Burning; sarcastically biting
For ten years, Fred was an arsenist and a firefighter. Unbeknownst to everyone in Speonk, a small Long Island town, Fred was responsible for at least half of the fires that he helped extinguish. He had been given medals of honor for saving children, dogs, and precious objects from fires--most of which he had started.
Nobody caught on until one day, when Fred had been gone from the firehouse a long time, there was a fire reported at Marta Resigno's apartment building on Crestwood Lane. Everyone thought this was a strange conincidence because Marta and Fred were supposed to be married the week before but Marta called it off. She had fallen in love with a police officer from Ronkonkoma, and everyone in town knew about it except Fred--until she told him she didn't want to marry him anymore.
When Fred entered the firehouse after the emergency call came in, everyone was running back and forth with the usual urgency to go put out the flames at Marta's apartment. But Fred just moseyed in and sat on a couch near the television. His eyes were half-closed and he smelled of cheap vodka and turpentine. The other firemen became very suspicious when one of them asked Fred why he wasn't getting ready and he responded by saying, with a caustic half-smile on his face,
"Where's the fire, boys?"
Monday, April 30, 2007
Belie
Contradict (v.)
Gottolb Frege, a well-respected and prolific philosopher and mathematician, tried to show that math is really just a kind of logic. He wrote a big book of proofs and explanations showing this. Frege's proofs were based on several "Basic Laws" that he laid at the foundation of his arguments.
It should be noted that people who do things logically are uncomfortable with inconsistencies. Classically, a contradiction is an indication of logical sin. If something is both true and not true in a logician's theory, there falls within him a collapse of mind and heart that is barely imaginable.
(But try to imagine it: A man spends years and years constructing a fantastic castle. After putting the last flag on the final parapet, he rests his eyes. But when he opens them, instead of a vast horizon, he sees the ceiling above his small bed and he feels a dirty sweat settled on his tired, emaciated body. After many seconds of shock he sits up in bed, alone, and finds that he has woken from a long, realistic dream and that he has built nothing.)
A few weeks after the book came out, Frege received a letter from a student named Bertrand Russell. The letter was only a few pages long. In it, Russell gave a proof showing that Basic Law 5, a law upon which Frege's entire system depended, led to a contradiction.
After some discussion with Russell and others about this, Frege found that he could not fix Basic Law 5.
He did not publish anything for the next 14 years.
Gottolb Frege, a well-respected and prolific philosopher and mathematician, tried to show that math is really just a kind of logic. He wrote a big book of proofs and explanations showing this. Frege's proofs were based on several "Basic Laws" that he laid at the foundation of his arguments.
It should be noted that people who do things logically are uncomfortable with inconsistencies. Classically, a contradiction is an indication of logical sin. If something is both true and not true in a logician's theory, there falls within him a collapse of mind and heart that is barely imaginable.
(But try to imagine it: A man spends years and years constructing a fantastic castle. After putting the last flag on the final parapet, he rests his eyes. But when he opens them, instead of a vast horizon, he sees the ceiling above his small bed and he feels a dirty sweat settled on his tired, emaciated body. After many seconds of shock he sits up in bed, alone, and finds that he has woken from a long, realistic dream and that he has built nothing.)
A few weeks after the book came out, Frege received a letter from a student named Bertrand Russell. The letter was only a few pages long. In it, Russell gave a proof showing that Basic Law 5, a law upon which Frege's entire system depended, led to a contradiction.
After some discussion with Russell and others about this, Frege found that he could not fix Basic Law 5.
He did not publish anything for the next 14 years.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Soporific
Sleep-causing, marked by sleepiness (adj.)
Nelbert couldn't believe it. He had been living in Austrailia for three years trying to finish his dissertation on the role of oracles in aboriginal culture, and this was the first time he had ever ran out of narcolepsy medication.
It was the night of the solstice ceremony, the night Nelbert had been waiting for since his arrival, the night where the oracle he had been studying would emerge for the first and only time to perform a scared ritual that was only performed every twenty years. The oracle was said to enact a spell whose nature no one in the tribe could anticipate. The tribe had been buzzing with rumors about a rain spell, a curse on the tribe's enemies, a spell that would morph snakes into beautiful virgins who would dance for eternity and produce innumerable children with the men of the tribe. Nelbert recorded all these predictions. He scribbled down the attitudes and opinions of every tribe member regarding this mysterious tradition. He had reams of second-hand information about the oracle--pages of descriptions from the elders of the tribe, stories parents told their children about the oracle, stories that had been passed down for generations about the oracle's cave and how all were forbidden to go to the cave lest they should contaminate the oracle's power. Because of this Nelbert had not been able to see the oracle. And this ceremony was his only chance. When he shook his little bottle and no pills came out from underneath the cotton ball his chest tensed. The teenagers of the tribe probably stole his last pills, just as they stole his CD player and headphones which he had found smashed in the outskirts of the tribe several weeks ago on his way back from the bathroom.
He felt fine, he told himself. He promised himself he would stay awake. He would make it through one night without his meds, without passing out impromptu of nothing like he had at so many family functions before he was diagnosed. He had to stay awake. This was the end of his research, the experience that would confer respect and academic legitimacy to his otherwise meteocre career as a student. He could do it, he would do it. He felt fine.
The sun set. A fire was made in the center of the village and the women of the tribe began a dance and song around a circle of men that drummed and spoke in call and response chants. They called the oracle out from his cave. Nelbert sat and watched, as he had so many nights, with his pad and pencil taking notes. As night fell the chants became louder and more frantic, and the children of the village formed a path whose opening led to a dark entrance to the forest.
There came a torch from the bush, held by man who looked to be in his middle-forties, a round face, painted in blues and reds, cloth knotted around his muscular body. He walked down the path formed by the children. When the women saw him they stopped chanting. Then the oracle walked forward to the men's center circle. The tribe looked at him, eager to find what magic he might conjure. The oracle's face slowly looked over the heads of the tribe members. His eyes fixed on Nelbert. Then the oracle opened his mouth, bared his teeth, and began a harrowing chant that the entire tribe recognized. As they all sang they looked at Nelbert, pointing at him. The oracle began walking toward him, the men rising from their circle and following. The women chanted a mantra, an echoe of the oracle's prayer, and the children broke their formation and began to walk in Nelbert's direction as well. Nelbert stood up and dropped his pencil and paper. He was frightened, unable to move his limbs. Then the tribe began stamping their feet in a rhythm that got faster and faster. The men shrieked. The women chanted. The oracle raised his fist toward Nerlbert's face and Nelbert's knees buckled, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The tribe was silent then, and the only noise was a faintly nasal snore coming from the back if Nelbert's throat.
Nelbert couldn't believe it. He had been living in Austrailia for three years trying to finish his dissertation on the role of oracles in aboriginal culture, and this was the first time he had ever ran out of narcolepsy medication.
It was the night of the solstice ceremony, the night Nelbert had been waiting for since his arrival, the night where the oracle he had been studying would emerge for the first and only time to perform a scared ritual that was only performed every twenty years. The oracle was said to enact a spell whose nature no one in the tribe could anticipate. The tribe had been buzzing with rumors about a rain spell, a curse on the tribe's enemies, a spell that would morph snakes into beautiful virgins who would dance for eternity and produce innumerable children with the men of the tribe. Nelbert recorded all these predictions. He scribbled down the attitudes and opinions of every tribe member regarding this mysterious tradition. He had reams of second-hand information about the oracle--pages of descriptions from the elders of the tribe, stories parents told their children about the oracle, stories that had been passed down for generations about the oracle's cave and how all were forbidden to go to the cave lest they should contaminate the oracle's power. Because of this Nelbert had not been able to see the oracle. And this ceremony was his only chance. When he shook his little bottle and no pills came out from underneath the cotton ball his chest tensed. The teenagers of the tribe probably stole his last pills, just as they stole his CD player and headphones which he had found smashed in the outskirts of the tribe several weeks ago on his way back from the bathroom.
