Another Gray Day

The birds are out in numbers today, another gray morning. They scamper about as if at feeding, but what they are eating I cannot tell.

They seem to flee at my approach, constantly at a 10-foot radius from my gentle presence. Am I or they so unholy? What do they fear in me? What minds did God give these creatures that they fear me?

Somewhere above I begin to hear the wailing cries of an exodus of geese. I halt my steps and scan the featureless sky.

I spot the movement of the birds through the haze, and I wonder if anyone else has the sense to perceive them as well. A ‘V’ of unshapely phantoms crosses over the place where I stand. Another blurry cluster, and another, each of different number and organization. Swift black movements submerged in the fog above my head, barely visible. Gone.

Their departure reminds me of the sometimes desolation in my mind since you left, of the white blank that was once your photograph next to my bed.

The red brick road on which I walk is wide, lonely and I know where it goes. What I would pay to get back on that tour bus that travels through a foreign countryside, to watch the trees go by. To rest in other people’s homes. To be welcomed and to bring gifts. To make a new home in homelessness with whomever you are by my side.

Living in Gray

When I walk down to the bus stop on a winter morning, I hope that the gray sky won’t suddenly stick to the gray earth, like a cruddy eye in sickness.

Though our eyelids shut, our eyes still see. So does the sun shine beyond the haze.

In dreams we live for pleasure’s sake, but in waking we cannot.

Alcohol is agitation. Sexual sin? Merely violence in pretty colors.

When the bar closes, I hope I’ll have had my fill. I hope that sleep will come swiftly, that my mind will not notice the body’s reconfiguration. I hope that when our sin is taken and it drops from the body to the hardwood floor, there will be a hollow resonance to satisfy our ears.

But that is complacence. If we could examine our sin like the earwax at the end of a Q-tip, would we mind the ugliness? Would it compel us more?

The joy that fills my cup is pure. It does not come from within but from above, like rain, like energy. If only I could put a bucket outside my door to collect what has fallen overnight, and shower in it. That would sustain me for a few days.

If I could attune myself to the goodness in the air, would I feel it or just have to believe? I notice that when I hold the TV antennae the reception becomes clearer, but I feel no different.

This joy, this energy penetrates the vast expanse of space, the winter cloud cover, the bedroom walls and the layer of skin that conceals mine eyes. It’s there. It finds me. Like a flower that opens to the light, in my better moments, sitting exhausted on a sofa, I let go of control and receive the joy of Heaven. My lips form a smile that nobody sees.

Here's looking at you, looking at me, kid (on MySpace)

I’ve been sitting on a fairly vacant MySpace.com page for the past few weeks, unable to decide how I want to present myself to the Web-surfing masses. As of now my page has a picture of me — that deliberately obscures my face, mind you — and some information that gives away my age and geographical location. The rest is a big blank virtual canvas that I am hesitant to decorate. Should I even bother?

I look at the “about me” category on my profile, struggling to come up with something unique, honest and interesting to say. Maybe I should describe myself as an “over-analytical semi-conformist skeptic.” But then I would have to delete it. That’s pretty much how this Web site makes me feel.

If you find yourself scratching your head at this strange technological reference, then you probably don’t spend too much time around anyone who is currently enrolled in or dropped out of college or high school, or who works part time at the local mall or Dairy Queen. As far as I can tell, MySpace.com is the latest in a long series of controversial, cultural phenomena, such as rock ’n’ roll and violent video games, which has descended upon our youth much to the “naysaying” of politicians and concerned parents.

The premise of MySpace.com is this: you sign up with an e-mail login and password that gives you access to your very own digital space, where you basically use a template to create a personal profile page, complete with options to upload pictures, video and music.

What do you do with it? For many people, you spend lots and lots of time looking at it, updating it (most profiles will show that the user logged in sometime that day), and clicking thousands of underlined pictures and words to look at other people’s profiles, be they friend or total stranger. MySpace becomes your gateway to a new global community, through which you can chat with friends and make new ones. And sometimes sex predators use it to stalk people. But that’s enough information for the MySpace illiterate. Go online and see it for yourself.

