big time," said Louie.
Shakla raised her eyebrows at them.
"Who?" she asked.
They all looked up from the grill, each fisting a flipper.
"Rumsfeld," they said as a chorus.
"You mean--"
"Donald," said Huey.
"H," said Louie.
"Rumsfeld," said Dewey.
"Big time," repeated Louie, after a pause.
The meat sizzled, proteins and blood bubbling and evaporating.
"Is that right," she said, stirring the red sauce.
"Yup," said Dewey.
"And how do we know this?" she asked.
"Busboy Ted said the top of the salt shaker fell off at table nine and, there he was, apologizing to Rummy himself and his old wife for the mishap."
"Yeah," said Dewey, "Ted said there's a group of secret service guys that all ordered the salmon special a few tables away."
"I see," Shakla said.
The possibilities chased through her mind. The memories of protests, burned effigies of this man, conversations in candlelit rooms with tapestries and Metallica playing about splashing blood on the entrance of the Pentagon, the myriad "what-ifs" and "Man-if-I-saw-that-guy-I'ds." She couldn't let this pass her by. It was too good. She looked down into the sauce and thought.
Then it came to her. Shakla knew what she was going to do.
"What'd he order?" she asked the trio.
"Burger and fries," said Huey.
"Land of the brave," said Dewey.
"Big time," said Louie.
"Alright," said Shakla, "I'll be right back. When his burger's ready--I'll take it to him."
She went to her office in the back of the kitchen, grabbed something from a desk drawer and quickly ran out. She grabbed the plate, burger and fries sitting fresh on the white china.
She had a fog of nervous energy in her stomach, but she acted without thought, without consideration. She brought the plate to the table, weaving around the other customers and busboys and waiters. The secret service men waiting for their salmon looked over their shoulders as she approached. One of them on the end of the table noticed a small metal ring around the middle finger of Shakla's left hand. The agent whispered something to the crew, they all turned around to watch.
She arrived, set the burger down and said,
"Hello Mr. Rumsfeld, I'm Shakla Mana, head chef in the kitchen. I just wanted to welcome you and your wife and say that no matter how our politics might differ, which they do, we all have to eat."
"Well, thank you very much for that," he said nodding and smiling at her.
"Enjoy your burger, sir," she said, "it was nice meeting you."
"You, too," Rumsfeld said.
And she reached her hand out to shake his and he grasped it and there was a buzz, his arm tensing and snapping away from her. The secret service men jumped up and grabbed her hand--a gag buzzer folded on the inside of her left palm and a smile reaching across her face.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Occlude
Close; shut (v.)
[under construction]
Dr. Burt Rackey asked a nurse to wipe a drop of sweat from his forehead before it dripped into the open chest of his patient. The televisions cameras were making him nervous.
The nurse wiped the bead of sweat carefully, both of Dr. Rackey's hands buried in the flesh of Ellis Nack, the man that the cameras where there to catch. Nack was Rackey's patient and had been for several weeks. Rackey had performed the same surgery on Nack seven times. Each time the "let's keep him for tests" period of recovery elapsed, Rackey's heart would fail again. Somehow the same artery that Rackey fitted with a metal stint would swallow the little metal tube into oblivion after a period of three or four days, closing the paths to the heart. This required perpetual angioplasties to keep Nack alive.
These surgeries had gained some publicity due to the strange concomitant failures of an expensive federal infrastructure initiative in a town called Sisters in Oregon. Several millions of dollars had been spent to build a tunnel through the Cascade Mountains to connect three major interstates. But every time construction on the tunnel progressed, it would collapse. Twelve men had died over the course of seven attempts.
It just so happened that every time the tunnel occluded, Ellis Nack's artery did also. And Dr. Rackey would open the artery again, and the workers in Oregon would dig through the rubble of their failed tunnel and start to clear it out again.
The nurse that wiped the sweat from Rackey's brow had a brother who lived in Prineville, which is only a few miles north of Sisters, and she made the connection between the two pheneomena when talking to her brother on the phone. Nack's heart and the mountain were somehow linked in a cycle of construction and collapse. Rackey's eigth surgery was now public experiement: would Rackey's surgery mean another few days' success for the tunnelers? Would the stint break again and shut the artery? The story was reported in the Salem Times and made its way quickly across the media--spun as a tension between the magical and coincidental. Everyone in the country (and informed peoples of the world) waited casually to see what would happen next: if Nack was meant to die or the bridge was meant to be or if everything involved was just a freakish happenstance.
[under construction]
Dr. Burt Rackey asked a nurse to wipe a drop of sweat from his forehead before it dripped into the open chest of his patient. The televisions cameras were making him nervous.
The nurse wiped the bead of sweat carefully, both of Dr. Rackey's hands buried in the flesh of Ellis Nack, the man that the cameras where there to catch. Nack was Rackey's patient and had been for several weeks. Rackey had performed the same surgery on Nack seven times. Each time the "let's keep him for tests" period of recovery elapsed, Rackey's heart would fail again. Somehow the same artery that Rackey fitted with a metal stint would swallow the little metal tube into oblivion after a period of three or four days, closing the paths to the heart. This required perpetual angioplasties to keep Nack alive.
These surgeries had gained some publicity due to the strange concomitant failures of an expensive federal infrastructure initiative in a town called Sisters in Oregon. Several millions of dollars had been spent to build a tunnel through the Cascade Mountains to connect three major interstates. But every time construction on the tunnel progressed, it would collapse. Twelve men had died over the course of seven attempts.
It just so happened that every time the tunnel occluded, Ellis Nack's artery did also. And Dr. Rackey would open the artery again, and the workers in Oregon would dig through the rubble of their failed tunnel and start to clear it out again.
The nurse that wiped the sweat from Rackey's brow had a brother who lived in Prineville, which is only a few miles north of Sisters, and she made the connection between the two pheneomena when talking to her brother on the phone. Nack's heart and the mountain were somehow linked in a cycle of construction and collapse. Rackey's eigth surgery was now public experiement: would Rackey's surgery mean another few days' success for the tunnelers? Would the stint break again and shut the artery? The story was reported in the Salem Times and made its way quickly across the media--spun as a tension between the magical and coincidental. Everyone in the country (and informed peoples of the world) waited casually to see what would happen next: if Nack was meant to die or the bridge was meant to be or if everything involved was just a freakish happenstance.
Niggardly
Meanly stingy (adj.)
I can't believe you just said that.
What?
What you just said to me. I don't even want to think about repeating it.
What are you talking about? I just wanted a little extra cash for--
And so you call me--
Niggardly.
You said it again!
You're damn right I did!
You racist, bigot bastard! Who the hell do you think you are calling me that?
Bigot? I just need five dollars.
And you're not sorry?
For what? I just need a little money and you start yelling at me like...Oh, oh wait.
Oh wait what?