He felt fine, he told himself. He promised himself he would stay awake. He would make it through one night without his meds, without passing out impromptu of nothing like he had at so many family functions before he was diagnosed. He had to stay awake. This was the end of his research, the experience that would confer respect and academic legitimacy to his otherwise meteocre career as a student. He could do it, he would do it. He felt fine.
The sun set. A fire was made in the center of the village and the women of the tribe began a dance and song around a circle of men that drummed and spoke in call and response chants. They called the oracle out from his cave. Nelbert sat and watched, as he had so many nights, with his pad and pencil taking notes. As night fell the chants became louder and more frantic, and the children of the village formed a path whose opening led to a dark entrance to the forest.
There came a torch from the bush, held by man who looked to be in his middle-forties, a round face, painted in blues and reds, cloth knotted around his muscular body. He walked down the path formed by the children. When the women saw him they stopped chanting. Then the oracle walked forward to the men's center circle. The tribe looked at him, eager to find what magic he might conjure. The oracle's face slowly looked over the heads of the tribe members. His eyes fixed on Nelbert. Then the oracle opened his mouth, bared his teeth, and began a harrowing chant that the entire tribe recognized. As they all sang they looked at Nelbert, pointing at him. The oracle began walking toward him, the men rising from their circle and following. The women chanted a mantra, an echoe of the oracle's prayer, and the children broke their formation and began to walk in Nelbert's direction as well. Nelbert stood up and dropped his pencil and paper. He was frightened, unable to move his limbs. Then the tribe began stamping their feet in a rhythm that got faster and faster. The men shrieked. The women chanted. The oracle raised his fist toward Nerlbert's face and Nelbert's knees buckled, his eyes rolled back into his head, and he fell to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The tribe was silent then, and the only noise was a faintly nasal snore coming from the back if Nelbert's throat.
Solicitous
Nervous, Concerned (adj.)
Sylvia and Roberta sit on a set of stairs by the front door of their house. Sylvia is wearing a flower print dress, a white cardigan wrapped carefully around her shoulders. Roberta wears her pajamas. They both lean forward with their elbows on their knees, looking straight ahead. Roberta breaks a thick silence.
Do you know when he's getting here?
No.
Why not?
I told you.
No you didn't.
Yes I did.
No. You didn't.
He didn't say.
He didn't say?
He said between five and seven.
What is he, a cable guy?
I don't know.
You don't know?
I don't know.
What do you know?
I know that I met him online, that he said he was dependable, fashionable, and conventionally hansome.
Conventionally handsome?
Yes.
Okay, well...
And that he'd pick me up between five and seven.
Are you nervous?
No.
Really?
Absolutely not.
Not even a little bit?
I'm not even the slightest bit nervous. Not even a smigden. A dollop. A pinch nervous. I'm cool as a cucumber. Yup. That's me. Cool.
Well I'd be nervous. I'd be nervous if someone I never met was coming to pick me up for a date and I got all dressed up and I didn't know when exactly he was coming and I was just standing by the door waiting--
I guess you and I are different people, then.
The door bell rings. The two women rush to answer it. They open the door and see a UPS delivery man standing next to a mannequin wearing a suit. Their brows furrow simultaneously. The delivery man asks them a question.
Can one of you sign for this?
Sylvia and Roberta sit on a set of stairs by the front door of their house. Sylvia is wearing a flower print dress, a white cardigan wrapped carefully around her shoulders. Roberta wears her pajamas. They both lean forward with their elbows on their knees, looking straight ahead. Roberta breaks a thick silence.
Do you know when he's getting here?
No.
Why not?
I told you.
No you didn't.
Yes I did.
No. You didn't.
He didn't say.
He didn't say?
He said between five and seven.
What is he, a cable guy?
I don't know.
You don't know?
I don't know.
What do you know?
I know that I met him online, that he said he was dependable, fashionable, and conventionally hansome.
Conventionally handsome?
Yes.
Okay, well...
And that he'd pick me up between five and seven.
Are you nervous?
No.
Really?
Absolutely not.
Not even a little bit?
I'm not even the slightest bit nervous. Not even a smigden. A dollop. A pinch nervous. I'm cool as a cucumber. Yup. That's me. Cool.
Well I'd be nervous. I'd be nervous if someone I never met was coming to pick me up for a date and I got all dressed up and I didn't know when exactly he was coming and I was just standing by the door waiting--
I guess you and I are different people, then.
The door bell rings. The two women rush to answer it. They open the door and see a UPS delivery man standing next to a mannequin wearing a suit. Their brows furrow simultaneously. The delivery man asks them a question.
Can one of you sign for this?
Indigence
Poverty (n.)
When I was in middle school I went with my parents on a vacation to Ireland. We rented a car and drove along the roads through many towns, starting from Dublin and making our way through Kilkenny and Cork. Every time we stopped we stayed at a bed and breakfast and unpacked all the things we brought with us. Our suitcases were filled with shoes for comfortable walking, shoes for nice occaisons, shoes for being near a pool or the ocean, shoes for playing golf. We had books and an international cellphone just in case and sweatshirts and sweaters and jeans and khakis. We had golf clubs and magazines and backpacks and fanny packs.
On the way to Cork we stopped at a small town whose name I don't remember. We pulled off the highway to look at a map. We pulled off onto a swail of pebbles near the entrance to a farm. The green land was flat and lush and rolled beneath a deep blue dome of sky. There was a brown farmhouse close to where we pulled off the road that seemed to rise out of the ground. It was a small house, probably as tall as the people that lived there. Its roof was slanted, paint was rising in broken chips from the walls and porch, and weeds sprouted from every conceivable crack or rupture. And there was a dog, an old dog, standing where the steps of the porch led into the house. The dog was fat with uncut hair, its face almost lost in the overgrowth of its fur.
My mother got out of the car and squinted at the scene and said,
"Ew."
After she said this a man wearing a white button down shirt and brown pants that matched his house stepped out onto the porch with a huge smile on his face. He waved and shouted "hello!" to us. I smiled and waved back, jealous of his great wealth.
When I was in middle school I went with my parents on a vacation to Ireland. We rented a car and drove along the roads through many towns, starting from Dublin and making our way through Kilkenny and Cork. Every time we stopped we stayed at a bed and breakfast and unpacked all the things we brought with us. Our suitcases were filled with shoes for comfortable walking, shoes for nice occaisons, shoes for being near a pool or the ocean, shoes for playing golf. We had books and an international cellphone just in case and sweatshirts and sweaters and jeans and khakis. We had golf clubs and magazines and backpacks and fanny packs.
On the way to Cork we stopped at a small town whose name I don't remember. We pulled off the highway to look at a map. We pulled off onto a swail of pebbles near the entrance to a farm. The green land was flat and lush and rolled beneath a deep blue dome of sky. There was a brown farmhouse close to where we pulled off the road that seemed to rise out of the ground. It was a small house, probably as tall as the people that lived there. Its roof was slanted, paint was rising in broken chips from the walls and porch, and weeds sprouted from every conceivable crack or rupture. And there was a dog, an old dog, standing where the steps of the porch led into the house. The dog was fat with uncut hair, its face almost lost in the overgrowth of its fur.
