Month: July 2020

Then he said, leaning forward: ‘You’re strange animals, you women intellectuals. Tell me: what’s it like to be a woman?’

I took my rifle from behind my chair and shot him dead.

‘It’s like that,’ I said.

Joanna Russ, On Strike Against God (via nervefood)

Then he said, leaning forward: ‘You’re strange animals, you women intellectuals. Tell me: what’s it like to be a woman?’

I took my rifle from behind my chair and shot him dead.

‘It’s like that,’ I said.

Joanna Russ, On Strike Against God (via nervefood)

fictionz:

I waited at a third bus stop this morning. Alone, off to the side. Under shade. I sweat like a fresh cheese and it comes without effort. I waited alone for a long while until a little old woman under a pink hat and in pink sweatpants and a pink sweatshirt showed up. She sat on the bench some twenty feet away. We were both on the other side of the sidewalk, facing the trains. I checked my phone occasionally unless there was a good-looking girl up on the train platform, then I glanced up and admired. I remained in the shade. It must have been thirty minutes that way.

I’d waited at the first bus stop earlier in the morning and the bus flew by. I’d walked a few yards ahead to the next bus stop and waited again. That all was about twenty minutes. The bus came and drove me about fifteen minutes up the way. That’s where I waited some more, with the old woman.

I waited and she waited until, finally, I couldn’t keep waiting. My patience was gone. I approached her.

“Excuse me,” I said. She turned. “Is this the 260?”

She nodded and looked ahead for a second, then turned up toward the sign and pointed. “260. Redwood Shores.”

“Oh, okay. So this is the right spot?”

She nodded again. “Redwood Shores. 260. You go to Redwood Shores?”

I nodded. She smiled and nodded, then patted the seat next to her.

“Oh, I’m alright,” I told her. “I’ll just wait here.” I waited a minute and when the bus was still not in sight, I sat down.

We sat together and watched the trains, and the birds, and the people. I had my hands folded over my stomach when I would have normally stretched out over the back of the bench. I did not want to be presumptuous. Occasionally, we turned toward the north and toward the south to look for the bus.

“Is the bus usually this late?” I asked.

She hesitated for a moment as she constructed her response.

“11:05,” she said. “1 hour.” She pointed to her wrist watch. “10:05, 11:05, 12:05.”

I nodded. We were five minutes away from 11:05. “Ah, okay.”

Eventually, two buses arrived. One was marked as 260. It made the turn, dropped off passengers, and then passed us by. It was marked as NOT IN SERVICE. Another bus that was also marked as NOT IN SERVICE passed us and parked in the train station lot. I waved my hand toward it exasperatedly.

“Is that the 260?” I asked, and she nodded worrisomely.

When 11:05 arrived, I brought out my phone. I checked the transit app. It said the bus should have arrived at 10:31.

She turned toward me to see what was so urgent. I tilted the phone. “This is the app that shows the bus times. It says the bus should have been here at 10:31.” She smiled and nodded.

When 11:09 arrived, I stood. ”I’m going to go ask him if that’s the 260. I’ll be right back.” She looked on with the same worried expression.

I was nearly at the bus when the sign changed from NOT IN SERVICE to 260. I walked back to the bus stop and found the old woman and another younger woman who had just come off one of the trains. Two buses appeared, one of which was the wrong one. The old woman waved it away. When the 260 appeared she jumped for joy, and we boarded.

She patted the seat next to her on the bus, but I would take up more space than was fair to her. I sat on a seat across the aisle. Our ride was quiet and I was quickly off the bus.

“Nice to meetcha. Take care,” I said. She waved goodbye.

I needed juice, so I walked into a Jamba Juice near the bus stop and ordered two juices. I had a coupon for BUY ONE GET ONE FREE. They were out of carrot and OJ was good enough.

I walked to my workplace.

A coworker immediately asked me if I wanted a gas mask when I arrived. I initially politely declined, but then I offered a trade for one of my OJs. We traded. I took two long swigs of my remaining OJ and got to work.

fictionz:

I waited at a third bus stop this morning. Alone, off to the side. Under shade. I sweat like a fresh cheese and it comes without effort. I waited alone for a long while until a little old woman under a pink hat and in pink sweatpants and a pink sweatshirt showed up. She sat on the bench some twenty feet away. We were both on the other side of the sidewalk, facing the trains. I checked my phone occasionally unless there was a good-looking girl up on the train platform, then I glanced up and admired. I remained in the shade. It must have been thirty minutes that way.

I’d waited at the first bus stop earlier in the morning and the bus flew by. I’d walked a few yards ahead to the next bus stop and waited again. That all was about twenty minutes. The bus came and drove me about fifteen minutes up the way. That’s where I waited some more, with the old woman.