You think I said--
No, I know you said--
I did not say that.
Yes you did.
No I didn't. I said Nig--
Stop!
What?
Enough! I will never give a bigot any of my money, my time of day, my anything. Get out of my house.
You're not serious.
Out.
C'mon, now.
Out, now!
Alright, fine. You just go on over there a look something up in the dictionary for me as I'm leaving. N-I-G-G--
Out! Out! Out!
I can't believe you just said that.
What?
What you just said to me. I don't even want to think about repeating it.
What are you talking about? I just wanted a little extra cash for--
And so you call me--
Niggardly.
You said it again!
You're damn right I did!
You racist, bigot bastard! Who the hell do you think you are calling me that?
Bigot? I just need five dollars.
And you're not sorry?
For what? I just need a little money and you start yelling at me like...Oh, oh wait.
Oh wait what?
You think I said--
No, I know you said--
I did not say that.
Yes you did.
No I didn't. I said Nig--
Stop!
What?
Enough! I will never give a bigot any of my money, my time of day, my anything. Get out of my house.
You're not serious.
Out.
C'mon, now.
Out, now!
Alright, fine. You just go on over there a look something up in the dictionary for me as I'm leaving. N-I-G-G--
Out! Out! Out!
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Recondite
Abstruse, profound, secret (adj.)
Edward Maxon and Floyd Hackert, the first a professor of mathematics and the second a professor of archaeology. You wouldn't think that Maxon's abstract math had anything to do with Hackert's excursions to East Africa or the Fertile Crescent in the name of the fossil record. They don't see any similarities, either.
Hackert will say something like:
"I've never been good at math. I have graduate students for that."
Maxon will say something like:
"Why get dirty and search for lost relics whose significance we're most likely wrong about just to create a false history for ourselves?"
But look! Recondite all:
Maxon surveys axioms and sifts, pen in hand, through implications of myriads of definitions and unearths new things, true things, that are unknown and buried before he looks.
Hackert uses the present as a premise and observes dug up and secret variables, theorizing about the past behaviors of the human function at different points along the dense geometrical line of human time.
Edward Maxon and Floyd Hackert, the first a professor of mathematics and the second a professor of archaeology. You wouldn't think that Maxon's abstract math had anything to do with Hackert's excursions to East Africa or the Fertile Crescent in the name of the fossil record. They don't see any similarities, either.
Hackert will say something like:
"I've never been good at math. I have graduate students for that."
Maxon will say something like:
"Why get dirty and search for lost relics whose significance we're most likely wrong about just to create a false history for ourselves?"
But look! Recondite all:
Maxon surveys axioms and sifts, pen in hand, through implications of myriads of definitions and unearths new things, true things, that are unknown and buried before he looks.
Hackert uses the present as a premise and observes dug up and secret variables, theorizing about the past behaviors of the human function at different points along the dense geometrical line of human time.
Wednesday, May 9, 2007
Lassitude
Langour; weariness (n.)
Al Farib was a cartographer of little repute that worked for a large firm of Islamic scientists in Baghdad at the turn of the century. Overworked, underpaid, treated as an intellectual subordinate by the alchemists, engineers, and doctors in his firm, Al Farib was actually the hardest working map-maker in the Empire. After everyone left for the day to go home to their families, Farib looked over his shoulder, closed the hatch door of his windowless office and worked on a project that he kept hidden from everyone: he was making the first map of the entire world. No one that he knew of had attempted it, and his firm had maps of all kinds, journals donated by explorers that had used their navigation equipment, coordinates brought back from expeditions and battles in the fartheset reaches of Islamic power. Farib was not married, he lived alone, had few hobbies other than walking by himself in the fragrant gardens of Baghdad, watching the children run with one another and the old men discussing matters of politics and temperance and the Prophet. He hid from them, keeping his eyes down, his words to himself, thinking about the geographical relations of disparate countries, new ways to draw them together on pieces of pulpy paper, wishing passionately for the entire world to appear before him while his smallness of self prevented him from entering it.
Some nights he didn't go home, and he'd keep a cup of tea leaves and hot water beside him. He could think clearly in the dead of night, when no other humans were awake, and he would fall asleep in his research. His colleagues would come in for their morning prayers and find him sleeping there among the latitudes and longitudes, the stained papers with miniscule notes scribbled all over them, ink staining his face, and they would chuckle to themselves and call him a weary fool.
Al Farib was a cartographer of little repute that worked for a large firm of Islamic scientists in Baghdad at the turn of the century. Overworked, underpaid, treated as an intellectual subordinate by the alchemists, engineers, and doctors in his firm, Al Farib was actually the hardest working map-maker in the Empire. After everyone left for the day to go home to their families, Farib looked over his shoulder, closed the hatch door of his windowless office and worked on a project that he kept hidden from everyone: he was making the first map of the entire world. No one that he knew of had attempted it, and his firm had maps of all kinds, journals donated by explorers that had used their navigation equipment, coordinates brought back from expeditions and battles in the fartheset reaches of Islamic power. Farib was not married, he lived alone, had few hobbies other than walking by himself in the fragrant gardens of Baghdad, watching the children run with one another and the old men discussing matters of politics and temperance and the Prophet. He hid from them, keeping his eyes down, his words to himself, thinking about the geographical relations of disparate countries, new ways to draw them together on pieces of pulpy paper, wishing passionately for the entire world to appear before him while his smallness of self prevented him from entering it.
Some nights he didn't go home, and he'd keep a cup of tea leaves and hot water beside him. He could think clearly in the dead of night, when no other humans were awake, and he would fall asleep in his research. His colleagues would come in for their morning prayers and find him sleeping there among the latitudes and longitudes, the stained papers with miniscule notes scribbled all over them, ink staining his face, and they would chuckle to themselves and call him a weary fool.
Refractory
Stubborn, unmanageable (adj.)
The story we usually hear about Sir Isaac Newton is that one day, by chance, an apple fell and hit him on the head and inspired the theory of gravity.
But it wasn't chance that caused the apple to fall.
On that fine sunny day, he was leaning against the trunk of the tree playing with a glass prism. Newton caught a ray of sunlight and, just as the spectrum of colors spread out before him, a genie wearing a tweed jacket and a powdered wig arose out of the prism.
"Hello!" it declared,"I am the Occidental genie!"
Newton was horrified. The possibility of a genie contained within the properties of light was inexplicable to his scientific mind. But Newton, assuring himself instinctively that there is a natural explanation for any phenomenon, regained his composure.
"Okay," he said, contemplating, "isn't the man that frees a genie entitled to wishes?"
"Wishes?" asked the Occidental genie.
"Yes."
"For you?"
"Yes, for me."
The Occidental genie waited, rubbed his transparent chin, and said,
"Absolutely not."
"Why?" demanded Newton.
"Because I'm not that type of genie."
"Then what type of genie are you?"