My mother got out of the car and squinted at the scene and said,
"Ew."
After she said this a man wearing a white button down shirt and brown pants that matched his house stepped out onto the porch with a huge smile on his face. He waved and shouted "hello!" to us. I smiled and waved back, jealous of his great wealth.
Tractable
Docile, Easily Managed (adj.)
Grupo the sad clown could juggle chainsaws. He could hit an apple sitting on a beautiful woman's head with a knife. He could put a smile on an unhappy child's face by pulling a never-ending hankerchief made of all the colors of the light spectrum from his painted mouth.
He was also the best employee the circus had. He never got angry. Even when they lost funding for the elephant riding portion of his act and repo men came and took his elephants away, creatures he cared for greatly--he didn't protest. Even when they fired his fiance Mammy, the trapeze artist, because she was muslim and the manager said that no one would come to watch a circus with a terrorist in it--he didn't question his manager's decision.
Yes, Grupo was an obeidient clown.
And one day Stoompa, the Prussian giant, approached Grupo with a look of concern.
"Grupo," he said, "I've noticed that you haven't taken off your makeup for some time, not even after shows. This doesn't seem healthy to me."
Grupo brought his hand to his cheek. He felt the old crust of a clown's face: the downward painted smile, the large painted tear falling from his eye.
"Oh," he said, blinking, "I guess I didn't even notice."
Grupo the sad clown could juggle chainsaws. He could hit an apple sitting on a beautiful woman's head with a knife. He could put a smile on an unhappy child's face by pulling a never-ending hankerchief made of all the colors of the light spectrum from his painted mouth.
He was also the best employee the circus had. He never got angry. Even when they lost funding for the elephant riding portion of his act and repo men came and took his elephants away, creatures he cared for greatly--he didn't protest. Even when they fired his fiance Mammy, the trapeze artist, because she was muslim and the manager said that no one would come to watch a circus with a terrorist in it--he didn't question his manager's decision.
Yes, Grupo was an obeidient clown.
And one day Stoompa, the Prussian giant, approached Grupo with a look of concern.
"Grupo," he said, "I've noticed that you haven't taken off your makeup for some time, not even after shows. This doesn't seem healthy to me."
Grupo brought his hand to his cheek. He felt the old crust of a clown's face: the downward painted smile, the large painted tear falling from his eye.
"Oh," he said, blinking, "I guess I didn't even notice."
Friday, April 27, 2007
Dessicate
Dry thoroughly (v.)
While chopping bunches of grapes en route to the dehydration processor, Merlin cut the tip of this thumb with a large machete.
"Fuck!" he screamed.
Reeling from the sudden sting, he looked down and saw blood seeping into the chopped grapes, staining the cellulose and skin of the fruit a faint black. He shook his head and dropped the knife and, in a stupor, grabbed his cut thumb with his other hand and ran to the small bathroom near the entrance of the barn. When he got there he held his thumb under cold running water and watched the blood mix with the tap water and circle into the drain. Then he looked up into the mirror at his bloodshot eyes and felt his head spinning. He sighed at himself.
He walked to his house and called his daughter Mona. She drove over and bandaged his thumb and spent the night with him on the farm. In the morning, she was making eggs and pancakes and he wobbled into the kitchen holding his palm to his forehead. Mona placed a plate of eggs and pancakes in front of him and sat down.
"Dad, you have to get some help."
"Mona, please..."
"Look at yourself!" she said, "You chopped a piece of your finger off! It could have been much worse. I mean you're here alone, for Chrissake. Alone with these machines and..."
She paused and looked at her father's tired eyes, bags beneath them that were the color and consistency of the raisins he so lonesomely produced.
"And you're drinking again."
"Mona, no, absolutely not, I..."
"I smelled it last night. I saw the bottle in the barn. You can't do this anymore."
His face fell in shame. He brought the corner of his mouth up slightly and scratched the back of his head.
"Drinking alone and working so much, it's just not good..." Mona said.
"I just," he struggled to clear his throat and defend himself, "I have this huge SunMaid order to fill by the end of the week and...and ever since your mother left I haven't..."
"Dad," she interuppted, "that was almost three years ago."
He hung his head again and exhaled. Mona rolled her eyes and got lost in a thought. She looked down at her watch and took a decisive breath after a moment of consideration and said,
"Okay, let's go."
"What?" Merlin asked.
"Let's go," she got up and put her coat on,"we're leaving."
"To go where?"
"You'll see."
"Mona, no, I have to get this..."
"Now, Dad."
And Merlin looked at his thumb. There was a throbbing pain swelling within the cut that pounded in rhythm with the throb of his hangover. He looked into his daughter's eyes. She was holding his coat out to him. He sighed again and took it and followed her to her car.
They drove to the community center and Mona pulled up to the main entrance.
"Go to room 405, I looked it up," she said.
He looked out of his window and back at her.
"Aren't you coming in, too?" he asked.
"Nope, I'll be back in an hour or so to come get you. Room 405, don't forget."
Merlin looked at her again, still feeling the throb beneath the bandage.
"C'mon Dad."
"Alright," he said as he unbuckled his seatbelt and rose slowly out of the car, making sure to close the car door with his fist to protect his thumb.
He walked into the building and saw a long hallway of identical doors, all of them closed. He walked slowly, passing the numbered doors until he reached 405. He furrowed his brow and put his hand on the handle and pushed.
When he poked his head through the crack in the door a circle of faces looked up at him. They were all tired, all his age, and all half-smiling like they were glad to see him. The exhausted warmth in their faces kept him in the doorway. Before he could think twice, a woman with a purple blouse said,
"Welcome, welcome, come on in."
"Hi," he said, "I don't know if, uh..."
"AA? Yup, you found us, what's your name, sir?"
He was nervous but also strangely willing, so Merlin stepped into the room and declared,
"My name is Merlin. I make raisins."
"Hi Merlin," the circle of people chanted to him.
"Why don't you have a seat?" the woman in the purple said, pointing to an open chair next to a chubby Asian man. Merlin walked over, rested his hands on his thighs, and let himself fall into the straight-backed chair.
As soon as Merlin sat down the Asian man began talking.
"As I was saying, I haven't even wanted a beer for 5 months and it just feels..."
Merlin decided to give this man his full attention and when he did he forgot about the throbbing in his thumb.
While chopping bunches of grapes en route to the dehydration processor, Merlin cut the tip of this thumb with a large machete.
"Fuck!" he screamed.
Reeling from the sudden sting, he looked down and saw blood seeping into the chopped grapes, staining the cellulose and skin of the fruit a faint black. He shook his head and dropped the knife and, in a stupor, grabbed his cut thumb with his other hand and ran to the small bathroom near the entrance of the barn. When he got there he held his thumb under cold running water and watched the blood mix with the tap water and circle into the drain. Then he looked up into the mirror at his bloodshot eyes and felt his head spinning. He sighed at himself.
He walked to his house and called his daughter Mona. She drove over and bandaged his thumb and spent the night with him on the farm. In the morning, she was making eggs and pancakes and he wobbled into the kitchen holding his palm to his forehead. Mona placed a plate of eggs and pancakes in front of him and sat down.
"Dad, you have to get some help."
"Mona, please..."
"Look at yourself!" she said, "You chopped a piece of your finger off! It could have been much worse. I mean you're here alone, for Chrissake. Alone with these machines and..."
She paused and looked at her father's tired eyes, bags beneath them that were the color and consistency of the raisins he so lonesomely produced.
"And you're drinking again."
