Month: June 2011

proceed

In love or out of, here is how you must proceed.

Meet the most wonderful man in the world: a giver, a taker, a rich man with a poor man’s sensibilities, a lover of variety, an expert in sexplay, a sailor gone investor, a boy from an island who moved to the city, a laugher like no other, the kindest of gentleman, the worldliest of story-tellers. Meet him, and make him want you, and then, when he is sufficiently in the depths of you, leave him stranded in the ocean of all that good-natured loving. He isn’t enough and then, later, too much.

Find yourself alone, briefly, but get out of the dumps. The world is full of others. Date, deal with the polite ones, rude ones, outright creepy ones who leave twenty messages over the course of three days. You’ll wonder what’s happening, or if any of it is worth it. Invest in yourself, attend museum soirees, poetry readings, wine tastings. Take in culture, both the high kind and then the real kind, in the ghettos, in the slums, in the average suburbs too much like your own to be worthy of attention. Realize that your twenties have ended and realize you’re someone else. Look at yourself in the mirror, before the make-up, and say, “hello.” Feel good about where you are, so good that you leave that career, that man, that program, that city. Pick a place on the map that is not where you wanted to go.

Wander along a street and feel the eyes of a group of young men track you in civilly subdued desire. The neighborhood is different, the people used to buildings shorter than the trees. Walk forward and make a left turn on the Main St., keep walking to the iron bars, and when you hear the music, walk toward it. Continue along, your shoes will step on sticky substances, and then find the door marked as: 21 AND OLDER. Enter inside and listen to The Eagles on the jukebox.

Approach the bar and ask for a Coors, or something, I can’t quite tell from here. Glance around and look at the empty space, the bare wooden floor. Glance at me. Turn away and then give me a few minutes to build up the courage to approach you and tell you I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.

You take it from here.

proceed

In love or out of, here is how you must proceed.

Meet the most wonderful man in the world: a giver, a taker, a rich man with a poor man’s sensibilities, a lover of variety, an expert in sexplay, a sailor gone investor, a boy from an island who moved to the city, a laugher like no other, the kindest of gentleman, the worldliest of story-tellers. Meet him, and make him want you, and then, when he is sufficiently in the depths of you, leave him stranded in the ocean of all that good-natured loving. He isn’t enough and then, later, too much.

Find yourself alone, briefly, but get out of the dumps. The world is full of others. Date, deal with the polite ones, rude ones, outright creepy ones who leave twenty messages over the course of three days. You’ll wonder what’s happening, or if any of it is worth it. Invest in yourself, attend museum soirees, poetry readings, wine tastings. Take in culture, both the high kind and then the real kind, in the ghettos, in the slums, in the average suburbs too much like your own to be worthy of attention. Realize that your twenties have ended and realize you’re someone else. Look at yourself in the mirror, before the make-up, and say, “hello.” Feel good about where you are, so good that you leave that career, that man, that program, that city. Pick a place on the map that is not where you wanted to go.

Wander along a street and feel the eyes of a group of young men track you in civilly subdued desire. The neighborhood is different, the people used to buildings shorter than the trees. Walk forward and make a left turn on the Main St., keep walking to the iron bars, and when you hear the music, walk toward it. Continue along, your shoes will step on sticky substances, and then find the door marked as: 21 AND OLDER. Enter inside and listen to The Eagles on the jukebox.

Approach the bar and ask for a Coors, or something, I can’t quite tell from here. Glance around and look at the empty space, the bare wooden floor. Glance at me. Turn away and then give me a few minutes to build up the courage to approach you and tell you I’ve been waiting for you for a long time.

You take it from here.

Ford Falcon, 1963

Frayed seams won’t come loose unless we pick at ‘em. This old seat, blue vinyl as cracked as my daddy’s feet, it’s our sea. Road’s lookin’ dull as a swamp, air hazin’ up. She likes it, the heat, just not the dry kind. Likes the sweat of it, you understand. Her head’s been on my shoulder since Truth or Consequences. Her legs are up next to her butt, curled like a crawdad. She’s got her toe nails done up in gray shine. Even got a pretty red dress on.

It’s tirin’ to my head. This drivin’ hot at night. We been coastin’ free since Santa Fe but it’s gonna get tough, gonna get real bad. In Mexico, if you ain’t dead you’re free.