I waited and she waited until, finally, I couldn’t keep waiting. My patience was gone. I approached her.

“Excuse me,” I said. She turned. “Is this the 260?”

She nodded and looked ahead for a second, then turned up toward the sign and pointed. “260. Redwood Shores.”

“Oh, okay. So this is the right spot?”

She nodded again. “Redwood Shores. 260. You go to Redwood Shores?”

I nodded. She smiled and nodded, then patted the seat next to her.

“Oh, I’m alright,” I told her. “I’ll just wait here.” I waited a minute and when the bus was still not in sight, I sat down.

We sat together and watched the trains, and the birds, and the people. I had my hands folded over my stomach when I would have normally stretched out over the back of the bench. I did not want to be presumptuous. Occasionally, we turned toward the north and toward the south to look for the bus.

“Is the bus usually this late?” I asked.

She hesitated for a moment as she constructed her response.

“11:05,” she said. “1 hour.” She pointed to her wrist watch. “10:05, 11:05, 12:05.”

I nodded. We were five minutes away from 11:05. “Ah, okay.”

Eventually, two buses arrived. One was marked as 260. It made the turn, dropped off passengers, and then passed us by. It was marked as NOT IN SERVICE. Another bus that was also marked as NOT IN SERVICE passed us and parked in the train station lot. I waved my hand toward it exasperatedly.

“Is that the 260?” I asked, and she nodded worrisomely.

When 11:05 arrived, I brought out my phone. I checked the transit app. It said the bus should have arrived at 10:31.

She turned toward me to see what was so urgent. I tilted the phone. “This is the app that shows the bus times. It says the bus should have been here at 10:31.” She smiled and nodded.

When 11:09 arrived, I stood. ”I’m going to go ask him if that’s the 260. I’ll be right back.” She looked on with the same worried expression.

I was nearly at the bus when the sign changed from NOT IN SERVICE to 260. I walked back to the bus stop and found the old woman and another younger woman who had just come off one of the trains. Two buses appeared, one of which was the wrong one. The old woman waved it away. When the 260 appeared she jumped for joy, and we boarded.

She patted the seat next to her on the bus, but I would take up more space than was fair to her. I sat on a seat across the aisle. Our ride was quiet and I was quickly off the bus.

“Nice to meetcha. Take care,” I said. She waved goodbye.

I needed juice, so I walked into a Jamba Juice near the bus stop and ordered two juices. I had a coupon for BUY ONE GET ONE FREE. They were out of carrot and OJ was good enough.

I walked to my workplace.

A coworker immediately asked me if I wanted a gas mask when I arrived. I initially politely declined, but then I offered a trade for one of my OJs. We traded. I took two long swigs of my remaining OJ and got to work.

Sweat

fictionz:

Tonight is a night I sit up all night, writing an essay and avoiding the heat.

It was hot out today.  California knows what I mean.  I was going to spend the day in the library to work on said essay but then went balls to that when I started sweating on the way there.  Instead I went home, put on a movie to fall asleep to—There Will Be Blood.  I can only fall asleep to movies I like, you see.  TWBB happens to also have a great soundtrack and music does indeed soothe the savage beast.

The ceiling fan was whirring away, doing what it does (so simple a purpose, so necessary a tool.)  As I laid on the couched-up futon trying to fall asleep, emptying my mind like I sometimes imagine a Zen master does, I thought, there will be sweat.  Fuck me, there will be sweat.

I recently spoke with someone about heat after she remarked on me ordering iced coffee or iced tea every time.  We were in line and the cafeteria tables were sparsely populated with college students, most of them younger than me, still in the phase when life is college.  The lights were also sparse, and a slight breeze from the foggy exterior slipped in through a crack between the entrance doors.

“I can’t stand the heat,” I told her.  “It’s one of the reasons I left Los Angeles.  The fuckin’ heat.  I’m going north forever.”

“What?  Oh, I love the heat,” with emphasis on love.  One of those long, drawn out loves when you wish the woman saying it was saying it about you, those kinds of loves.  She’s moving to Los Angeles.  Teaches ballet to the kids, which is a cute thought, then I thought about the slightness of her frame, the intelligence of her voice.  The tiny dancer wants to go to UCLA, become a lawyer.  A lawyer living and loving in the heat.

She’s a writer, too, and this just makes it difficult to process everything.  If only it wasn’t now.  If only it was three years ago, or perhaps a year from today.  A time before or after the sweat.