"Mona, no, absolutely not, I..."
"I smelled it last night. I saw the bottle in the barn. You can't do this anymore."
His face fell in shame. He brought the corner of his mouth up slightly and scratched the back of his head.
"Drinking alone and working so much, it's just not good..." Mona said.
"I just," he struggled to clear his throat and defend himself, "I have this huge SunMaid order to fill by the end of the week and...and ever since your mother left I haven't..."
"Dad," she interuppted, "that was almost three years ago."
He hung his head again and exhaled. Mona rolled her eyes and got lost in a thought. She looked down at her watch and took a decisive breath after a moment of consideration and said,
"Okay, let's go."
"What?" Merlin asked.
"Let's go," she got up and put her coat on,"we're leaving."
"To go where?"
"You'll see."
"Mona, no, I have to get this..."
"Now, Dad."
And Merlin looked at his thumb. There was a throbbing pain swelling within the cut that pounded in rhythm with the throb of his hangover. He looked into his daughter's eyes. She was holding his coat out to him. He sighed again and took it and followed her to her car.
They drove to the community center and Mona pulled up to the main entrance.
"Go to room 405, I looked it up," she said.
He looked out of his window and back at her.
"Aren't you coming in, too?" he asked.
"Nope, I'll be back in an hour or so to come get you. Room 405, don't forget."
Merlin looked at her again, still feeling the throb beneath the bandage.
"C'mon Dad."
"Alright," he said as he unbuckled his seatbelt and rose slowly out of the car, making sure to close the car door with his fist to protect his thumb.
He walked into the building and saw a long hallway of identical doors, all of them closed. He walked slowly, passing the numbered doors until he reached 405. He furrowed his brow and put his hand on the handle and pushed.
When he poked his head through the crack in the door a circle of faces looked up at him. They were all tired, all his age, and all half-smiling like they were glad to see him. The exhausted warmth in their faces kept him in the doorway. Before he could think twice, a woman with a purple blouse said,
"Welcome, welcome, come on in."
"Hi," he said, "I don't know if, uh..."
"AA? Yup, you found us, what's your name, sir?"
He was nervous but also strangely willing, so Merlin stepped into the room and declared,
"My name is Merlin. I make raisins."
"Hi Merlin," the circle of people chanted to him.
"Why don't you have a seat?" the woman in the purple said, pointing to an open chair next to a chubby Asian man. Merlin walked over, rested his hands on his thighs, and let himself fall into the straight-backed chair.
As soon as Merlin sat down the Asian man began talking.
"As I was saying, I haven't even wanted a beer for 5 months and it just feels..."
Merlin decided to give this man his full attention and when he did he forgot about the throbbing in his thumb.
Prevaricate
Lie (v.)
Two Greek men sit at a crossroads between Athens and Marathon. One Greek holds his head up into the sun with his eyes closed. The sunlight warms his bearded face. The other Greek is nervous and sits with his shoulders hunched. His head hangs low. This nervous man knits his fingers together and his eyes dart back and forth between the ground and his friend's peaceful face. The nervous Greek takes a deep breath and admits something to his friend.
"I'm lying to you right now," he says.
The peaceful Greek turns his face from the sun. His eyes are still closed.
"Is that true?" he asks.
Two Greek men sit at a crossroads between Athens and Marathon. One Greek holds his head up into the sun with his eyes closed. The sunlight warms his bearded face. The other Greek is nervous and sits with his shoulders hunched. His head hangs low. This nervous man knits his fingers together and his eyes dart back and forth between the ground and his friend's peaceful face. The nervous Greek takes a deep breath and admits something to his friend.
"I'm lying to you right now," he says.
The peaceful Greek turns his face from the sun. His eyes are still closed.
"Is that true?" he asks.
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Obdurate
Obdurate
Stubborn (adj.) Monday
Julia wobbles down the hallway and her hearing aid squeals in her ear. She takes it out of her ear and the world sounds like the inside of a conch shell, full of vague shuffles and whispers. She twists a small knob and it stops squealing and she puts it back in her ear.
She enters the kitchen and sits across from her husband Tommy. Marie, their live-in nurse, brings a plate of turkey and boiled peas to the table and she uncovers the white plastic dish and steam goes upward into the light over the table.
"I want to throw you a party," Tommy says.
"I don't want a party."
"But you should have a party."
"I said I don't want one."
Tommy looks at his wife. The wrinkles on her face run like highways across her cheeks and her head is shaking back and forth from palsy.
"You're going to be ninety, that's a big..."
"Don't."
"Its cause for celebration, I think, I'm..."
He reaches for her hand but she takes it away before he can touch it. Instead she takes up her fork and spears some peas. She lifts the fork and the peas to her mouth with her shaking hand and a few peas falling into her lap on the way up. Tuesday
Julia shuffles down the hallway to dinner. Again her hearing aid whines in her ear and she stops walking and fixes it. For a second the world sounds like shuffles and whispers. She sits at the table across from Tommy sitting and Marie brings a plastic dish of salmon and salad to the table and lifts a cover off the plastic white dish so steam wafts into light above the table.
"Thank you, Marie," she says. Tommy waits as she tucks a napkin into her collar. “Jules…”
“No,” she says.
“But I didn’t…” Julia looks at him and her cataracts wander around his face. Then she untucks the napkin that she had tucked into her collar.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm not hungry anymore," she says.
And her hand flutters down with the napkin in it to the surface of the table. Wednesday
Julia hobbles down the hallway toward the kitchen for dinner. Again, she hears a squeal from her hearing aid and she removes it from her ear to turn the volume down. For a moment she hears the empty shuffles and whispers of the world without her hearing aid. Then she replaces it and continues walking. But the shuffles and whispers don’t go away when she puts it back. She stops again and removes the hearing aid and shakes it up and down. She puts it back in again and makes goes to the kitchen.
When she arrives she has to squint to see. There’s a group of people turned toward her. She recognizes Bob and Theresa from the community center and Beth, her daughter, with her two children Bernie and Gabby, who are sitting on the floor playing Patti cake. And she sees Tommy standing in the center of the little crowd holding a cake with nine little candles. Marie is holding his elbow. When Julia sees them all together her hand flutters up to her face like a butterfly and rests on her cheek. The highways of wrinkles on her face lift into a smile. "Oh my," she says. With Marie's help Tommy walks over with the cake. He stretches his neck over the candles and kisses his wife.
"I threw you a party anyway," he says.
Stubborn (adj.) Monday
Julia wobbles down the hallway and her hearing aid squeals in her ear. She takes it out of her ear and the world sounds like the inside of a conch shell, full of vague shuffles and whispers. She twists a small knob and it stops squealing and she puts it back in her ear.
She enters the kitchen and sits across from her husband Tommy. Marie, their live-in nurse, brings a plate of turkey and boiled peas to the table and she uncovers the white plastic dish and steam goes upward into the light over the table.
"I want to throw you a party," Tommy says.
"I don't want a party."
"But you should have a party."
"I said I don't want one."
Tommy looks at his wife. The wrinkles on her face run like highways across her cheeks and her head is shaking back and forth from palsy.
"You're going to be ninety, that's a big..."
"Don't."
"Its cause for celebration, I think, I'm..."
He reaches for her hand but she takes it away before he can touch it. Instead she takes up her fork and spears some peas. She lifts the fork and the peas to her mouth with her shaking hand and a few peas falling into her lap on the way up. Tuesday
Julia shuffles down the hallway to dinner. Again her hearing aid whines in her ear and she stops walking and fixes it. For a second the world sounds like shuffles and whispers. She sits at the table across from Tommy sitting and Marie brings a plastic dish of salmon and salad to the table and lifts a cover off the plastic white dish so steam wafts into light above the table.