Phoenix’s got this thing about lights. They don’t turn ‘em off at night, but they do somethin’ to make the stars shine brighter’n most big cities. It’s like the deserts all around there. I wanted to go there, find us a nice place to stay, somethin’ near a green park wasn’t all dried out. Took a bit of talkin’ for me to see that would be a damn dumb thing to do. Too many people, too many cops ‘n robbers. We ain’t bad, we don’t mix in right with any lot. Not the good folks, or the bad folks. We’re folks lookin’ for a little peace, somethin’ right in the world. Killin’ a man is like the way nature had it planned for us. You kill someone if you got to, steal if you got to, run if you got to. Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it. It’s on us, my girl ‘n me.

We’re runnin’ to Bisbee first. Quiet, way out on it’s own. We saw it on the map ‘n I remembered the name from an old movie. I didn’t say which because it was a cowboy movie, but hey, a place is a place. We’ll need to get situated a bit ‘n get ready for Mexico. Says she ready for it, but I don’t know. It ain’t no cake walk down there unless we got money, ‘n there ain’t much in that sad little purse of hers. Got all scraped up so it looks like an animal took to it. She’s got our lives in that purse, I’ve got our lives in this car.

If it ain’t the right thing to do, it’s the only thing. I’m gonna see us through the desert ‘n to the ocean where she won’t be worryin’ so much. I might find us some nice little jobs, un poquito bueno. See, my Spanish ain’t so bad either.

It’ll be alright. Gotta speak that way in some circumstances. It’ll be alright.

Ford Falcon, 1963

Frayed seams won’t come loose unless we pick at ‘em. This old seat, blue vinyl as cracked as my daddy’s feet, it’s our sea. Road’s lookin’ dull as a swamp, air hazin’ up. She likes it, the heat, just not the dry kind. Likes the sweat of it, you understand. Her head’s been on my shoulder since Truth or Consequences. Her legs are up next to her butt, curled like a crawdad. She’s got her toe nails done up in gray shine. Even got a pretty red dress on.

It’s tirin’ to my head. This drivin’ hot at night. We been coastin’ free since Santa Fe but it’s gonna get tough, gonna get real bad. In Mexico, if you ain’t dead you’re free.

Phoenix’s got this thing about lights. They don’t turn ‘em off at night, but they do somethin’ to make the stars shine brighter’n most big cities. It’s like the deserts all around there. I wanted to go there, find us a nice place to stay, somethin’ near a green park wasn’t all dried out. Took a bit of talkin’ for me to see that would be a damn dumb thing to do. Too many people, too many cops ‘n robbers. We ain’t bad, we don’t mix in right with any lot. Not the good folks, or the bad folks. We’re folks lookin’ for a little peace, somethin’ right in the world. Killin’ a man is like the way nature had it planned for us. You kill someone if you got to, steal if you got to, run if you got to. Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it. It’s on us, my girl ‘n me.

We’re runnin’ to Bisbee first. Quiet, way out on it’s own. We saw it on the map ‘n I remembered the name from an old movie. I didn’t say which because it was a cowboy movie, but hey, a place is a place. We’ll need to get situated a bit ‘n get ready for Mexico. Says she ready for it, but I don’t know. It ain’t no cake walk down there unless we got money, ‘n there ain’t much in that sad little purse of hers. Got all scraped up so it looks like an animal took to it. She’s got our lives in that purse, I’ve got our lives in this car.

If it ain’t the right thing to do, it’s the only thing. I’m gonna see us through the desert ‘n to the ocean where she won’t be worryin’ so much. I might find us some nice little jobs, un poquito bueno. See, my Spanish ain’t so bad either.

It’ll be alright. Gotta speak that way in some circumstances. It’ll be alright.

Weak Tea

It is the middle of the afternoon, about three o’ clock. Two students are walking along a wooded path.  It is a twisted path, leading this way and that, and is a popular place for people from the nearby college to spend hours ruminating over the mysteries of school, life, and the universe.  The two students walk side by side and the woman on the left is shorter than the other.  That one wears a pair of pink sweat pants and a yellow t-shirt.  The taller woman has dark chestnut hair, long and tied back over her gray shirt and matching shorts.

“Hey Julie,” says Robin in the sweat pants.

“Yea,” says Julie in the shorts, then adds, “what?”