The rest of you know that that’s the nice explanation. What actually results might be better described as something similar to MTV’s “Spring Break.” The fact of the matter is that I’m embarrassed to be looking at this Web site in public. Even now, I have to justify to myself that I am doing journalistic research.

I click to a random girl’s profile. She looks nice enough; I see that she’s a 27-year-old who lives in Berlin. So I click into her photo album and immediately see a picture of her showing off the polka dot panties underneath her skirt. Is that “hello” in German? I quickly backtrack and click to another link before somebody sees what I’m seeing. I’m now looking at some spiky-haired teenager giving me the middle finger. How wonderful.

This does not necessitate that every MySpace member is trying to direct my attention to their private parts, nor am I trying to argue in favor of my moral superiority. There are, in fact, plenty of profiles that don’t contain hard evidence of excessive (and/or underage) drinking. Nevertheless, what MySpace reveals to me is that, in one fashion or another, we are all voyeurs and exhibitionists. We all look at others, wanting a certain kind of attention for ourselves. Maybe I desire to be seen as one on the fringe, who watches and comments from the sidelines.

Certain trends and fads indicate that we are a rather self-absorbed generation, obsessed with our MySpaces, confined to our iPods (fitting product names). But we are also reaching out, obviously interested in connecting with other human beings, as this Web site demonstrates. While I worry that people are trying to forge their individuality from lists of their favorite music and movies, I must remember that I too take pride in my personal interests, as they are a reflection of my personality.

Perhaps the best thing that we can do is withhold judgment. So you like to watch “Stargate SG1,” huh? That’s um … cool.

I’m still not sure I want to join this bandwagon.

Jimmy's World

Jimmy sat constructing his virtual world. Day after day and long into the night, he moved his pale, bony hand this way and that across the red mouse pad, shaping a new creation of colorful polygons.

He was building a city on an island, and the island sat like a dinner plate balanced precariously on the pinnacle of a tall conical mountain, and underwater volcano.

The city was immense, a sprawling layout of streets and buildings, with an elevated train way that spiraled from the outskirts to the center. There were the slums, visible by the sections of gray, derelict buildings. There were the wealthy commercial districts as well, digitally painted in vibrant golden colors. All finished areas had been decorated in meticulous detail, but none so much as the grand palace, the nexus of the city.

There were antique rugs in each of the seventy-five bedrooms that were patterned individually. Every architectural decoration was smoothed to amazing virtual roundness, all thanks to the countless hours of Jimmy's laboring at the mouse and keyboard.

As he shaped new shops, new sewer passages, new train stations, his mind simmered with ideas pertaining to the history of his city, the struggles and triumphs of its generations of peoples. He flirted with notions of other islands beyond the one, of natural wonders beneath the surface of the virtual sea. Given time, perhaps he would expand his vision even more.

Meanwhile, Jimmy's mother stood unseen in the doorway behind him. Her vision scanned the material reality of a much neglected domestic space. She was alarmed at the number of empty pop cans that littered the desk, shelves and windowsills. How many gallons of soda had passed through his body in that room? She covered her mouth and cheek, her mind struggling to begin the process of solving the problem of such a mess. The stench in the room was unbearable. She walked away.

Jimmy awaited the day that he would finally populate his world with moving creatures. He longed to crawl through the rectangular portal of his computer screen and experience his handiwork without the hindrance of so many peripheral distractions.

He got up to go relieve himself. His mom stood outside the door and told him to remember to take out the garbage in the kitchen. Unresponsive, he left the bathroom, walked in the kitchen, opened the refrigerator and retrieved a can of pop. He then returned to his bedroom and shut door behind him.

watching her

I have watched her many times, from many perspectives, with many reactionary feelings.

I once saw her enter a room where I was praying as she silently took a seat in the corner. I must have noticed her long brown hair, falling straight to each side of her face, the face to which I could not have been able to place a name, and which I would not have bothered to examine closely. I recognized her, but she was a stranger, there to pray in silent support.

I once watched her as I forcefully withdrew my company from an all-night party of three (a party to which I was more of an intrusion than I would have cared to know at the time). Her smile melted my fragile, yearning heart. I meditated on that smile as I prayed by a duck pond in the deserted, early-morning daylight, and later as I wrote to my journal about the night’s adventures.