"One that is nobody's slave! I do indeed have wishes to give but I've come to the conclusion that it's inapproriate to flippantly give people what they want whenever they ask for it. I like guessing what they want and then giving it to them."
"Can't you make an exception?" Newton asked.
"Absolutely not," said the genie.
Newton paused, considering the situation.
"So what do I want?" he asked.
The Occidental genie floated close to Newton's face and said, smiling,
"You want very badly to be hit in the head."
"I can honestly say I don't want that," Newton responded.
"Yes you do," the genie insisted.
"No I don't."
"Oh yes you do, believe me."
"Not a genie at all, really," Newton said under his breath.
"Yes I am," the genie said.
Newton became annoyed.
"No, you're certainly not," he said.
"Oh yes, I am," the genie persisted.
"No!"
"Yes."
"What kind of genie tells a man that he wants to be hit in the head?"
"One that's nobody's slave!" the Occidental genie chanted like an ancient song.
And with this the genie vanished upward into the center of the sun, becoming one with the rays of pure light streaming through the branches of the apple tree.
Frustrated with this encounter, Newton leaned back heavily against the trunk of the tree. When he did this, his back hit the trunk with just enough force to cause a ripe apple to fall from its branch and hit him on the head.
The story we usually hear about Sir Isaac Newton is that one day, by chance, an apple fell and hit him on the head and inspired the theory of gravity.
But it wasn't chance that caused the apple to fall.
On that fine sunny day, he was leaning against the trunk of the tree playing with a glass prism. Newton caught a ray of sunlight and, just as the spectrum of colors spread out before him, a genie wearing a tweed jacket and a powdered wig arose out of the prism.
"Hello!" it declared,"I am the Occidental genie!"
Newton was horrified. The possibility of a genie contained within the properties of light was inexplicable to his scientific mind. But Newton, assuring himself instinctively that there is a natural explanation for any phenomenon, regained his composure.
"Okay," he said, contemplating, "isn't the man that frees a genie entitled to wishes?"
"Wishes?" asked the Occidental genie.
"Yes."
"For you?"
"Yes, for me."
The Occidental genie waited, rubbed his transparent chin, and said,
"Absolutely not."
"Why?" demanded Newton.
"Because I'm not that type of genie."
"Then what type of genie are you?"
"One that is nobody's slave! I do indeed have wishes to give but I've come to the conclusion that it's inapproriate to flippantly give people what they want whenever they ask for it. I like guessing what they want and then giving it to them."
"Can't you make an exception?" Newton asked.
"Absolutely not," said the genie.
Newton paused, considering the situation.
"So what do I want?" he asked.
The Occidental genie floated close to Newton's face and said, smiling,
"You want very badly to be hit in the head."
"I can honestly say I don't want that," Newton responded.
"Yes you do," the genie insisted.
"No I don't."
"Oh yes you do, believe me."
"Not a genie at all, really," Newton said under his breath.
"Yes I am," the genie said.
Newton became annoyed.
"No, you're certainly not," he said.
"Oh yes, I am," the genie persisted.
"No!"
"Yes."
"What kind of genie tells a man that he wants to be hit in the head?"
"One that's nobody's slave!" the Occidental genie chanted like an ancient song.
And with this the genie vanished upward into the center of the sun, becoming one with the rays of pure light streaming through the branches of the apple tree.
Frustrated with this encounter, Newton leaned back heavily against the trunk of the tree. When he did this, his back hit the trunk with just enough force to cause a ripe apple to fall from its branch and hit him on the head.
Tuesday, May 8, 2007
Salubrious
Healthful (adj.)
A meat farmer is convinced into vegetarianism after having a heart attack.
A meat farmer is convinced into vegetarianism after having a heart attack.
Probity
Uprightness; incorruptibility (n.)
Captain Vasily Michnikov floated down the white hallway, spinning pensively in zero gravity. He had a choice to make.
The internationally-funded mission to improve the International Space Station had commenced: the space shuttle had taken off from Cape Canaveral in the United States carrying astronauts from ten powerful countries, the astronauts had arrived on the station, and they had already begun their scheduled repairs and upgrades.
The President of Russia, who was quickly reifying himself as a modern Czar, had ordered one of his ministers to award Michnikov four million American dollars to secretly install spying software on the computers in the space station. Since the station, orbiting gently between the moon and Earth, received many signals for emerging satellite technologies, this plan was part of a greater governmental initiative to make the Russian economy competitive at the international level. Vasily was to download information from a disk to a computer linked to the station's server and simply float away.
Vasily arrived at the main computer console, grabbing hold of the wall to steady himself. By some miracle of hierarchical deal-making he had been chosen as one of the few computer processing and software experts, so he was granted access to the station's server. He let himself hang in the hallway, the feeling of weightlessness crawling over his skin. (Despite his vast experience in training and his three missions into outer space, Vasily had never fully gotten used to the feeling of floating. To him there was something normal, something essentially better about having one's feet planted firmly on the ground.)
He was hanging upside down so his toes touched the ceiling, his face in front of the computer that he was to infect. He began to have a dialogue with himself in Russian.
"I could take the money, be rich, take Novona to Beijing like she's always takling about. We could buy a house, a new car, many things," he said.
His body hung in the air, bobbing up and down.
"But the other astronauts have been so welcoming and nice, particularly the Americans. I have no ill will toward them," he argued back.
"What does it matter? You wouldn't be hurting anyone. You would just be helping your own country, the land of your birth, the land that trained you to be a pilot, the country that sent you to space. It will take no time at all to do such a great favor for your homeland," he argued back.
He fingered the small disk in the pocket of his coveralls, rubbed it between his thumb and pinkie. He grasped it and removed it, holding it out in front of him. Then his legs began to turn back towards the ground like the end of a second hand.
"But my action would help an entire government cheat. Thousands of people would be working under the corrupt auspices of a lie. And all the money they earned and spent would be tainted with it," he theorized.
"Don't be such an activist!," he said, "lies are the currency of administration. They are the rhythm of the gears of any organization--business, economy, government--why would you make yourself such a pointless martyr? Why would you rob your family and yourself of great fortune for nothing?"
He was now fully upright, his feet resting on the floor of the hallway. He looked at the little computer drive and held out the disk with the software--but stopped.
"No, I don't care," he averred, "I am human and I live according to rules and I will not see another one broken out of short-sighted selfishness."
And he crushed the disk and let the pieces of it float gently to the ground next to his feet.
Captain Vasily Michnikov floated down the white hallway, spinning pensively in zero gravity. He had a choice to make.
The internationally-funded mission to improve the International Space Station had commenced: the space shuttle had taken off from Cape Canaveral in the United States carrying astronauts from ten powerful countries, the astronauts had arrived on the station, and they had already begun their scheduled repairs and upgrades.
