We have to speak in code these days, those of us who can see. Sometimes the terrible is nature, like when a mother cat in a rage of hormones cannabalizes her kittens. It is rare but it happens. Rare enough to be shocking, routine enough to be recognizable.
Maybe there are just two kinds of people, like it says in the old modular joke frame. Submitted for your consideration: the blind and the sighted, of course it’s not about eyes alone. So for now the idea of right and wrong may it rest in peace, though it may be reborn as karma would have it.
There was the familiar old phone number coming up on the caller ID. I had no inclination to answer it, but could feel a tension, like a disturbance in the intestines, like a wave rolling between two ends of a sausage, a distinct physical signal buried beneath the streams of thought and straining of emotions. “What could he be thinking?” I asked myself. In my heart of hearts I hoped it wasn’t any bad news about his family, or his health. How do you let go of those kinds of concerns for someone you once shared your life plans with? Especially when there are so many people all over the place who need so much help, so much friendship, so much caring? I ask myself, “Who am I to choose?” I hadn’t heard from him except once before, after I broke off with him in April. That time the call was for something neutral and disconnected also. It was just a few weeks after we split. I felt like I was lost on a plane in Switzerland.
But he did not leave a message so I figured that it couldn’t be really bad news. It must be something trivial, I surmised. His controlling capability, which I once found strangely forgivable, now seems like a brick wall at the end of a dark alley I wouldn’t go down. It seems such a long time ago that I cared, having cultivated a “Ho Hum” way of dealing with questions I have about him, about us, about the real truth. Until I heard his voice and sensed trepidation in it. He called the next day twice and left two identical messages. Asking for technical computer information.
“Don’t you fall for that.” I warned myself sternly. It may not be trepidation at all. It may simply be his way of ridiculing the generous adoration that I once had for him. There was a kind of pleading in his voice, I worried that something big might be wrong. But then I thought, it no longer concerns me. It’s not my place to look to him or look out for him, to empathize with him, to care. Is it wrong or somehow pathological to cut off feelings for another you once said you loved? Notice I say “said you loved”. Because I couldn’t. I wanted to, but even after the first of a never ending series of disappointments, the love became a high stakes crap shoot. But I was willing to work on it. I deemed it worthy. Besides, he was a good old friend from college days-someone who’d been a good buddy. Someone who knew me way back when. Someone I thought I knew. But I didn’t. Too many years had passed between us and too many experiences neither one of us wanted to talk about. No, actually I wanted to talk, he didn’t. I did talk, but I don’t know if he heard me. I’ll never know, and “that’s OK”.
The messages he left may have actually been meant to upset me, I can’t be sure, because I’m not sure if he knew me well enough to know what would upset me. But maybe I’m short-changing him. If I had any mercy, I’d consider that he just wanted to connect and didn’t have access to any other way. But even if I could be merciful, I’d still have wisdom to fall back on, and experience, and anyway, I’m too tired to respond. Just thinking about it is exhausting. He will have to get his info some other way.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Thursday, May 17, 2007
S.B.T.2
The songs of the birds were so loud outside the kitchen window, I had to stop and listen. Holding a cup of tea in my hands, I leaned in, closer to the window. The birds saw that I was subsisting with something so they relaxed. From a kitchen wth open windows where the smell of cooking chicken seeps out, you can’t blame them for being wary.
I moved closer, trying to time my steps smoothly so as not to startle them. They might just fly away suddenly at the slightest uncertain nuance. But then if you stand very still, they will come back. I kept the teacup close to my face and watched.
Some of them looked back at me, the same ones intermittently watching me, turning the head slightly and making direct eye contact. It was clear that they were not only aware, but curious and somewhat interested in seeing me. Three silhouettes were far away on the treetops in the front yard. They were calling and answering, and making various commentaries, their calls swept the distance like echoes, like yodeling. I have a “Backyard Habitat”. Two pairs of mallard ducks visit regularly, there is a wild wetlands area across the street. Cardinals and lots of cowbirds, sparrows, grackles, bluejays, downey woodpeckers and many redwing blackbirds come to eat every day. A yellow-shafted flicker comes for suet in the mid-morning and a big raven comes to get peanuts. And the mourning doves line up on the telephone wires. An occasional mother-of-pearl feathered pigeon joins them. At night, the raccoons, possums, skunks and feral cats come around. There have been a few spottings of coyote. And there are always seagulls soaring overhead.