“What do you suppose that man over there is doing?” She points to the pond sixty feet away under the far-reaching limbs of the poplar trees.  Their branches are ripe with a year’s worth of foliage, drooping low and ready to burst before the arrival of the autumn season. Leaves are reluctantly dying all around, settling on the surface of the water.

“He appears to be fishing,” says Julie.  Robin and Julie slowly walk by the pond, both of them looking at the man sitting on the fallen tree on the far end of the pond. His shoes are absent and the sleeves of his shirt are also notably missing. It is difficult to see his face as he is looking downward toward the water with great intensity.

“He looks to be in thrall. Are people mesmerized by fishing?”

“It’s possible.”

They approach the man and eventually stop, lightly catching their breath so as to not appear to need to breathe.

Julie is the first to regain her voice, and asks, “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know. Watching a man catch fish?” says Robin.

Julie looks at Robin and shakes her head. “Well, he’s not catching fish. He’s just sitting there.”

“So we’re watching a man sit, then,” says Julie.

“In a manner of speaking, but look at his hands. They are sorrowful hands.”

“He does seem despondent. Perhaps he intends to jump in.”

“Because his lover left him. Yes, I see it in the slump of his shoulders. He needs human sympathy. A sign that he is a member of the human comedy.”

Julie smiles and says, “Yes. Let’s inquire.”

They approach the young man sitting on a fallen tree alongside the pond.

“Excuse me, sir?” says Robin. The man turns to look at the two women standing behind him.

“Yea?” he says.

“May we ask, what are you doing?”

The young man looks forward again, then lowers his eyes to his pole. He turns back and lifts his fishing pole higher

“What’s it look like?” he says.  They shrug.

“Contemplating suicide?”

“Grieving?”

He looks at them, turns back to the water, and points.

“I lost my shoes.”

Robin chuckles. “Goodness, we thought you were despondent over the loss of a woman.”

“I’m alright with that,” he says. “I just don’t see why she had to go and throw my shoes into the water.”

Weak Tea

It is the middle of the afternoon, about three o’ clock. Two students are walking along a wooded path.  It is a twisted path, leading this way and that, and is a popular place for people from the nearby college to spend hours ruminating over the mysteries of school, life, and the universe.  The two students walk side by side and the woman on the left is shorter than the other.  That one wears a pair of pink sweat pants and a yellow t-shirt.  The taller woman has dark chestnut hair, long and tied back over her gray shirt and matching shorts.

“Hey Julie,” says Robin in the sweat pants.

“Yea,” says Julie in the shorts, then adds, “what?”

“What do you suppose that man over there is doing?” She points to the pond sixty feet away under the far-reaching limbs of the poplar trees.  Their branches are ripe with a year’s worth of foliage, drooping low and ready to burst before the arrival of the autumn season. Leaves are reluctantly dying all around, settling on the surface of the water.

“He appears to be fishing,” says Julie.  Robin and Julie slowly walk by the pond, both of them looking at the man sitting on the fallen tree on the far end of the pond. His shoes are absent and the sleeves of his shirt are also notably missing. It is difficult to see his face as he is looking downward toward the water with great intensity.

“He looks to be in thrall. Are people mesmerized by fishing?”

“It’s possible.”

They approach the man and eventually stop, lightly catching their breath so as to not appear to need to breathe.

Julie is the first to regain her voice, and asks, “What are we doing?”

“I don’t know. Watching a man catch fish?” says Robin.

Julie looks at Robin and shakes her head. “Well, he’s not catching fish. He’s just sitting there.”

“So we’re watching a man sit, then,” says Julie.

“In a manner of speaking, but look at his hands. They are sorrowful hands.”

“He does seem despondent. Perhaps he intends to jump in.”

“Because his lover left him. Yes, I see it in the slump of his shoulders. He needs human sympathy. A sign that he is a member of the human comedy.”

Julie smiles and says, “Yes. Let’s inquire.”

They approach the young man sitting on a fallen tree alongside the pond.

“Excuse me, sir?” says Robin. The man turns to look at the two women standing behind him.

“Yea?” he says.

“May we ask, what are you doing?”

The young man looks forward again, then lowers his eyes to his pole. He turns back and lifts his fishing pole higher

“What’s it look like?” he says.  They shrug.

“Contemplating suicide?”

“Grieving?”

He looks at them, turns back to the water, and points.

“I lost my shoes.”

Robin chuckles. “Goodness, we thought you were despondent over the loss of a woman.”