I woke up from the nap just as There Will Be Blood was coming to its climactic finale between fraud and evil.  Daniel Day-Lewis’s Plainview was beating Paul Danno’s Eli in the head with a bowling pin.  The look in his eyes was concentrated.  You could see the intent, the need to finally do what he’s wanted to do.  It’s satisfaction.  I’ve always believed that that was the whole point of TWBB.  I mean this man, he’s not right.  He holds onto his hatreds like a miser holds onto his money, but he thrives on them.  If Plainview didn’t have the hatreds in his life he wouldn’t be the man he is, successful and cutthroat, able to get the best of his adversaries be they the big oil companies or greedy preachers. Plainview is a model of getting what one wants and, eventually, what one needs, even at the cost of family and life.

I drove to work and realized I’d forgotten to bring along my laptop’s power supply, which meant I’d be making a return trip through the evening warmth.  My back was sticky, my temples coated and forehead smooth from my constant squeegeeing.  What would have been a simple trip to the office to work on an essay (they have air conditioning and space to think) turned into an ordeal.

I don’t like ordeals.  They complicate what could be otherwise simple plans.  But they are natural, and faced with the possibility of more sweaty driving I turned toward the gym.  If I was going to be sweaty I decided I’d sweat for good reason.

The exercise was bland.  Some quick weights and then a mix of walking with short bursts of jogging, leaving my heart dry as jerky and pounding to get the fuck out.  I half-heartedly read the Closed Captions on one of the televisions and listened to one of the many fiction podcasts on my old iPod.  It was Julian Barnes reading Frank O’Connor’s “The Man of the World” for The New Yorker’s fiction podcast.  I’d never heard of either writer, as it often the case with these podcasts, but O’Connor’s story and Barnes’s discussion of it left me with some choice quotes and thoughts on the subject of the “world of appearances.”  A quote remained in the air as I walked along in place.  It won out over the phat beats of the gym’s speakers and drone of the late night sports chatter on the televisions, and that’s when I knew it was a keeper.

From Frank O’Connor’s autobiography:

“I was always very fond of heights and afterwards it struck me that reading was only another form of height, and a more perilous one.  It was a way of looking beyond your own backyard into your neighbors’.  Our backyard had a high wall and by early afternoon it made the whole kitchen dark and when the evening was fine I climbed the door of the outhouse and up to the roof to the top of the wall.”

“I felt like some sort of wild bird, secure from everything and observing everything.  The horse cart coming up the road, the little girl skipping rope on the pavement, or the old man staggering by on his stick, all of them unconscious of the eagle eye that watched them.”

I couldn’t help but notice several short, tightly curled hairs on the tiled floor of the shower after I finished the workout.  They slowly migrated as the water ran down my legs and they were pushed toward the drain.  Many people might find such a sight deplorable, the way a dirty bathroom that is just a bit grimy will send people running, but they were just hairs.  I stood and watched them swim away.  When I got out of the shower I looked at myself in one of the many large mirrors placed in a locker room and it seemed interesting that one man could have short, curly hair and then another man could have coarse, wavy hair.  I never would’ve thought of that.  Body hair’s just not something most folks think on.

After the gym I walked back to my car with my head down, avoiding the snails that were so desperately crawling to the sprinklers in the shrubs.  Some were barely moving and others were so far from the water that I doubted if they’d make it.  I was already sweating again and my hopes that the mist from the sprinklers would provide some relief were dashed.  Sweating is sometimes a subconscious effort so I focused my thoughts on the last time I felt sweat that wasn’t my own. That night it was warm, slightly denser than water.  It tasted of ink, smelled faintly of cauliflower and smoke.  The sounds were breathing and short little female gasps.  The sight was faint outlines of her contours in the darkness, loose hairs catching light from the window off to the side.  I looked up to her face every minute or two to catch anything I could, because it was a rare sight, one to be remembered, and a woman’s eyes remain with you long after the rest may fade. There was sweat and that night it felt good.  I invited the heat with open arms.

I wonder if she could see me remembering her.

Sweat

fictionz:

Tonight is a night I sit up all night, writing an essay and avoiding the heat.

It was hot out today.  California knows what I mean.  I was going to spend the day in the library to work on said essay but then went balls to that when I started sweating on the way there.  Instead I went home, put on a movie to fall asleep to—There Will Be Blood.  I can only fall asleep to movies I like, you see.  TWBB happens to also have a great soundtrack and music does indeed soothe the savage beast.

The ceiling fan was whirring away, doing what it does (so simple a purpose, so necessary a tool.)  As I laid on the couched-up futon trying to fall asleep, emptying my mind like I sometimes imagine a Zen master does, I thought, there will be sweat.  Fuck me, there will be sweat.

I recently spoke with someone about heat after she remarked on me ordering iced coffee or iced tea every time.  We were in line and the cafeteria tables were sparsely populated with college students, most of them younger than me, still in the phase when life is college.  The lights were also sparse, and a slight breeze from the foggy exterior slipped in through a crack between the entrance doors.