"Thank you, Marie," she says. Tommy waits as she tucks a napkin into her collar. “Jules…”
“No,” she says.
“But I didn’t…” Julia looks at him and her cataracts wander around his face. Then she untucks the napkin that she had tucked into her collar.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm not hungry anymore," she says.
And her hand flutters down with the napkin in it to the surface of the table. Wednesday
Julia hobbles down the hallway toward the kitchen for dinner. Again, she hears a squeal from her hearing aid and she removes it from her ear to turn the volume down. For a moment she hears the empty shuffles and whispers of the world without her hearing aid. Then she replaces it and continues walking. But the shuffles and whispers don’t go away when she puts it back. She stops again and removes the hearing aid and shakes it up and down. She puts it back in again and makes goes to the kitchen.
When she arrives she has to squint to see. There’s a group of people turned toward her. She recognizes Bob and Theresa from the community center and Beth, her daughter, with her two children Bernie and Gabby, who are sitting on the floor playing Patti cake. And she sees Tommy standing in the center of the little crowd holding a cake with nine little candles. Marie is holding his elbow. When Julia sees them all together her hand flutters up to her face like a butterfly and rests on her cheek. The highways of wrinkles on her face lift into a smile. "Oh my," she says. With Marie's help Tommy walks over with the cake. He stretches his neck over the candles and kisses his wife.
"I threw you a party anyway," he says.
Laconic
Brief and to the point (adj.)
The Dalai Llama leans forward in his seat and looks up. He is impressed by Carnegie Hall. Then he looks over his shoulder at the chatting crowd. He is impressed with them, too. Among them he sees the Pope, Cardinals, Presidents, Sheiks, Prime Ministers, Senators, Kings, Queens, Princes, Princesses, Leaders of Business, and Famous Intellectuals. The world's most powerful people are waiting for the show to begin.
He turns around and faces the stage and flips through the the Playbill. It's title reads: "The Truth of Human Consciousness." The Llama stops flipping and finds a page with an ad for women's perfume. There is a little sample glued to the page and the holy man opens the sample, grins, and brings the Playbill up to his face and takes a deep sniff. As he exhales, the house lights dim and the voices of the audience hush in anticipation.
No one thought it could be done. The President of the United States was glad, at least, that Americans had created it before anybody else. The machine was shaped like the tin man. It's face was an aluminum sphere covered with a thin and perpetually wet sponge that was connected to the head by a series of wires. When it was on the wires crawled in and out of holes in the sponge while little LCD lights blinked on and off. The sponge was like a dog's nose: it detected smells, pheromones emitted by whatever was placed within 10 feet of it. The wires carried the pheromonal information into a computer in the head and the computer analyzed and interpreted it. Within a matter of seconds the machine could determine an person's mood and mindset and describe it in spoken English.
When it was first turned on the machine was facing one of its creators. The wires beneath its spongy mask crawled and flickered and it said,
"Relax. You have succeeded. There is no need to worry."
In the first few days of the machine's life it successfully diagnosed seven cancer patients when it was put in front of them. Then a human child was placed in front of it and it said,
"It will learn soon."
Several weeks after the machine diagnosed the cancer patients and spoke about the child it was reported that Japanese engineers had somehow created their own identical model of the robot. When the American creators heard the news the machine was on and close by and it said,
"It was bound to happen."
Then the President of the United States and the Emperor of Japan met to discuss the matter. They agreed that there should be a public display of this invention to demonstrate the power of human ingenuity, and also to demonstrate the political peace that existed between the two governments. After a meeting at the Emperor's home in Tokyo the two men decided that the robots would meet one another on American soil. The Japanese and American engineers, who were invited to the meeting, were told this. They all scratched their heads and their faces collectively and then one of the Japanese engineers came up with a strange hypothesis.
"Given the construction and programming of the robots," he said in Japanese, "if the two machines were placed near each other then they would likely describe one another's mood."
An American scientist that understood Japanese sat up in his chair.
"The most basic, fundamental qualities of human consciousness," he said.
Everyone became very excited.
The curtain rises and reveals the two robots. They are facing one another like they are having a conversation. Then a switch is flipped from somewhere backstage and the lights of the wires beneath their faces light up, blinking and flitting. The wires crawl beneath the sponges and they collect information from the air. The audience is silent. A few seconds pass.
Then both robots simultaneously pronounce the same spare but truthful syllable:
"Fa," they say in their synthetic voices.
The Dalai Llama laughs, grinning and nodding his head-- his bubbly chuckle the only sound in an otherwise silent auditorium.
The Dalai Llama leans forward in his seat and looks up. He is impressed by Carnegie Hall. Then he looks over his shoulder at the chatting crowd. He is impressed with them, too. Among them he sees the Pope, Cardinals, Presidents, Sheiks, Prime Ministers, Senators, Kings, Queens, Princes, Princesses, Leaders of Business, and Famous Intellectuals. The world's most powerful people are waiting for the show to begin.
He turns around and faces the stage and flips through the the Playbill. It's title reads: "The Truth of Human Consciousness." The Llama stops flipping and finds a page with an ad for women's perfume. There is a little sample glued to the page and the holy man opens the sample, grins, and brings the Playbill up to his face and takes a deep sniff. As he exhales, the house lights dim and the voices of the audience hush in anticipation.
No one thought it could be done. The President of the United States was glad, at least, that Americans had created it before anybody else. The machine was shaped like the tin man. It's face was an aluminum sphere covered with a thin and perpetually wet sponge that was connected to the head by a series of wires. When it was on the wires crawled in and out of holes in the sponge while little LCD lights blinked on and off. The sponge was like a dog's nose: it detected smells, pheromones emitted by whatever was placed within 10 feet of it. The wires carried the pheromonal information into a computer in the head and the computer analyzed and interpreted it. Within a matter of seconds the machine could determine an person's mood and mindset and describe it in spoken English.
When it was first turned on the machine was facing one of its creators. The wires beneath its spongy mask crawled and flickered and it said,
"Relax. You have succeeded. There is no need to worry."
In the first few days of the machine's life it successfully diagnosed seven cancer patients when it was put in front of them. Then a human child was placed in front of it and it said,
"It will learn soon."
Several weeks after the machine diagnosed the cancer patients and spoke about the child it was reported that Japanese engineers had somehow created their own identical model of the robot. When the American creators heard the news the machine was on and close by and it said,
"It was bound to happen."
Then the President of the United States and the Emperor of Japan met to discuss the matter. They agreed that there should be a public display of this invention to demonstrate the power of human ingenuity, and also to demonstrate the political peace that existed between the two governments. After a meeting at the Emperor's home in Tokyo the two men decided that the robots would meet one another on American soil. The Japanese and American engineers, who were invited to the meeting, were told this. They all scratched their heads and their faces collectively and then one of the Japanese engineers came up with a strange hypothesis.
"Given the construction and programming of the robots," he said in Japanese, "if the two machines were placed near each other then they would likely describe one another's mood."
An American scientist that understood Japanese sat up in his chair.
"The most basic, fundamental qualities of human consciousness," he said.
Everyone became very excited.
The curtain rises and reveals the two robots. They are facing one another like they are having a conversation. Then a switch is flipped from somewhere backstage and the lights of the wires beneath their faces light up, blinking and flitting. The wires crawl beneath the sponges and they collect information from the air. The audience is silent. A few seconds pass.