“I’m alright with that,” he says. “I just don’t see why she had to go and throw my shoes into the water.”

Grandfather

He was much smaller than he used to be. His hair was thin and wispy, although to our genetic credit he still had hair on his crown at the age of ninety-one. His brows were thick and gray, spread out across his forehead like the tattered ends of an old broom. The old man’s blue eyes still looked alert. They say it’s a trick that people who forget pull to make themselves seem involved.

I walked my grandfather around the block. He was slow, on the verge of wheelchair-bound. I wondered if he was ever tall, like his male offspring, and their male offspring. We took small steps to the nearest corner. Beyond it, there was a large park where I played fronton as a child and drank agave juice. We could not cross the street. I was told, like I was a child again. I held his hand to guide him and we continued around the raised corner concrete.

He was focused. The intensity in his gaze made him seem determined, and angry. I could not tell if it drained his soul just to walk. His hand was brown leather from decades of work as a laborer and farmer. He was almost never outside anymore. The sun was burned into him. My grandfather suffered a stroke just last year. My name came to him instantly when he first saw me.

“Victor!”

My aunts cried. I don’t know many aunts I have. Over ten, perhaps. And nearly as many uncles. He worked hard, fucked hard, drank hard, beat hard. He was a little old man, an aged human being, and I walked him around the block.

The houses were colorful, spared from the planned neighborhood propaganda. Pink, maroon, green, blue, beige, brown, brick. Stucco, tile, oil, water, charcoal. Dirty in places, clean in others. Falling apart and brand new units reaching up to the sky. Some had a tree in front, if there was space. Most were packed in side to side like sardines with a courtyard in the middle of each one. Spanish influence in our houses and blood.

Some people recognized him.

“Don Juan! ¿Que tal?”

He mumbled greetings and continued. He looked at no one, stopped only when I tugged his hand. Along the way, at the third side of the trapezoid, we saw a stack of tortillas on a window sill.

“Me hablan,” he said, and looked at the stack. I heard nothing but cars driving along the asphalt.

“¿Y que dicen?”

“Nada.”

I didn’t hear his hoarse voice again. We drifted, step by step, back to the house. He was guided into a chair and asked if he enjoyed the walk. His eyes were cast down toward the yellow tiles.

Grandfather

He was much smaller than he used to be. His hair was thin and wispy, although to our genetic credit he still had hair on his crown at the age of ninety-one. His brows were thick and gray, spread out across his forehead like the tattered ends of an old broom. The old man’s blue eyes still looked alert. They say it’s a trick that people who forget pull to make themselves seem involved.

I walked my grandfather around the block. He was slow, on the verge of wheelchair-bound. I wondered if he was ever tall, like his male offspring, and their male offspring. We took small steps to the nearest corner. Beyond it, there was a large park where I played fronton as a child and drank agave juice. We could not cross the street. I was told, like I was a child again. I held his hand to guide him and we continued around the raised corner concrete.

He was focused. The intensity in his gaze made him seem determined, and angry. I could not tell if it drained his soul just to walk. His hand was brown leather from decades of work as a laborer and farmer. He was almost never outside anymore. The sun was burned into him. My grandfather suffered a stroke just last year. My name came to him instantly when he first saw me.

“Victor!”

My aunts cried. I don’t know many aunts I have. Over ten, perhaps. And nearly as many uncles. He worked hard, fucked hard, drank hard, beat hard. He was a little old man, an aged human being, and I walked him around the block.

The houses were colorful, spared from the planned neighborhood propaganda. Pink, maroon, green, blue, beige, brown, brick. Stucco, tile, oil, water, charcoal. Dirty in places, clean in others. Falling apart and brand new units reaching up to the sky. Some had a tree in front, if there was space. Most were packed in side to side like sardines with a courtyard in the middle of each one. Spanish influence in our houses and blood.

Some people recognized him.

“Don Juan! ¿Que tal?”

He mumbled greetings and continued. He looked at no one, stopped only when I tugged his hand. Along the way, at the third side of the trapezoid, we saw a stack of tortillas on a window sill.

“Me hablan,” he said, and looked at the stack. I heard nothing but cars driving along the asphalt.

“¿Y que dicen?”

“Nada.”

I didn’t hear his hoarse voice again. We drifted, step by step, back to the house. He was guided into a chair and asked if he enjoyed the walk. His eyes were cast down toward the yellow tiles.