Earlier that morning, at the feed store, a customer leaned open the creaky door, pointed at something outside, and turned, breathless and glittery-eyed, towards the checkout stand where I was putting my bags of seed up. ”What a beautiful bird!!” she almost wept. “What kind of bird is it?” The clerk walked out around the little wooden corral-like space where the long flat tables and cash registers were.
“Yes, that’s an oriole, a Baltimore Oriole.” she said.
“An Oriole?” I gasped, knowing how rare they are around here.
“Yes” she said, and pointed me in the direction. “Right there.”
The flicker of expectation (“...the gloriously orange and black colors! Yippee!... I can almost see them.....Ya Ya YESSSSS!”) and then, I look out and see that it is a redwinged blackbird.
A redwing is unmistakable. No doubt a dashing figure, lively and dramatically colored, beautiful in its minimal statement of red against black. And the aerodynamic curve of the design, like the Nike logo on its wings. Nike should make a sneaker called the “Redwing”.
I explained that the oriole’s color is in different places, with much less black. It’s not the right time for orioles either. Still she insisted it was an oriole and said that the yellow stripe under the red stripe made it an oriole and not a redwing. It’s not all red was her argument. Colloquial knowledge at its best. “The wider the yellow under the red stripe, the mark of youthful immaturity, you’re looking at a young bird, in its pre-prime,” I said. I was thinking about that experience when suddenly a call I’d never heard before rose out from the chattering.
It sounded like a human voice imitating a bird, if a bird could speak. It was coming from the deck where all the birds were gathering. It really sounded like the voice was saying “Oh Shit Oh Shit Oh Shit” and then “HouseShit HouseShit HouseShit”. I stepped closer, but suddenly it was quiet. I peered out over the deck into the tangle of branches of the Rose of Sharon tree and then I saw the face. The face was greenish gold, twisted and crying.
“It’s her again,” I realized immediately, disgusted. With the dusting I’d done to bless the house and grounds, there had been some peace and quiet for a few days. Now it looked like she just wasn’t giving up. It took just an instant to know she was trying to get in through the circles and triangles and rectangles. Constantly moving, between the protrusions of branches that meet at different angles along the trunk, the spots where intersecting lines make negative holes in space. Places where energy can camouflage itself and retain its acuity.
But this time, she had no foreknowledge of the precautions I’d taken to arm myself in advance. Wisely, I’d expected some repurcussions since the moment I serendipitously found out what was going on. In this instance, there was nothing she could do, except futilely emote. And that’s why the “oh shit” and the pitiable crying. Wisdom Happens. The invisible wall had shocked her, and upset her. I was no more the easy target I’d always been, but the formidable opponent I’d become. I began to develop an ultrascopic vision that ultimately threw higher levels of danger in my direction. (other stories) If I was not able to remain infinitely vigilant, constantly alert and aware, I could be injured, perhaps even killed. Some currents just have a dark nature, and they try to cling like siphons on the auras of the unaware. They especially like to attach those who are peaceful by nature and humble. It’s like having a nice plump roasted pheasant with honeyed apricots. If in doubt, slap the floor.
However if a victim stumbles out of the stupor long enough to realize they’ve been robbed, awareness dawns, and the spirits get pissed off. It’s their hyper-mischief, and not our behavior, which has been characterized as “human nature” in the general consensus. Not a soul on earth, it seemed, hadn’t at some point in their lives believed the worst they could about themselves because of duplicity at its best. This one wasn’t giving up easily.