Then both robots simultaneously pronounce the same spare but truthful syllable:
"Fa," they say in their synthetic voices.
The Dalai Llama laughs, grinning and nodding his head-- his bubbly chuckle the only sound in an otherwise silent auditorium.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Enervate
Weaken (v)
Jomby stepped forward and flew his fist into the kid's face and felt the faint and familiar throb of flesh against his taped knuckles. The boy he was fighting was nobody. Just another set of young shoulders stalking around the neighborhood streets who someone told in a low whisper, like it was a secret, that he could make it as a fighter, that he could stay upright in a basement of some dilapidated factory with a circle of drunk men screaming and spitting for flesh and legal tender. Jomby recognized the boy's shoulders, the hope in the eyes of the attempter... they always sent these young kids to him so he could show them how things really were in the dank corners of the world. The gamblers sent the boys to Jomby because they knew Jomby would win. They knew Jomby would win because Jomby never saw his opponent's face. He didn't know their names, he didn't think of them as things with feelings or rights or souls. He just ripped them apart.
Jomby ripped them apart because in the face of every man he mangled he saw the face of a man he'd never see again. He saw the pronounced chin and small inset eyes of his former manager, the man he trusted, the man who coached him, the man who found Jomby prize fights-- the man that stole Jomby's only son from him. This manager, a closet pederast with a long record, coached him for three weeks and then ran off with Jomby's little boy one night while he waited for his father to finish training. To Jomby this man had no soul or rights or feelings. He was a sack of flesh to be found somehow and beaten.
A cheer went up from the crowd. Greasy fists filled with folded dollar bills shot up in the air. One of the fists knocked into the only light bulb in the room, causing the bulb to swing back and forth across the din, casting terrifying shadows among the screaming gamblers.
The boy was writhing on the floor, holding his face and screaming. Blood poured from the spaces between his bruised fingers. He lay there beaten, completely reduced. Jomby looked down just long enough to see the boy's legs stop kicking, to see his bloody hands fall limply from his face to the floor. Then Jomby gazed over the faces in the cirlce of men to the makeshift scoreboard written in chalk on a graffit'd wall by the entrance. The name of his opponent was illuminated for a second, revealed by chance in the path of the swinging lightbulb. In the flicker of light Jomby caught a glimpse of the name of his opponent, which was written in chalk below his. In the flicker he saw his name twice. The shouting faded from his ears as he squinted at the name, his chest imploding with every passing moment. He saw the name again. 'Jomby' beneath 'Jomby'. He shook his head.
No.
It could not be.
A thin, sick-looking man that was standing by the scoreboard raised his hand and wiped the second name from the wall, smearing the second 'Jomby' with the sweat of his fist.
Jomby screamed and ran to the boy, splayed on the floor. Too weak to stand, he fell to his knees. He gathered the body of the boy into his arms and cradled him, rocking the corpse back and forth as the circle of drunkards cursed absurdly all around him.
Jomby stepped forward and flew his fist into the kid's face and felt the faint and familiar throb of flesh against his taped knuckles. The boy he was fighting was nobody. Just another set of young shoulders stalking around the neighborhood streets who someone told in a low whisper, like it was a secret, that he could make it as a fighter, that he could stay upright in a basement of some dilapidated factory with a circle of drunk men screaming and spitting for flesh and legal tender. Jomby recognized the boy's shoulders, the hope in the eyes of the attempter... they always sent these young kids to him so he could show them how things really were in the dank corners of the world. The gamblers sent the boys to Jomby because they knew Jomby would win. They knew Jomby would win because Jomby never saw his opponent's face. He didn't know their names, he didn't think of them as things with feelings or rights or souls. He just ripped them apart.
Jomby ripped them apart because in the face of every man he mangled he saw the face of a man he'd never see again. He saw the pronounced chin and small inset eyes of his former manager, the man he trusted, the man who coached him, the man who found Jomby prize fights-- the man that stole Jomby's only son from him. This manager, a closet pederast with a long record, coached him for three weeks and then ran off with Jomby's little boy one night while he waited for his father to finish training. To Jomby this man had no soul or rights or feelings. He was a sack of flesh to be found somehow and beaten.
A cheer went up from the crowd. Greasy fists filled with folded dollar bills shot up in the air. One of the fists knocked into the only light bulb in the room, causing the bulb to swing back and forth across the din, casting terrifying shadows among the screaming gamblers.
The boy was writhing on the floor, holding his face and screaming. Blood poured from the spaces between his bruised fingers. He lay there beaten, completely reduced. Jomby looked down just long enough to see the boy's legs stop kicking, to see his bloody hands fall limply from his face to the floor. Then Jomby gazed over the faces in the cirlce of men to the makeshift scoreboard written in chalk on a graffit'd wall by the entrance. The name of his opponent was illuminated for a second, revealed by chance in the path of the swinging lightbulb. In the flicker of light Jomby caught a glimpse of the name of his opponent, which was written in chalk below his. In the flicker he saw his name twice. The shouting faded from his ears as he squinted at the name, his chest imploding with every passing moment. He saw the name again. 'Jomby' beneath 'Jomby'. He shook his head.
No.
It could not be.
A thin, sick-looking man that was standing by the scoreboard raised his hand and wiped the second name from the wall, smearing the second 'Jomby' with the sweat of his fist.
Jomby screamed and ran to the boy, splayed on the floor. Too weak to stand, he fell to his knees. He gathered the body of the boy into his arms and cradled him, rocking the corpse back and forth as the circle of drunkards cursed absurdly all around him.
Garrulous
Loquacious; wordy; talkative
Slang, while sometimes base and inappropriate, can be quite lovely. For example, my students have brought it to my attention that when an individual talks and does not stop, whether it be a teacher or an administrator or a parent (or a fellow student, though I think this is a rare case because, I've gathered, it is commonly an authority figure that demands a student's attention beyond the attention he or she is willing to pay), they say that this individual is "wrapping them up." The choice of the word "wrapping" is such a truthful one in this context, I think, because it very much enlivens the feeling one has when a speaker continues talking despite one's desire to end the conversation. When someone is being "wrapped up," the image I conjure is one of many letters acting as a tractor beam, a speaker's syllables winding together like ropes reaching out from a motor-like mandible; the sentences adhering to one another and fusing and weaving out from the speaker to embrace the listener like a tentacle; their resulting paragraphs forming a kind of sonic cellophane that dizzies the listener until the listener has that unmistakable feeling of empty boredom, as if their consciousness were being suffocated by the speaker's persistently verbose and superfluous wording.
Slang, while sometimes base and inappropriate, can be quite lovely. For example, my students have brought it to my attention that when an individual talks and does not stop, whether it be a teacher or an administrator or a parent (or a fellow student, though I think this is a rare case because, I've gathered, it is commonly an authority figure that demands a student's attention beyond the attention he or she is willing to pay), they say that this individual is "wrapping them up." The choice of the word "wrapping" is such a truthful one in this context, I think, because it very much enlivens the feeling one has when a speaker continues talking despite one's desire to end the conversation. When someone is being "wrapped up," the image I conjure is one of many letters acting as a tractor beam, a speaker's syllables winding together like ropes reaching out from a motor-like mandible; the sentences adhering to one another and fusing and weaving out from the speaker to embrace the listener like a tentacle; their resulting paragraphs forming a kind of sonic cellophane that dizzies the listener until the listener has that unmistakable feeling of empty boredom, as if their consciousness were being suffocated by the speaker's persistently verbose and superfluous wording.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Erudite
Learned; scholarly
Dr. Burt Haber sat holding his hands over his face and peered through the thin spaces between his fingers at Stephanie, a sophomore who had come to ask a question about the Vena Cava for her Intro to Bio test the next day. Unfortunately for both of them, Stephanie had come at a bad time. Just minutes before his office hours began Professor Haber, expert on a species of worm that only breeds in the dark and lives off the heat of other worms, had been told that his wife, a professor of Germanic languages and literature, had been caught in her office with a grad student's head buried in her crouch while she stood reading an obscure translation of Rilke.