“I can’t stand the heat,” I told her.  “It’s one of the reasons I left Los Angeles.  The fuckin’ heat.  I’m going north forever.”

“What?  Oh, I love the heat,” with emphasis on love.  One of those long, drawn out loves when you wish the woman saying it was saying it about you, those kinds of loves.  She’s moving to Los Angeles.  Teaches ballet to the kids, which is a cute thought, then I thought about the slightness of her frame, the intelligence of her voice.  The tiny dancer wants to go to UCLA, become a lawyer.  A lawyer living and loving in the heat.

She’s a writer, too, and this just makes it difficult to process everything.  If only it wasn’t now.  If only it was three years ago, or perhaps a year from today.  A time before or after the sweat.

I woke up from the nap just as There Will Be Blood was coming to its climactic finale between fraud and evil.  Daniel Day-Lewis’s Plainview was beating Paul Danno’s Eli in the head with a bowling pin.  The look in his eyes was concentrated.  You could see the intent, the need to finally do what he’s wanted to do.  It’s satisfaction.  I’ve always believed that that was the whole point of TWBB.  I mean this man, he’s not right.  He holds onto his hatreds like a miser holds onto his money, but he thrives on them.  If Plainview didn’t have the hatreds in his life he wouldn’t be the man he is, successful and cutthroat, able to get the best of his adversaries be they the big oil companies or greedy preachers. Plainview is a model of getting what one wants and, eventually, what one needs, even at the cost of family and life.

I drove to work and realized I’d forgotten to bring along my laptop’s power supply, which meant I’d be making a return trip through the evening warmth.  My back was sticky, my temples coated and forehead smooth from my constant squeegeeing.  What would have been a simple trip to the office to work on an essay (they have air conditioning and space to think) turned into an ordeal.

I don’t like ordeals.  They complicate what could be otherwise simple plans.  But they are natural, and faced with the possibility of more sweaty driving I turned toward the gym.  If I was going to be sweaty I decided I’d sweat for good reason.

The exercise was bland.  Some quick weights and then a mix of walking with short bursts of jogging, leaving my heart dry as jerky and pounding to get the fuck out.  I half-heartedly read the Closed Captions on one of the televisions and listened to one of the many fiction podcasts on my old iPod.  It was Julian Barnes reading Frank O’Connor’s “The Man of the World” for The New Yorker’s fiction podcast.  I’d never heard of either writer, as it often the case with these podcasts, but O’Connor’s story and Barnes’s discussion of it left me with some choice quotes and thoughts on the subject of the “world of appearances.”  A quote remained in the air as I walked along in place.  It won out over the phat beats of the gym’s speakers and drone of the late night sports chatter on the televisions, and that’s when I knew it was a keeper.

From Frank O’Connor’s autobiography:

“I was always very fond of heights and afterwards it struck me that reading was only another form of height, and a more perilous one.  It was a way of looking beyond your own backyard into your neighbors’.  Our backyard had a high wall and by early afternoon it made the whole kitchen dark and when the evening was fine I climbed the door of the outhouse and up to the roof to the top of the wall.”

“I felt like some sort of wild bird, secure from everything and observing everything.  The horse cart coming up the road, the little girl skipping rope on the pavement, or the old man staggering by on his stick, all of them unconscious of the eagle eye that watched them.”

I couldn’t help but notice several short, tightly curled hairs on the tiled floor of the shower after I finished the workout.  They slowly migrated as the water ran down my legs and they were pushed toward the drain.  Many people might find such a sight deplorable, the way a dirty bathroom that is just a bit grimy will send people running, but they were just hairs.  I stood and watched them swim away.  When I got out of the shower I looked at myself in one of the many large mirrors placed in a locker room and it seemed interesting that one man could have short, curly hair and then another man could have coarse, wavy hair.  I never would’ve thought of that.  Body hair’s just not something most folks think on.

After the gym I walked back to my car with my head down, avoiding the snails that were so desperately crawling to the sprinklers in the shrubs.  Some were barely moving and others were so far from the water that I doubted if they’d make it.  I was already sweating again and my hopes that the mist from the sprinklers would provide some relief were dashed.  Sweating is sometimes a subconscious effort so I focused my thoughts on the last time I felt sweat that wasn’t my own. That night it was warm, slightly denser than water.  It tasted of ink, smelled faintly of cauliflower and smoke.  The sounds were breathing and short little female gasps.  The sight was faint outlines of her contours in the darkness, loose hairs catching light from the window off to the side.  I looked up to her face every minute or two to catch anything I could, because it was a rare sight, one to be remembered, and a woman’s eyes remain with you long after the rest may fade. There was sweat and that night it felt good.  I invited the heat with open arms.

I wonder if she could see me remembering her.