But I had learned some things, which I cannot tell here because of their secret nature, but with a specially engineered shield, I had gained the ability to contain my field and to deny access to any and all unwanted intrudors. My opponent was simply testing for any weak spots, redoubling her efforts, as could be expected. The faction had leeched onto me whilst unaware, so, even though they knew the temperature of the contest had changed, they just assumed there were still holes in the field. They had never known what a mistake it was to begin with. They hadn’t seen that I was born with Spartan blood in my veins. They didn’t do the research. A fatal mistake on their part and good luck for me. Their reactive behavior reflected the erroneous adage “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks”. I didn’t believe in adages and thus, fueled their interest in me as a test subject.
Once when I met her face to face in the flesh, I asked why anyone would do such a thing, why would anyone want to steal from another? She looked me in the eye and said she didn’t know. Then she said that I was a good, kind, loyal, caring person. I felt my insides warm up, but I cut it as soon as I caught on to an old manipulative trick. They were good at covering. If you can never get a clear answer, it is one of the identifying points. But with the shield in place I was able to discern the reason, and it was quite shocking. The truth is that they have holes in their energy systems and yet they can create works above existing current. Characterized by mastery, empathic loss and lots of holes. A strange disorder, but a dangerous one. Once I became aware of the symptoms, I knew I had to oblute and libate regularly, at the slightest spike of temperature. Not that I can say what that means. But I often stop and wonder how it all began.
I moved closer, trying to time my steps smoothly so as not to startle them. They might just fly away suddenly at the slightest uncertain nuance. But then if you stand very still, they will come back. I kept the teacup close to my face and watched.
Some of them looked back at me, the same ones intermittently watching me, turning the head slightly and making direct eye contact. It was clear that they were not only aware, but curious and somewhat interested in seeing me. Three silhouettes were far away on the treetops in the front yard. They were calling and answering, and making various commentaries, their calls swept the distance like echoes, like yodeling. I have a “Backyard Habitat”. Two pairs of mallard ducks visit regularly, there is a wild wetlands area across the street. Cardinals and lots of cowbirds, sparrows, grackles, bluejays, downey woodpeckers and many redwing blackbirds come to eat every day. A yellow-shafted flicker comes for suet in the mid-morning and a big raven comes to get peanuts. And the mourning doves line up on the telephone wires. An occasional mother-of-pearl feathered pigeon joins them. At night, the raccoons, possums, skunks and feral cats come around. There have been a few spottings of coyote. And there are always seagulls soaring overhead.
Earlier that morning, at the feed store, a customer leaned open the creaky door, pointed at something outside, and turned, breathless and glittery-eyed, towards the checkout stand where I was putting my bags of seed up. ”What a beautiful bird!!” she almost wept. “What kind of bird is it?” The clerk walked out around the little wooden corral-like space where the long flat tables and cash registers were.
“Yes, that’s an oriole, a Baltimore Oriole.” she said.
“An Oriole?” I gasped, knowing how rare they are around here.
“Yes” she said, and pointed me in the direction. “Right there.”
The flicker of expectation (“...the gloriously orange and black colors! Yippee!... I can almost see them.....Ya Ya YESSSSS!”) and then, I look out and see that it is a redwinged blackbird.
A redwing is unmistakable. No doubt a dashing figure, lively and dramatically colored, beautiful in its minimal statement of red against black. And the aerodynamic curve of the design, like the Nike logo on its wings. Nike should make a sneaker called the “Redwing”.
I explained that the oriole’s color is in different places, with much less black. It’s not the right time for orioles either. Still she insisted it was an oriole and said that the yellow stripe under the red stripe made it an oriole and not a redwing. It’s not all red was her argument. Colloquial knowledge at its best. “The wider the yellow under the red stripe, the mark of youthful immaturity, you’re looking at a young bird, in its pre-prime,” I said. I was thinking about that experience when suddenly a call I’d never heard before rose out from the chattering.
It sounded like a human voice imitating a bird, if a bird could speak. It was coming from the deck where all the birds were gathering. It really sounded like the voice was saying “Oh Shit Oh Shit Oh Shit” and then “HouseShit HouseShit HouseShit”. I stepped closer, but suddenly it was quiet. I peered out over the deck into the tangle of branches of the Rose of Sharon tree and then I saw the face. The face was greenish gold, twisted and crying.