"Do you know how a spider's lungs work, Susie?" Dr. Haber demanded, his mouth covered by his hands.
"It's Stephanie," she said.
Haber folded his hands, nodded, and made a tisking noise as if he was slowly coming to terms with his mistake. He hung his head below his folded hands and inhaled very loudly so the oxygen raked against his nasal passage. Then, after a completely silent moment, he grabbed a book from his cluttered desk and frantically thrust the book into Stephanie's face. She leaned back, a little scared.
"You didn't answer my intial question. Do you know how spider lungs work?"
"Nuh-no I d---"
"Like this," he hissed, and, lifting his left leg up on the desk so he could lean further forward and show her, he slowly turned the book sideways so the pages fell one after another in a cascade of inert squares.
"Did you know that?" he asked, his eyes wide.
"No," she paused, "but I do now."
Then he put the book down and slid his legs around and sat cross-legged on his desk, knocking some stray papers to the floor. He leaned forward and asked her,
"Can I be honest with you, Stephanie?"
"Okay," she said.
"That's the the most intelligent thing I've ever heard."
Dr. Burt Haber sat holding his hands over his face and peered through the thin spaces between his fingers at Stephanie, a sophomore who had come to ask a question about the Vena Cava for her Intro to Bio test the next day. Unfortunately for both of them, Stephanie had come at a bad time. Just minutes before his office hours began Professor Haber, expert on a species of worm that only breeds in the dark and lives off the heat of other worms, had been told that his wife, a professor of Germanic languages and literature, had been caught in her office with a grad student's head buried in her crouch while she stood reading an obscure translation of Rilke.
"Do you know how a spider's lungs work, Susie?" Dr. Haber demanded, his mouth covered by his hands.
"It's Stephanie," she said.
Haber folded his hands, nodded, and made a tisking noise as if he was slowly coming to terms with his mistake. He hung his head below his folded hands and inhaled very loudly so the oxygen raked against his nasal passage. Then, after a completely silent moment, he grabbed a book from his cluttered desk and frantically thrust the book into Stephanie's face. She leaned back, a little scared.
"You didn't answer my intial question. Do you know how spider lungs work?"
"Nuh-no I d---"
"Like this," he hissed, and, lifting his left leg up on the desk so he could lean further forward and show her, he slowly turned the book sideways so the pages fell one after another in a cascade of inert squares.
"Did you know that?" he asked, his eyes wide.
"No," she paused, "but I do now."
Then he put the book down and slid his legs around and sat cross-legged on his desk, knocking some stray papers to the floor. He leaned forward and asked her,
"Can I be honest with you, Stephanie?"
"Okay," she said.
"That's the the most intelligent thing I've ever heard."
Ablushing
Washing (n)
The front door slams and Barnaby wakes up to the sound of rain hitting the living room window. For a moment he doesn't know where he is or what he is doing, but as soon as he looks into the night and sees an old Time magazine on his chest he remembers: He is waiting for his teenage son Lawrence to come home.
Barnaby squints at a digital clock on a table and it reads 3:06 AM. Dull footsteps make their way toward the staircase in the foyer, but he intercepts them before their owner can sneak away. He walks around a corner and sees Lawrence and flicks on a light. Lawrence turns to face Barnaby, but not as quickly as Barnaby hoped he would. Lawrence's blue eyes catch the white light from the light bulb and Barnaby is mesmerized for a second by the white rings around his son's pupils and their contrast with the deep blue of his irises-- his son's eye's are stark and confident and calm. They make Barnaby feel caught.
"And where the hell where you all night?" he demands, "Do you know what time it is?"
At this Lawrence smiles and remembers an open field in the teeming rain and the feeling of his girlfriend's skin in his hands; the deep but comforting chill of the mud in the grass as they rolled around in it like children born of water and leaf; their laughter in the summer thunder and heat lightning; the feeling of the warm rainwater still on his young body--the water giving him the feeling that nothing could make him dirty, not even his father.
"Yes, I know what time it is, Dad," says Lawrence, the words coming from those white rings in his eyes, "and I was everywhere tonight."
The front door slams and Barnaby wakes up to the sound of rain hitting the living room window. For a moment he doesn't know where he is or what he is doing, but as soon as he looks into the night and sees an old Time magazine on his chest he remembers: He is waiting for his teenage son Lawrence to come home.
Barnaby squints at a digital clock on a table and it reads 3:06 AM. Dull footsteps make their way toward the staircase in the foyer, but he intercepts them before their owner can sneak away. He walks around a corner and sees Lawrence and flicks on a light. Lawrence turns to face Barnaby, but not as quickly as Barnaby hoped he would. Lawrence's blue eyes catch the white light from the light bulb and Barnaby is mesmerized for a second by the white rings around his son's pupils and their contrast with the deep blue of his irises-- his son's eye's are stark and confident and calm. They make Barnaby feel caught.
"And where the hell where you all night?" he demands, "Do you know what time it is?"
At this Lawrence smiles and remembers an open field in the teeming rain and the feeling of his girlfriend's skin in his hands; the deep but comforting chill of the mud in the grass as they rolled around in it like children born of water and leaf; their laughter in the summer thunder and heat lightning; the feeling of the warm rainwater still on his young body--the water giving him the feeling that nothing could make him dirty, not even his father.
"Yes, I know what time it is, Dad," says Lawrence, the words coming from those white rings in his eyes, "and I was everywhere tonight."
Monday, April 23, 2007
Abject
Wretched; lacking pride (adj)
Jerome Mackey, Jr. hangs his head and rocks back and forth on his feet while his boss, who is also his father, yells at him.
"Look at yourself! You can't even control yourself in front of me! Got dang, Junior!"
Junior's shoulders are hunched, his orange business suit from salvation army too small for his round body. He bites his nails and mumbles to himself, a large dark stain on his crotch where he soiled himself when his father started yelling.
There had been much nervous talk of nepotism at the law offices of Jerome Mackey, Sr., but none of the partners or their secretaries expected that the son of one of the most successful divorce lawyers in the county would urinate on his first clients during a meeting to draw up some initial paper work. (The case was an easy one too: two trailer park residents got drunk and went to Vegas and got married--standard procedure).
The meeting took place earlier that day, and it started out relatively fine.
"How c-c-can I help you two?" Junior twitched slightly, pulling at the end of his orange sleeve.
"Well, sir, it was all a huge mistake," drawled the middle-aged wife-beater clad husband, pointing at his wife who didn't look a day over fourteen.
"Sally here and me, we got kinda carried away because, see, we had had a little too much of a fourty-ounce together and..."
"You got married to teenager a-a-after drinking a f-f-fucking f-f-forty?" asked Junior.
The man raised an eyebrow at Junior and then looked at the frail girl next to him in a confused way. She shrugged at her husband, nervously keeping Junior in her periphery. The man looked back at Junior, who was getting angrier by the second.
"Well, sir, actually, I don't believe you have a right to be using that kinda..."
"I d-d-don't think you've got a r-r-right to b-b-be hangin' around in a t-t-trailer park d-drinking with this young girl..."