The President of Russia, who was quickly reifying himself as a modern Czar, had ordered one of his ministers to award Michnikov four million American dollars to secretly install spying software on the computers in the space station. Since the station, orbiting gently between the moon and Earth, received many signals for emerging satellite technologies, this plan was part of a greater governmental initiative to make the Russian economy competitive at the international level. Vasily was to download information from a disk to a computer linked to the station's server and simply float away.
Vasily arrived at the main computer console, grabbing hold of the wall to steady himself. By some miracle of hierarchical deal-making he had been chosen as one of the few computer processing and software experts, so he was granted access to the station's server. He let himself hang in the hallway, the feeling of weightlessness crawling over his skin. (Despite his vast experience in training and his three missions into outer space, Vasily had never fully gotten used to the feeling of floating. To him there was something normal, something essentially better about having one's feet planted firmly on the ground.)
He was hanging upside down so his toes touched the ceiling, his face in front of the computer that he was to infect. He began to have a dialogue with himself in Russian.
"I could take the money, be rich, take Novona to Beijing like she's always takling about. We could buy a house, a new car, many things," he said.
His body hung in the air, bobbing up and down.
"But the other astronauts have been so welcoming and nice, particularly the Americans. I have no ill will toward them," he argued back.
"What does it matter? You wouldn't be hurting anyone. You would just be helping your own country, the land of your birth, the land that trained you to be a pilot, the country that sent you to space. It will take no time at all to do such a great favor for your homeland," he argued back.
He fingered the small disk in the pocket of his coveralls, rubbed it between his thumb and pinkie. He grasped it and removed it, holding it out in front of him. Then his legs began to turn back towards the ground like the end of a second hand.
"But my action would help an entire government cheat. Thousands of people would be working under the corrupt auspices of a lie. And all the money they earned and spent would be tainted with it," he theorized.
"Don't be such an activist!," he said, "lies are the currency of administration. They are the rhythm of the gears of any organization--business, economy, government--why would you make yourself such a pointless martyr? Why would you rob your family and yourself of great fortune for nothing?"
He was now fully upright, his feet resting on the floor of the hallway. He looked at the little computer drive and held out the disk with the software--but stopped.
"No, I don't care," he averred, "I am human and I live according to rules and I will not see another one broken out of short-sighted selfishness."
And he crushed the disk and let the pieces of it float gently to the ground next to his feet.
Monday, May 7, 2007
Ebullient
Showing excitement; overflowing with enthusiasm (adj.)
"Enrique Rava was an ebullient matador," eulogized Roberto Concalves, garulous president-elect of Spain's National Bullfighting Association, "and it is only fitting that he died in the arena while pursuing his passion; and still more fitting that his death was caused not by his lack of cunning, but by his tragic epilepsy that, his doctors assured me personally, only caused seizure when he reached a chemical peak of excitement and joy. While it may seem morbid to say, I truly believe we should be consoled by the fact that this man died while in the throws of his passion because of the great heights this passion achieved within him--that Enrique's body was unable to withstand the ecstasy he felt while pursuing his one and only love. I am confident his life will inspire many generations of Spaniards. Vaya con dios, my friend, you were surely among their ranks before you left us."
"Enrique Rava was an ebullient matador," eulogized Roberto Concalves, garulous president-elect of Spain's National Bullfighting Association, "and it is only fitting that he died in the arena while pursuing his passion; and still more fitting that his death was caused not by his lack of cunning, but by his tragic epilepsy that, his doctors assured me personally, only caused seizure when he reached a chemical peak of excitement and joy. While it may seem morbid to say, I truly believe we should be consoled by the fact that this man died while in the throws of his passion because of the great heights this passion achieved within him--that Enrique's body was unable to withstand the ecstasy he felt while pursuing his one and only love. I am confident his life will inspire many generations of Spaniards. Vaya con dios, my friend, you were surely among their ranks before you left us."
Torpor
Lethargy; sluggishness (n.)
All the men aboard the Nazi submarine () called Hans "Dwarf" even though he was of normal height and build. They called the torpedo gunner this because he had several characteristics in common with Snow White's seven dwarfs.
He was dopey: He was known to read certain meters backwards, leave levers unpulled or pull the wrong levers at the wrong time, and, famously, to push doors that everyone knew you had to pull to open. He was also careless with his private slug collection, letting the slugs crawl freely throughout the submarine. Hans had gotten into some trouble with these quirky pets. One night, while the () was deep in supposedly safe Atlantic waters, there was word from the communications room that an enemy sub was extremely close. The crew readied themselves for an encounter with an Allied submarine. They were about to fire a torpedo into a mysterious dark cavern that emitted motor-like sounds until Georg, one of the communications men, called a false alarm. He had found a slug leaving its sticky trail over an auditory-sensor wire behind the radar console--the little slug had been lapping the wire with its jawless mouth with the rhythm of an engine.
He was happy: prone to chuckling at any joke, which won him a special place in the crew's heart (it's good to have someone around who laughs at your jokes, especially when you are employed by a fascist regime miles under the ocean). Though this quality got him into trouble initially with the commander, in whose commands Hans detected comedy. For this he was severely punished, but no matter how much he was punished he continued to laugh when given orders. The commander realized that the crew still respected him as a commanding officer despite Hans' laughter, and accepted Hans as a strange but light-hearted character that brought some shine to an otherwise gloomy existence. (After a few weeks, the commander couldn't help but smile at Hans also. And after he got to know Hans, he made an executive decision to keep him on board the ship for the crew's morale.)
Finally, Hans was sleepy: he could sleep for days like a hibernating bear and wake with a phlegmy torpor that lasted several hours. During his training in Germany, Hans was known to take leave in his bed and sleep through his time off while everyone else danced and drank with women.
Eventually, Hans' dwarfness cost the () an unforgivable setback off the coast of Ireland when, on a routine patrol, the the crew actually encountered an American sub rapidly approaching them. The men readied themselves for a long interaction with the enemy--the commander's plan was to lead the Americans close to the Irish coast to reduce their enemy's fuel and hopefully strike with a torpedo after the long chase.
Hans took his position in his gunner's chair, awaiting orders to fire.
The chase lasted five hours, but the Germans finally lured the Americans to the coast line. They had successfully scurried, and finally the enemy sub seemed tired and in range. The time came for a torpedo. The commander sent a call down to Hans.
"Dwarf, ready number three!"
Instead of the expected a fit of obedient chuckling, there was silence in the torpedo room. Hans had fallen deeply asleep in his chair during the chase.
"Dwarf?" called the radio.
Still no answer.
Then Georg, the communications man, yelled to the commander that the Americans had fired first. There was a loud beep echoing through the sub as the crew tried to steer their submarine away from the enemy's torpedo. The men were screaming over the intercom, but Hans slept through it. He woke a few seconds later, though, to a huge metallic sound. And just before Hans blacked out from the pressure of rushing ocean water spewing through the walls he saw a slug crawling on his console, leaving a sticky trail across the dials.