“It’s her again,” I realized immediately, disgusted. With the dusting I’d done to bless the house and grounds, there had been some peace and quiet for a few days. Now it looked like she just wasn’t giving up. It took just an instant to know she was trying to get in through the circles and triangles and rectangles. Constantly moving, between the protrusions of branches that meet at different angles along the trunk, the spots where intersecting lines make negative holes in space. Places where energy can camouflage itself and retain its acuity.
But this time, she had no foreknowledge of the precautions I’d taken to arm myself in advance. Wisely, I’d expected some repurcussions since the moment I serendipitously found out what was going on. In this instance, there was nothing she could do, except futilely emote. And that’s why the “oh shit” and the pitiable crying. Wisdom Happens. The invisible wall had shocked her, and upset her. I was no more the easy target I’d always been, but the formidable opponent I’d become. I began to develop an ultrascopic vision that ultimately threw higher levels of danger in my direction. (other stories) If I was not able to remain infinitely vigilant, constantly alert and aware, I could be injured, perhaps even killed. Some currents just have a dark nature, and they try to cling like siphons on the auras of the unaware. They especially like to attach those who are peaceful by nature and humble. It’s like having a nice plump roasted pheasant with honeyed apricots. If in doubt, slap the floor.
However if a victim stumbles out of the stupor long enough to realize they’ve been robbed, awareness dawns, and the spirits get pissed off. It’s their hyper-mischief, and not our behavior, which has been characterized as “human nature” in the general consensus. Not a soul on earth, it seemed, hadn’t at some point in their lives believed the worst they could about themselves because of duplicity at its best. This one wasn’t giving up easily.
But I had learned some things, which I cannot tell here because of their secret nature, but with a specially engineered shield, I had gained the ability to contain my field and to deny access to any and all unwanted intrudors. My opponent was simply testing for any weak spots, redoubling her efforts, as could be expected. The faction had leeched onto me whilst unaware, so, even though they knew the temperature of the contest had changed, they just assumed there were still holes in the field. They had never known what a mistake it was to begin with. They hadn’t seen that I was born with Spartan blood in my veins. They didn’t do the research. A fatal mistake on their part and good luck for me. Their reactive behavior reflected the erroneous adage “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks”. I didn’t believe in adages and thus, fueled their interest in me as a test subject.
Once when I met her face to face in the flesh, I asked why anyone would do such a thing, why would anyone want to steal from another? She looked me in the eye and said she didn’t know. Then she said that I was a good, kind, loyal, caring person. I felt my insides warm up, but I cut it as soon as I caught on to an old manipulative trick. They were good at covering. If you can never get a clear answer, it is one of the identifying points. But with the shield in place I was able to discern the reason, and it was quite shocking. The truth is that they have holes in their energy systems and yet they can create works above existing current. Characterized by mastery, empathic loss and lots of holes. A strange disorder, but a dangerous one. Once I became aware of the symptoms, I knew I had to oblute and libate regularly, at the slightest spike of temperature. Not that I can say what that means. But I often stop and wonder how it all began.
S.B.T.1
Once upon a time, I walked like a soft breeze, my steps padded by green moss, my dress flowing behind me. The steps I took had reverence, like small prayers, they were glimpses of hope. With no encumberances,no acknowledgement of histories, I could simply walk. I walked by the bee-keepers house, with his front porch painted white, lined with shelves dotted with golden jars of honey, some with long pearly strips of the combs still in them. I wanted to taste the honeycomb, it looked so delicious, it seemed to move, to breathe, with sweetness. When my Godfather bought me a piece one day, I found it actually too sweet, almost nauseatingly so. After that the beekeepers house lost its interest to me. I became fearful of all the bees flying around the place and my fascination with the liquid golden honey-jars dimmed. It was rekindled for a short while, by crabs.