"Don't take that tone with me, now, mister..."
"I can't b-b-believe you f-f-fucking d-d-degenerates even exist!" Junior screamed.
That's when he lost control of himself and jumped on his desk and opened the fly to his orange salvation army suit and urinated on the man, who ran out of the office with a huge yellow stain on his wife-beater screaming for Junior's boss.
Jerome Mackey, Jr. hangs his head and rocks back and forth on his feet while his boss, who is also his father, yells at him.
"Look at yourself! You can't even control yourself in front of me! Got dang, Junior!"
Junior's shoulders are hunched, his orange business suit from salvation army too small for his round body. He bites his nails and mumbles to himself, a large dark stain on his crotch where he soiled himself when his father started yelling.
There had been much nervous talk of nepotism at the law offices of Jerome Mackey, Sr., but none of the partners or their secretaries expected that the son of one of the most successful divorce lawyers in the county would urinate on his first clients during a meeting to draw up some initial paper work. (The case was an easy one too: two trailer park residents got drunk and went to Vegas and got married--standard procedure).
The meeting took place earlier that day, and it started out relatively fine.
"How c-c-can I help you two?" Junior twitched slightly, pulling at the end of his orange sleeve.
"Well, sir, it was all a huge mistake," drawled the middle-aged wife-beater clad husband, pointing at his wife who didn't look a day over fourteen.
"Sally here and me, we got kinda carried away because, see, we had had a little too much of a fourty-ounce together and..."
"You got married to teenager a-a-after drinking a f-f-fucking f-f-forty?" asked Junior.
The man raised an eyebrow at Junior and then looked at the frail girl next to him in a confused way. She shrugged at her husband, nervously keeping Junior in her periphery. The man looked back at Junior, who was getting angrier by the second.
"Well, sir, actually, I don't believe you have a right to be using that kinda..."
"I d-d-don't think you've got a r-r-right to b-b-be hangin' around in a t-t-trailer park d-drinking with this young girl..."
"Don't take that tone with me, now, mister..."
"I can't b-b-believe you f-f-fucking d-d-degenerates even exist!" Junior screamed.
That's when he lost control of himself and jumped on his desk and opened the fly to his orange salvation army suit and urinated on the man, who ran out of the office with a huge yellow stain on his wife-beater screaming for Junior's boss.
Abase
To lower; degrade; humiliate.
Henrietta was a red-haired second grade student that loved biology and always wore a swishy pink skirt. Everyday she would ask Ms. Lully questions about possible science projects that the class could do. One day she raised her hand and asked:
"Ms. Lully?"
Everyone in class went "ugh" collectively.
"Yes, Henrietta?"
"When are we going to dissek something?"
"Shut up, stoop!" yelled Adam Bronsky, the class bully.
Henrietta looked at Adam and scrunched up her nose.
"That's enough Adam," scolded Ms. Lully as she got back to Henrietta's question.
"You mean 'dissect'?"
"Yes, I mean 'dissect'."
"I don't know. I wasn't planning on doing any dissections in class. But it certainly sounds interesting. What would you like to dissect?"
"I don't know."
"She wants to dissect poo!" yelled Adam Bronsky.
"Be quiet!" squealed Henrietta, getting defensive.
"Alright you two, that's enough," Ms. Tully continued her inquiry,
"What about an earthworm, Henrietta?"
"That sounds icky," said Henrietta, twirling a piece of frill on her fluffy skirt.
"What about a frog?"
"That sounds icky, too."
Ms. Tully looked up at the ceiling.
"What about a cricket?" she suggested.
And Henrietta thought for a moment. She put a little pale finger to her chin and smiled. This didn't seem icky to her.
"Okay!"
Ms. Lully's husband was a scientist at a college nearby, so the next day Ms. Lully was able to bring in a box full of dead bugs that nobody in her husband's lab was using. The class got into little groups of two and started to take apart the little bugs. After 15 minutes or so, it came time to present.
When everyone started presenting, Adam Bronsky asked to go to the bathroom. Instead of going, though, he waited outside the door and watched his classmates present. He waited for Henrietta.
When it was Henrietta's turn, she walked to the front of the room, her skirt swishing around her. She began,
"This is my dissek-ed--"
"You mean 'dissected'," corrected Ms. Lully.
Adam Bronsky waited, his fingers tightening around the doorway, a little smile creeping to his face.
"Yes, I mean my 'dissec-ted' cricket. It has a head, a body, and little legs that it sings with."
"Very good, Henrietta."
And before Henrietta could curtsy, Adam Bronsky lept out from the hallway and yelled:
"And this is my dissek-tion!" and he pulled down Henrietta's swishy pink skirt so her little legs stood bare and parallel in front of the classroom. Before she ran out of the room crying, she stood for a second looking out at the laughing faces of her classmates. She felt small for the first time then, and saw that people enjoy it when other people feel small, and her face turned a shade of pink that matched the frills of her swishy skirt lying limp and on the ground around her feet.
Henrietta was a red-haired second grade student that loved biology and always wore a swishy pink skirt. Everyday she would ask Ms. Lully questions about possible science projects that the class could do. One day she raised her hand and asked:
"Ms. Lully?"
Everyone in class went "ugh" collectively.
"Yes, Henrietta?"
"When are we going to dissek something?"
"Shut up, stoop!" yelled Adam Bronsky, the class bully.
Henrietta looked at Adam and scrunched up her nose.
"That's enough Adam," scolded Ms. Lully as she got back to Henrietta's question.
"You mean 'dissect'?"
"Yes, I mean 'dissect'."
"I don't know. I wasn't planning on doing any dissections in class. But it certainly sounds interesting. What would you like to dissect?"
"I don't know."
"She wants to dissect poo!" yelled Adam Bronsky.
"Be quiet!" squealed Henrietta, getting defensive.
"Alright you two, that's enough," Ms. Tully continued her inquiry,
"What about an earthworm, Henrietta?"
"That sounds icky," said Henrietta, twirling a piece of frill on her fluffy skirt.
"What about a frog?"
"That sounds icky, too."
Ms. Tully looked up at the ceiling.
"What about a cricket?" she suggested.
And Henrietta thought for a moment. She put a little pale finger to her chin and smiled. This didn't seem icky to her.
"Okay!"
Ms. Lully's husband was a scientist at a college nearby, so the next day Ms. Lully was able to bring in a box full of dead bugs that nobody in her husband's lab was using. The class got into little groups of two and started to take apart the little bugs. After 15 minutes or so, it came time to present.
When everyone started presenting, Adam Bronsky asked to go to the bathroom. Instead of going, though, he waited outside the door and watched his classmates present. He waited for Henrietta.
When it was Henrietta's turn, she walked to the front of the room, her skirt swishing around her. She began,
"This is my dissek-ed--"
"You mean 'dissected'," corrected Ms. Lully.
Adam Bronsky waited, his fingers tightening around the doorway, a little smile creeping to his face.
"Yes, I mean my 'dissec-ted' cricket. It has a head, a body, and little legs that it sings with."
"Very good, Henrietta."
And before Henrietta could curtsy, Adam Bronsky lept out from the hallway and yelled:
"And this is my dissek-tion!" and he pulled down Henrietta's swishy pink skirt so her little legs stood bare and parallel in front of the classroom. Before she ran out of the room crying, she stood for a second looking out at the laughing faces of her classmates. She felt small for the first time then, and saw that people enjoy it when other people feel small, and her face turned a shade of pink that matched the frills of her swishy skirt lying limp and on the ground around her feet.
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