All the men aboard the Nazi submarine () called Hans "Dwarf" even though he was of normal height and build. They called the torpedo gunner this because he had several characteristics in common with Snow White's seven dwarfs.
He was dopey: He was known to read certain meters backwards, leave levers unpulled or pull the wrong levers at the wrong time, and, famously, to push doors that everyone knew you had to pull to open. He was also careless with his private slug collection, letting the slugs crawl freely throughout the submarine. Hans had gotten into some trouble with these quirky pets. One night, while the () was deep in supposedly safe Atlantic waters, there was word from the communications room that an enemy sub was extremely close. The crew readied themselves for an encounter with an Allied submarine. They were about to fire a torpedo into a mysterious dark cavern that emitted motor-like sounds until Georg, one of the communications men, called a false alarm. He had found a slug leaving its sticky trail over an auditory-sensor wire behind the radar console--the little slug had been lapping the wire with its jawless mouth with the rhythm of an engine.
He was happy: prone to chuckling at any joke, which won him a special place in the crew's heart (it's good to have someone around who laughs at your jokes, especially when you are employed by a fascist regime miles under the ocean). Though this quality got him into trouble initially with the commander, in whose commands Hans detected comedy. For this he was severely punished, but no matter how much he was punished he continued to laugh when given orders. The commander realized that the crew still respected him as a commanding officer despite Hans' laughter, and accepted Hans as a strange but light-hearted character that brought some shine to an otherwise gloomy existence. (After a few weeks, the commander couldn't help but smile at Hans also. And after he got to know Hans, he made an executive decision to keep him on board the ship for the crew's morale.)
Finally, Hans was sleepy: he could sleep for days like a hibernating bear and wake with a phlegmy torpor that lasted several hours. During his training in Germany, Hans was known to take leave in his bed and sleep through his time off while everyone else danced and drank with women.
Eventually, Hans' dwarfness cost the () an unforgivable setback off the coast of Ireland when, on a routine patrol, the the crew actually encountered an American sub rapidly approaching them. The men readied themselves for a long interaction with the enemy--the commander's plan was to lead the Americans close to the Irish coast to reduce their enemy's fuel and hopefully strike with a torpedo after the long chase.
Hans took his position in his gunner's chair, awaiting orders to fire.
The chase lasted five hours, but the Germans finally lured the Americans to the coast line. They had successfully scurried, and finally the enemy sub seemed tired and in range. The time came for a torpedo. The commander sent a call down to Hans.
"Dwarf, ready number three!"
Instead of the expected a fit of obedient chuckling, there was silence in the torpedo room. Hans had fallen deeply asleep in his chair during the chase.
"Dwarf?" called the radio.
Still no answer.
Then Georg, the communications man, yelled to the commander that the Americans had fired first. There was a loud beep echoing through the sub as the crew tried to steer their submarine away from the enemy's torpedo. The men were screaming over the intercom, but Hans slept through it. He woke a few seconds later, though, to a huge metallic sound. And just before Hans blacked out from the pressure of rushing ocean water spewing through the walls he saw a slug crawling on his console, leaving a sticky trail across the dials.
Sunday, May 6, 2007
Welter
Turmoil; bewildering jumble (n.)
That we are capable of moments spent in art, moments spent in feeling a pure feeling, spent in thinking a pure thought, spent in being a human without anything in the way, is a strange burden. One that at times is unbearable and breaks the back of those that carry it, while at others lifts them up beyond it, helping them transcend the burden by way of the burden when it's accepted authentically. I'm convinced that art comes from these moments spent in humanity: moments spent reveling in the welter of place and order and chaos, of detail and universe, of time and self and everything else.
That we are capable of moments spent in art, moments spent in feeling a pure feeling, spent in thinking a pure thought, spent in being a human without anything in the way, is a strange burden. One that at times is unbearable and breaks the back of those that carry it, while at others lifts them up beyond it, helping them transcend the burden by way of the burden when it's accepted authentically. I'm convinced that art comes from these moments spent in humanity: moments spent reveling in the welter of place and order and chaos, of detail and universe, of time and self and everything else.
Desultory
Aimless; haphazard; digressing at random
Benny's parents were independently wealthy, which is why when he wanted to be an Olympic archer in the second grade they were able to buy him everything they could to support his dream: professional bow, laser sites, targets, aluminum shafted arrows with nylon feathers. They landscaped a field in the back of their sprawling upstate New York tract into a shooting range with bales of hay and a supply shed.
Benny would go out to the field with his father or with his personal archery trainer and shoot aluminum arrow after aluminum arrow until his shot became confident and repeatable.
Over the years archery was the thing that he did. If he was confused, bored, or anxious in anyway he went out and shot arrows at the targets, piercing the colorful concentric circles.
Benny coasted through middle school and the beginning of high school. His parents and teachers and guidance counselors pushed him along with the rest of his classmates at a prestigious boarding school nearby. He studied the way they studied. He socialized the way they socialized. He watched the Simpsons and Seinfeld and Saturday Night Live reruns and laughed and raided the many liquor cabinets of their similarly wealthy caretakers. All the while, Benny held onto his archery, shooting with a blind accuracy formed by the force of habit.
But during his last year and a half of high school, Benny began wandering home at odd times throughout the week. Sometimes he would skip classes and come how to shoot at the targets. Other times his parents would find him sleeping on the living room couch, hugging his bow like a tall metal teddy bear.
Early one Saturday morning in April, just as the trees were starting burst out in green again and the air was getting restless and warm, Benny's father heard the front door open and close. He walked out in slippers and robe to the range in the back of his house and saw Benny shooting. He heard the arrows cutting through the air almost desperately, sticking into the hay bales and paper with the rhythm of a second hand.
Benny stood there loading, shooting, reloading, and shooting again. There was a single candle near his sheath of arrows where his hand reached instinctively to draw his next shot. Benny's father squinted, the early morning light had not risen over the hills. He couldn't see any of the targets. He looked at his son as he released each arrow into the darknes. He smelled lightly of gin and sweat.
"Benny?" he asked.
"What dad," his son responded, sniffling.
"What are you shooting at?"
"I don't know," Benny said.
Benny's parents were independently wealthy, which is why when he wanted to be an Olympic archer in the second grade they were able to buy him everything they could to support his dream: professional bow, laser sites, targets, aluminum shafted arrows with nylon feathers. They landscaped a field in the back of their sprawling upstate New York tract into a shooting range with bales of hay and a supply shed.
Benny would go out to the field with his father or with his personal archery trainer and shoot aluminum arrow after aluminum arrow until his shot became confident and repeatable.
Over the years archery was the thing that he did. If he was confused, bored, or anxious in anyway he went out and shot arrows at the targets, piercing the colorful concentric circles.