Farther down the road is the bridge that crosses over Crab Creek. There are geese and swans there and crabs of all shapes and sizes. Spiro, my godfather, would take a butterfly net and catch blue crabs scuttling along the bottom of the creek in the mud. The shells would turn from blue to red when they were cooked. I never understood the eating of crabs after I tasted it one day during lunch. It seemed that everywhere things that had magic and mystery were losing their charm. I grappled with this new reality, while still skipping along whistling, whatever it meant. Wound up like a music-box dancer, I just had to keep going.
It was about that time that I became self-conscious. People would smile too hard at me and it hurt. Once a drunken veteran marching in the MayDay Parade pointed at me and came walking towards me, calling me a “cute little box”. It was a degrading experience, that made me see the gum wrappers and oil spots on the road. It was like looking at an ants world. It gave me ant-vision.
Family and friends were always noticing me even though I preferred to be left to myself. Often times, to get my attention, they would point to some quality that I had and define it according to their way of thinking. It was a powerful, often closely calculated influence. I grew up with the feeling of being watched...
There I am sitting on the front steps, cemented brick and plates of slate, the straw doormat brushed by the bottom edge of the screen door. It had just swung shut behind me, and I began to spread the toys around, getting comfortable, getting ready for fantasy doll-play adventures. My collection of dolls was impressive for an eight-year old, but I especially loved Barbie and Ken and all the clothes and accessories. I was a frequent lay-awayer at Loranias Book and Toy Store. It was my favorite store, next to the penny candy store. I liked to change the clothes and style the hair and have them act out different little episodes in the perfectly dressed world of Barbie. This one day I was changing their clothes and got an unusual feeling of power, seeing them naked. Suddenly Ken attacked Barbie, fiercely slapping her boobs, and pushing her butt naked on her crotch until she was twisted in a frenzy of hair and snarled hinges flat underneath him as he pounded relentlessly on her.
Just then, the screen door opened. “What are you doing?” Mom said, looking at the naked Barbies. “I was changing their clothes and they started to fight.” I said matter-of-factly. “Don’t pound them so hard, you’ll break them.” she said and with the sweep of the apron she was gone.
Farther down the road is the bridge that crosses over Crab Creek. There are geese and swans there and crabs of all shapes and sizes. Spiro, my godfather, would take a butterfly net and catch blue crabs scuttling along the bottom of the creek in the mud. The shells would turn from blue to red when they were cooked. I never understood the eating of crabs after I tasted it one day during lunch. It seemed that everywhere things that had magic and mystery were losing their charm. I grappled with this new reality, while still skipping along whistling, whatever it meant. Wound up like a music-box dancer, I just had to keep going.
It was about that time that I became self-conscious. People would smile too hard at me and it hurt. Once a drunken veteran marching in the MayDay Parade pointed at me and came walking towards me, calling me a “cute little box”. It was a degrading experience, that made me see the gum wrappers and oil spots on the road. It was like looking at an ants world. It gave me ant-vision.
Family and friends were always noticing me even though I preferred to be left to myself. Often times, to get my attention, they would point to some quality that I had and define it according to their way of thinking. It was a powerful, often closely calculated influence. I grew up with the feeling of being watched...
There I am sitting on the front steps, cemented brick and plates of slate, the straw doormat brushed by the bottom edge of the screen door. It had just swung shut behind me, and I began to spread the toys around, getting comfortable, getting ready for fantasy doll-play adventures. My collection of dolls was impressive for an eight-year old, but I especially loved Barbie and Ken and all the clothes and accessories. I was a frequent lay-awayer at Loranias Book and Toy Store. It was my favorite store, next to the penny candy store. I liked to change the clothes and style the hair and have them act out different little episodes in the perfectly dressed world of Barbie. This one day I was changing their clothes and got an unusual feeling of power, seeing them naked. Suddenly Ken attacked Barbie, fiercely slapping her boobs, and pushing her butt naked on her crotch until she was twisted in a frenzy of hair and snarled hinges flat underneath him as he pounded relentlessly on her.
Just then, the screen door opened. “What are you doing?” Mom said, looking at the naked Barbies. “I was changing their clothes and they started to fight.” I said matter-of-factly. “Don’t pound them so hard, you’ll break them.” she said and with the sweep of the apron she was gone.
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