Month: August 2011

Standing a few feet ahead of the Safeway entrance, I’m looking at peaches. They’ve got bundles—99 cents a pound. Peaches for days by my count. I grab a small plastic baggie and start to size up the lot. Peaches and white peaches. The white peaches look hardier. I pick one up and start to apply a little pressure when I hear someone speak.

So, what’s the difference between peaches and white peaches?

I turn and it’s an older woman, a little stout. She’s smiling. I smile instinctively, being friendly.

Well, I say to her, it’s a few things. Your traditional peach is softer than the white peach. It’s got a feel like it’d give at the slightest squeeze. It takes a more careful hand with one of those, whereas the white peach’s more tough. You could bounce it off the wall. Means the white peach’ll outlast a peach by several days.

She nods, still smiling.

Biting into this one’s also a different result. The traditional peach’s like a mango or watermelon, all juice. One bite and it’s a guaranteed waterfall. Some people like that, of course. Now, this white peach, it’s more subtle. It takes more tooth to get into and it doesn’t overflow the way a peach does. It’s also not as sweet, and it’s not right to go digging through it as quickly as possible. The flavor’s in tearing off a piece and allowing it to melt a bit, sort of like good chocolate. The white peach’s the patient man’s peach. I love them.

She’s still smiling.

And, I suppose, the color. A white peach is white.

She finally chuckles. Sure, of course.

I apply a little more pressure to the white peach and roll it around in my hand. It feels right. The stout woman goes and walks away.

Standing a few feet ahead of the Safeway entrance, I’m looking at peaches. They’ve got bundles—99 cents a pound. Peaches for days by my count. I grab a small plastic baggie and start to size up the lot. Peaches and white peaches. The white peaches look hardier. I pick one up and start to apply a little pressure when I hear someone speak.

So, what’s the difference between peaches and white peaches?

I turn and it’s an older woman, a little stout. She’s smiling. I smile instinctively, being friendly.

Well, I say to her, it’s a few things. Your traditional peach is softer than the white peach. It’s got a feel like it’d give at the slightest squeeze. It takes a more careful hand with one of those, whereas the white peach’s more tough. You could bounce it off the wall. Means the white peach’ll outlast a peach by several days.

She nods, still smiling.

Biting into this one’s also a different result. The traditional peach’s like a mango or watermelon, all juice. One bite and it’s a guaranteed waterfall. Some people like that, of course. Now, this white peach, it’s more subtle. It takes more tooth to get into and it doesn’t overflow the way a peach does. It’s also not as sweet, and it’s not right to go digging through it as quickly as possible. The flavor’s in tearing off a piece and allowing it to melt a bit, sort of like good chocolate. The white peach’s the patient man’s peach. I love them.

She’s still smiling.

And, I suppose, the color. A white peach is white.

She finally chuckles. Sure, of course.

I apply a little more pressure to the white peach and roll it around in my hand. It feels right. The stout woman goes and walks away.

Theory tires me. The more I delve into concepts and abstracts, the more I want for facts, practical execution, and results. Rather than always think about things, I want to realize them. I will never be the philosopher or the academic. That is quite alright. The old lesson I have discovered is not to focus on what I am not, but who I am. I began the search a while ago and I suspect something like this never dies once it is embarked upon and pursued.

The part of me that does venture off into unknown territory is limited to bursts of thought that seem to rise up of their own accord and rack my mind into scenarios that I ultimately write on paper as if written by an unseen man whose wild eyes see things I will forget about, just like this. The frogs in your eyes are hopping into me, hopping into me. My eyes see them hopping closer, raging red, South American babies torn apart and sold for meat to us the fat men. They are mixed with wood pulp from their forest homesteads and ground into fine vittles. We walk one foot apart toward the pet shop and pick out the nicest this and that, forgetting about the gangly ones and ugly ones who are just as pretty green. Their fur is golden fleece and ours is dumped in the toilet. Curly curls. Bye, babies. We are allowed to cry now, you may weep and I may sigh. They will find no pleasure in heaven but perhaps the lack of surprises will keep them sustained.

I continue to imagine everything I own sold, shipped, and flung off into the trash. A far drive follows and before I reach the woods I find a prostitute to carelessly fuck. When the disgust of the detached act reaches my nostrils I leave the jeep behind and walk further and further into these nameless woods. I never return.

And now there is no theory. It is all executed. Flush.

Theory tires me. The more I delve into concepts and abstracts, the more I want for facts, practical execution, and results. Rather than always think about things, I want to realize them. I will never be the philosopher or the academic. That is quite alright. The old lesson I have discovered is not to focus on what I am not, but who I am. I began the search a while ago and I suspect something like this never dies once it is embarked upon and pursued.

The part of me that does venture off into unknown territory is limited to bursts of thought that seem to rise up of their own accord and rack my mind into scenarios that I ultimately write on paper as if written by an unseen man whose wild eyes see things I will forget about, just like this. The frogs in your eyes are hopping into me, hopping into me. My eyes see them hopping closer, raging red, South American babies torn apart and sold for meat to us the fat men. They are mixed with wood pulp from their forest homesteads and ground into fine vittles. We walk one foot apart toward the pet shop and pick out the nicest this and that, forgetting about the gangly ones and ugly ones who are just as pretty green. Their fur is golden fleece and ours is dumped in the toilet. Curly curls. Bye, babies. We are allowed to cry now, you may weep and I may sigh. They will find no pleasure in heaven but perhaps the lack of surprises will keep them sustained.

I continue to imagine everything I own sold, shipped, and flung off into the trash. A far drive follows and before I reach the woods I find a prostitute to carelessly fuck. When the disgust of the detached act reaches my nostrils I leave the jeep behind and walk further and further into these nameless woods. I never return.

And now there is no theory. It is all executed. Flush.

Foolish men building their houses. Hammer and saw the wood. Hammer the noun, hammer the verb. Pounding a woman. The flesh sound, siren’s call. Hungry man dinner don’t last long. Search for the ilk. Clothes been tardy to laundry. Closet’s awake. Inside’s a box, a box’s full of me. Tired of hundreds I don’t really know. One size FEEDS ALL.

“Would you kill for a beer?” on my wall. Plans to drink beer. Plans to miss.

Fragmented sentences. Katydid vagueries. Either too many words or in a strange order. Bury my book in the marsh. Sit by my book by my lake.

Foolish men building their houses. Hammer and saw the wood. Hammer the noun, hammer the verb. Pounding a woman. The flesh sound, siren’s call. Hungry man dinner don’t last long. Search for the ilk. Clothes been tardy to laundry. Closet’s awake. Inside’s a box, a box’s full of me. Tired of hundreds I don’t really know. One size FEEDS ALL.

“Would you kill for a beer?” on my wall. Plans to drink beer. Plans to miss.

Fragmented sentences. Katydid vagueries. Either too many words or in a strange order. Bury my book in the marsh. Sit by my book by my lake.