Benny coasted through middle school and the beginning of high school. His parents and teachers and guidance counselors pushed him along with the rest of his classmates at a prestigious boarding school nearby. He studied the way they studied. He socialized the way they socialized. He watched the Simpsons and Seinfeld and Saturday Night Live reruns and laughed and raided the many liquor cabinets of their similarly wealthy caretakers. All the while, Benny held onto his archery, shooting with a blind accuracy formed by the force of habit.
But during his last year and a half of high school, Benny began wandering home at odd times throughout the week. Sometimes he would skip classes and come how to shoot at the targets. Other times his parents would find him sleeping on the living room couch, hugging his bow like a tall metal teddy bear.
Early one Saturday morning in April, just as the trees were starting burst out in green again and the air was getting restless and warm, Benny's father heard the front door open and close. He walked out in slippers and robe to the range in the back of his house and saw Benny shooting. He heard the arrows cutting through the air almost desperately, sticking into the hay bales and paper with the rhythm of a second hand.
Benny stood there loading, shooting, reloading, and shooting again. There was a single candle near his sheath of arrows where his hand reached instinctively to draw his next shot. Benny's father squinted, the early morning light had not risen over the hills. He couldn't see any of the targets. He looked at his son as he released each arrow into the darknes. He smelled lightly of gin and sweat.
"Benny?" he asked.
"What dad," his son responded, sniffling.
"What are you shooting at?"
"I don't know," Benny said.
Saturday, May 5, 2007
Officious
Pushy about offering one's services; meddlesome (adj.)
Milton stood on the corner waiting for the bus. He held a large package of diapers in his hand and a briefcase in the other. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone walking toward him, and he folded his lower lip in and bit on it, rocking nervously back and forth on his heels.
A woman wearing large stiletto heels click-clacked up to him. Her hair was wig-pink and hoop earrings dangled from her earlobes, which looked pierced in several places. A black mini-skirt rose above the middle of her thighs and monstrous cleavage ebbed from the low cut of her blouse.
"Hello," she said to him.
Milton turned toward her, folded his lip again, and pushed up his glasses.
"Hi there," he said, not knowing where to look.
"Fine night tonight, huh?" the woman asked.
"Uhm, yes, sure is..."
Somehow there was no one else waiting for the bus, and Milton looked in vain for something other than the woman's breasts. He decided to look at the ground.
"Need some company?" she asked.
Milton took a quick breath in.
"No. No I don't," he said, looking at the sidewalk.
She shifted her weight to one side.
"You scareda me?"
"W-what?" he asked.
She leaned forward closer to him so her heels scraped against the concrete, she made a sucking nose with her teeth and tongue.
"Baby, ain't no reason for you to be scareda me. I'm just trying to help you out."
She touched her shoulder to his, he shuffled his feet and moved away, smelling cigarettes and Vaseline wafting from her.
"P-please go away," he pleaded, "I'm just t-trying to wait for the bus."
"Baby you look like you could use some. Those diapers for your kids?"
"Yeah, they are."
"You buyin them for your wife?"
"She couldn't stop by the store today," he said, surprised that he was even answering her.
"You happy with your wife?"
"Ec-excuse me? What do you mean?"
"I just mean maybe you need something she can't give you."
The bus pulled up from the left and Milton swallowed, feeling sweat underneath his sweater and on the part of the plastic diaper bag where his fingers had clenched. As the bus doors opened he felt a surge of confidence.
"I'm very happy with my family, th-thank you very much. And I suggest you find yours, wherever they are. Goodbye."
And he got on the bus, paid the dollar twenty-five to the machine and sat down, hugging the diapers to his chest and watching the woman fade into a dot as she walked to the next corner.
Milton stood on the corner waiting for the bus. He held a large package of diapers in his hand and a briefcase in the other. Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone walking toward him, and he folded his lower lip in and bit on it, rocking nervously back and forth on his heels.
A woman wearing large stiletto heels click-clacked up to him. Her hair was wig-pink and hoop earrings dangled from her earlobes, which looked pierced in several places. A black mini-skirt rose above the middle of her thighs and monstrous cleavage ebbed from the low cut of her blouse.
"Hello," she said to him.
Milton turned toward her, folded his lip again, and pushed up his glasses.
"Hi there," he said, not knowing where to look.
"Fine night tonight, huh?" the woman asked.
"Uhm, yes, sure is..."
Somehow there was no one else waiting for the bus, and Milton looked in vain for something other than the woman's breasts. He decided to look at the ground.
"Need some company?" she asked.
Milton took a quick breath in.
"No. No I don't," he said, looking at the sidewalk.
She shifted her weight to one side.
"You scareda me?"
"W-what?" he asked.
She leaned forward closer to him so her heels scraped against the concrete, she made a sucking nose with her teeth and tongue.
"Baby, ain't no reason for you to be scareda me. I'm just trying to help you out."
She touched her shoulder to his, he shuffled his feet and moved away, smelling cigarettes and Vaseline wafting from her.
"P-please go away," he pleaded, "I'm just t-trying to wait for the bus."
"Baby you look like you could use some. Those diapers for your kids?"
"Yeah, they are."
"You buyin them for your wife?"
"She couldn't stop by the store today," he said, surprised that he was even answering her.
"You happy with your wife?"
"Ec-excuse me? What do you mean?"
"I just mean maybe you need something she can't give you."
The bus pulled up from the left and Milton swallowed, feeling sweat underneath his sweater and on the part of the plastic diaper bag where his fingers had clenched. As the bus doors opened he felt a surge of confidence.
"I'm very happy with my family, th-thank you very much. And I suggest you find yours, wherever they are. Goodbye."
And he got on the bus, paid the dollar twenty-five to the machine and sat down, hugging the diapers to his chest and watching the woman fade into a dot as she walked to the next corner.
Compendium
Brief comprehensive summary (n.)
Yesterday in my fourth period English class I found myself giving a version of the following speech. I think we were talking about not believing in God, but I don't remember exactly what prompted it:
"Isn't it possible," I asked, "that the universe exploded and dust and particles formed from the explosion and the dust was going so fast that the particles hit each other and stuck together and rolled together like snowballs until they were massive enough to orbit each other, and enough time passed that the particles of dust could grow and mature over zillions and zillions of years into different kinds of dust balls, and that on one particular dust ball that was a particular distance from another, hotter dust ball there was an atmosphere of oxygen and water and rocks that had formed from the dust, and that one day the light shining from the hotter dust ball hit a rock with some water near it just the right way so that a mold with little cells began to grow and feed on the light, and these cells made other cells that fed on the light, and some of these cells were better at feeding on the light and the water than other cells, and the ones that were better at this reproduced more, and when they reproduced they were all slightly different and some cells ended up being made of other cells, and that some cells grew tails, some cells grew eyes to find the light, some cells were made to eat other cells, and some cells were made with eyes and tails to find other cells to eat, and then these cell-eating cells reproduced, and some of them grew legs and could get more cells to eat because they could walk and swim and find the light with their eyes, and these walking cells of cells ended up on land and reproduced there and found more cells of cells to eat with their eyes and legs, and some of them had hair and others had scales and the ones with scales were around for awhile until something happened and the scaly ones died but the hairy ones lasted and then the hairy ones started reproducing more and became different, and some of them started walking upright and talking to one another and making fire and agreeing about things and having thoughts and building things and having more thoughts about what they built and began building more things and reproduced again and here we are?"
Yesterday in my fourth period English class I found myself giving a version of the following speech. I think we were talking about not believing in God, but I don't remember exactly what prompted it:
"Isn't it possible," I asked, "that the universe exploded and dust and particles formed from the explosion and the dust was going so fast that the particles hit each other and stuck together and rolled together like snowballs until they were massive enough to orbit each other, and enough time passed that the particles of dust could grow and mature over zillions and zillions of years into different kinds of dust balls, and that on one particular dust ball that was a particular distance from another, hotter dust ball there was an atmosphere of oxygen and water and rocks that had formed from the dust, and that one day the light shining from the hotter dust ball hit a rock with some water near it just the right way so that a mold with little cells began to grow and feed on the light, and these cells made other cells that fed on the light, and some of these cells were better at feeding on the light and the water than other cells, and the ones that were better at this reproduced more, and when they reproduced they were all slightly different and some cells ended up being made of other cells, and that some cells grew tails, some cells grew eyes to find the light, some cells were made to eat other cells, and some cells were made with eyes and tails to find other cells to eat, and then these cell-eating cells reproduced, and some of them grew legs and could get more cells to eat because they could walk and swim and find the light with their eyes, and these walking cells of cells ended up on land and reproduced there and found more cells of cells to eat with their eyes and legs, and some of them had hair and others had scales and the ones with scales were around for awhile until something happened and the scaly ones died but the hairy ones lasted and then the hairy ones started reproducing more and became different, and some of them started walking upright and talking to one another and making fire and agreeing about things and having thoughts and building things and having more thoughts about what they built and began building more things and reproduced again and here we are?"
Friday, May 4, 2007
Mollify
Soothe (v.)
Molly was hands down the best masseuse in Miami. Trained by Hindu gurus in their ancient anatomies, superstitions, and religious mythology, she gave massages according to a great pantheon of deific connections, each muscle in the human body representing a different avatar of Siva and kneaded according to its story of transformation. She had been a medical student at Harvard but abandoned the pursuit of competitive, mechanical, and blind Western medicine. She jumped ship to Juwalalumpur and enlisted as a kind of monk in a Hindu monastery whose history and traditions were said to have originated before recorded history.
Molly worked at the Mandarin Oriental, the most expensive and respected resort in a town of resorts. She smoothed the kinked backs of businessman, heads of state, and all those whose troubles and burdens in this world tightened and rolled and folded into the muscles around their necks and backs.
It was normal for Molly to recieve a fax or email dossier that provided her with a brief summary about her clientele. This was originally Molly's idea. If she knew the habits and pursuits of her customers, she would know better how to unwind them.
Out of all her customers, Matthew Gordian stands out as Molly's most memorable case. Gordian's dossier called him "the greatest living guru of convergence culture." It said he funded, researched, and developed new horizons in technological media. The summary was a list of connections he had made in this new field of gadgets and entertainment: blogs on TV, TV on cellphones, radios on blackberries, movies on iPods, iPods in movies, cars that parallel park for you, cars that you can talk to, cars whose speakers are connected to your iPod, cellphone, and radio. Advertising. Internet. Communication. Information. Most of this was familiar gibberish to Molly, and she wasn't especially nervous about him. Gordian seemed like the usual mogul and she readied her oils and table for his arrival. But when his interns brought Gordian to her parlor, she froze with confusion. He was the strangest, most gruesome and helpless creature she had ever seen.
His body was barely recognizable as human. Gordian's torso was twisted and folded up to the left, his hips meeting his shoulders and forming a straight line. His legs were atrophied around each other so the crook of one leg was wrapped around his neck, forcing his chin to fit near the end of his hipbone. The other leg somehow stuck straight up like a periscope, its toes facing forward. These toes wiggled every two or three minutes like a kind of facial tic. His arms were bent across what was left of his chest so his right hand was on the left side of his body and his left hand was on the right side of his body. The fingers of one hand snapped during the moments when the periscope-foot's toes were not wiggling.
But perhaps the most frightening part of Gordian was his face, which was almost fully covered by his own ropey and confused muscles. Only his nose and one hazel eye showed through a window made by what seemed to be a thigh and a wrist. The eye blinked and the nose took deep, silent breathes in and exhaled its air forcefully. These exhalations usually occurred in an eerie rhythm with the finger snaps and toe wiggles.
Gordian was wheeled around in a wheelchair by two interns who watched him expectantly, as if his appearance was just an unfortunate side effect of the pursuit of success. The chair was a kind of hammock with two bicycle wheels and many wires running from a basket on the bottom into the folded person it cradled. A small computer rested in the basket and gently blinked from constant activity. There was a blackberry duct taped to the top of the PC, and an iPod duct-taped next to it. When Gordian was brought to her, Molly saw the familiar white iPod headphones winding their way up the sides of the wheels and into the facial part of this strange being. Gordian spoke through his computer, and his words were projected from a speaker near the periscope foot.
Out of all this, Molly noticed one thing in particular that gave her goosebumps. There was an IV bag that dangled from one of the handles that the interns pushed. It contained a yellow-orange soup, some kind of nutrient, running through a tube that got lost in the wires around Gordian's eyes and nose.
The interns lifted Gordian onto her massage table. He moved his tangled limbs in an alien way, positioning himself, and finally propping his body upright with the hand that didn't snap. His wires and tube led back to his chair, which was left at a comfortable distance from the table.
Molly's eyes were those of an old master, her experience that of an ascetic. They began immediately to roam the lines of Gordian's unfortunate body. They searched the paths of his confused limbs, traced the origins of their underlying tendons and muscles, found the basically impossible arrangement of his bones. Her ancient mind so knowledgeable in the human physique was able to reconstruct him, and after that it was only a matter of time before her fingers would do the work of soothing him back to the humanity that he had so inadvertantly abandoned.
She ran her fingers along the lines of his appendages.
"What are you doing?" his electronic voice asked. Molly was startled, his eye was looking at her.
"I'm trying to figure out what to do," she said.
"What do you mean?" his toes wiggled, and he let a breath out from his nose.
"Well," Molly looked at the eye, "you're a little complicated."
"I know," he responded, snapping the fingers of one of his hands, "I do not know how this happened."
"You don't?" she asked.
"One thing led to another, I suppose," he said.
"Well," she said, dragging a finger across one of his arms, "just try to relax."
"I have heard that one before," he said.
Molly chuckled, somehow detecting a sense of humor in the computer's voice.
"Do your best," she encouraged him.
And she began to grasp and pull at his limbs, starting with his legs, pulling them down and turning them around one another, bringing the periscope foot to its rightful place. She untwisted, unraveled, unkinked, relieved, smoothed, kneaded the knotted tissue. Bones popped, cracking after long neglect. She rolled his spine straight very slowly, bringing his lower half so it laid relatively flat on her table. This revealed a mouth with a tube, lips light blue from pressure, but a profoundly human face. His cheeks and face and forehead were blank and open and honest like a child's. Molly found Gordian's other eye, strangely blackened from lack of oxygen. It blinked in the new light.
When she was finished, he was laying on his back. His arms and legs had not fully straightened and remained mangled, bent at odd angles against his frame. But his head was at the top of him and his feet were at the bottom of him. He turned his head to her, tears staining the patterned cloth draped over her table, his wires lying unconnected on the ground.
"Thank you," he said in a scatchy voice that had not spoken in years.
Molly was hands down the best masseuse in Miami. Trained by Hindu gurus in their ancient anatomies, superstitions, and religious mythology, she gave massages according to a great pantheon of deific connections, each muscle in the human body representing a different avatar of Siva and kneaded according to its story of transformation. She had been a medical student at Harvard but abandoned the pursuit of competitive, mechanical, and blind Western medicine. She jumped ship to Juwalalumpur and enlisted as a kind of monk in a Hindu monastery whose history and traditions were said to have originated before recorded history.
Molly worked at the Mandarin Oriental, the most expensive and respected resort in a town of resorts. She smoothed the kinked backs of businessman, heads of state, and all those whose troubles and burdens in this world tightened and rolled and folded into the muscles around their necks and backs.
It was normal for Molly to recieve a fax or email dossier that provided her with a brief summary about her clientele. This was originally Molly's idea. If she knew the habits and pursuits of her customers, she would know better how to unwind them.
Out of all her customers, Matthew Gordian stands out as Molly's most memorable case. Gordian's dossier called him "the greatest living guru of convergence culture." It said he funded, researched, and developed new horizons in technological media. The summary was a list of connections he had made in this new field of gadgets and entertainment: blogs on TV, TV on cellphones, radios on blackberries, movies on iPods, iPods in movies, cars that parallel park for you, cars that you can talk to, cars whose speakers are connected to your iPod, cellphone, and radio. Advertising. Internet. Communication. Information. Most of this was familiar gibberish to Molly, and she wasn't especially nervous about him. Gordian seemed like the usual mogul and she readied her oils and table for his arrival. But when his interns brought Gordian to her parlor, she froze with confusion. He was the strangest, most gruesome and helpless creature she had ever seen.
His body was barely recognizable as human. Gordian's torso was twisted and folded up to the left, his hips meeting his shoulders and forming a straight line. His legs were atrophied around each other so the crook of one leg was wrapped around his neck, forcing his chin to fit near the end of his hipbone. The other leg somehow stuck straight up like a periscope, its toes facing forward. These toes wiggled every two or three minutes like a kind of facial tic. His arms were bent across what was left of his chest so his right hand was on the left side of his body and his left hand was on the right side of his body. The fingers of one hand snapped during the moments when the periscope-foot's toes were not wiggling.
But perhaps the most frightening part of Gordian was his face, which was almost fully covered by his own ropey and confused muscles. Only his nose and one hazel eye showed through a window made by what seemed to be a thigh and a wrist. The eye blinked and the nose took deep, silent breathes in and exhaled its air forcefully. These exhalations usually occurred in an eerie rhythm with the finger snaps and toe wiggles.
Gordian was wheeled around in a wheelchair by two interns who watched him expectantly, as if his appearance was just an unfortunate side effect of the pursuit of success. The chair was a kind of hammock with two bicycle wheels and many wires running from a basket on the bottom into the folded person it cradled. A small computer rested in the basket and gently blinked from constant activity. There was a blackberry duct taped to the top of the PC, and an iPod duct-taped next to it. When Gordian was brought to her, Molly saw the familiar white iPod headphones winding their way up the sides of the wheels and into the facial part of this strange being. Gordian spoke through his computer, and his words were projected from a speaker near the periscope foot.
Out of all this, Molly noticed one thing in particular that gave her goosebumps. There was an IV bag that dangled from one of the handles that the interns pushed. It contained a yellow-orange soup, some kind of nutrient, running through a tube that got lost in the wires around Gordian's eyes and nose.
The interns lifted Gordian onto her massage table. He moved his tangled limbs in an alien way, positioning himself, and finally propping his body upright with the hand that didn't snap. His wires and tube led back to his chair, which was left at a comfortable distance from the table.
Molly's eyes were those of an old master, her experience that of an ascetic. They began immediately to roam the lines of Gordian's unfortunate body. They searched the paths of his confused limbs, traced the origins of their underlying tendons and muscles, found the basically impossible arrangement of his bones. Her ancient mind so knowledgeable in the human physique was able to reconstruct him, and after that it was only a matter of time before her fingers would do the work of soothing him back to the humanity that he had so inadvertantly abandoned.
She ran her fingers along the lines of his appendages.
"What are you doing?" his electronic voice asked. Molly was startled, his eye was looking at her.
"I'm trying to figure out what to do," she said.
"What do you mean?" his toes wiggled, and he let a breath out from his nose.
"Well," Molly looked at the eye, "you're a little complicated."
"I know," he responded, snapping the fingers of one of his hands, "I do not know how this happened."
"You don't?" she asked.
"One thing led to another, I suppose," he said.
"Well," she said, dragging a finger across one of his arms, "just try to relax."
"I have heard that one before," he said.
Molly chuckled, somehow detecting a sense of humor in the computer's voice.
"Do your best," she encouraged him.
And she began to grasp and pull at his limbs, starting with his legs, pulling them down and turning them around one another, bringing the periscope foot to its rightful place. She untwisted, unraveled, unkinked, relieved, smoothed, kneaded the knotted tissue. Bones popped, cracking after long neglect. She rolled his spine straight very slowly, bringing his lower half so it laid relatively flat on her table. This revealed a mouth with a tube, lips light blue from pressure, but a profoundly human face. His cheeks and face and forehead were blank and open and honest like a child's. Molly found Gordian's other eye, strangely blackened from lack of oxygen. It blinked in the new light.
When she was finished, he was laying on his back. His arms and legs had not fully straightened and remained mangled, bent at odd angles against his frame. But his head was at the top of him and his feet were at the bottom of him. He turned his head to her, tears staining the patterned cloth draped over her table, his wires lying unconnected on the ground.
"Thank you," he said in a scatchy voice that had not spoken in years.
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