I once watched her as she sat close between me and another boy on a crowded train rushing speedily through the Chinese countryside. Emotionally and physically exhausted, I sat in hopeful discomfort. With pressing tears I watched as she rested her tired head upon the shoulder of the other boy. It was the worst thing she could have done to me.

I once looked rapturously into her bright, brown eyes that were looking back upon me, as we lay parallel on my bed, our outstretched hands touching in a moment of simple, breathtaking intimacy. And the only thing that stole my joy in that moment was the conscious understanding that my desire to remain inert and alone with her until time immemorial tinged with the slightest sensation of danger, the recognition of a temptation likened to sin. Perhaps her beaming smile was eclipsing my view of God.

I sat a row behind her in a small auditorium and looked at the back of her head. I thought it profound to consider that that young woman was my girlfriend. I had waited so long before she came along. It was a pleasant thought that she was mine. That was all.

I have seen her cry. I have seen her turn away from me in hurt anger. From slanted angles I have seen her eyes search for my own when I was too ashamed to make direct contact. I have watched her turn a strange cold shoulder while cuddling together and pondered her intentions. Hurting and needy, I too have cried and watched her through my own watery, clouded orbs. How many times have I watched her, obsessed to know what she was thinking, or what was causing me to feel so certain that something was amiss? I have watched her as we approached each other, she moving toward me on the sidewalk or waiting at the doorway with that same lovely smile that I had come to take for granted. I have watched her watch me when I would leave her for the night. Sometimes she waited till I was nearly out of sight, while other times she did not linger.

I sat behind her in a very large stadium and watched her worship God, thinking that she was probably not nearly as distracted by our breakup as I was. For days straight I would sit in that same auditorium, meeting with little success to purge my mind of this distraction. I sat and stood in a room of 22,000 peers, not caring what any of them thought of me, all except for that same one. I have looked somewhat assertively at her face in an attempt to snare her back into loving me again. She looked back only to meet my devotion with sympathy, hardly what I wanted. She looked past me, through me. Am I so transparent? Is my aching heart so abandoned, so forgotten? I have wept for her, for me.

She was a stranger that became an intrigue, an intrigue that became a mystery. Somewhere early on she became a friend, a friend who became a romantic companion. But I think she will always be a mystery, one who, for a time, received my love. No longer. God bless her and keep her.

word made flesh

word made flesh, the intangible promise
held in flimsy, slippery flesh
fetched by human fleshy hands

like (yet not) an author's unshapable story
pressed, bound and sewn together,
decaying vessel for an infinite artifact

many metaphors to describe the gift,
fashioned by the author and finisher Himself,
divinely spoken to the saints, for us

word that is seed, tiny vessel of hope
grown, scattered and sown forever
though it fall on thorny soil

light that shines through sight unseen,
now opened and shown altogether,
obscured, as it were, but ailve

contained in plain truth of a backalley birth
(swift moment of transformation)
delivered for our deliverence

Here's looking at you, kid

I was looking at myself in the bathroom mirror (recounting this as if a voyeur unto myself), gazing and searching intently. It occurred to me that I could make myself uncomfortable. Close, very close to the mirror, I held my face and examined, realizing that I could not truly see inside myself (or rather into that strange figure looking back). I could only focus on individual spots. In other words, I was unable to look upon the whole, unable to find that nonexistent, godlike point of access that brought everything before and everything to be into view, into understanding. As in film, I used my vision like cinematography, cutting quickly here and there at random locations on the reflection of my face. Bam! Bam! Bam! I could see a silent eye at different grotesque angles. It was mere seconds, then a jarring moment of pure fear. I don’t recall if I had looked straight on or not, but I backed away and invoked the Holy Spirit to comfort me.

I have kept it dim and silent in here. I keep looking over and noticing that my kitchen cupboards are open. It is the aspect of their exposure that I must find sickly compelling, like someone has intentionally left them wide open for my notice (it was that man behind the mirror).

This was written 9/18/06.

"Fast Food Nation," a hard meal to swallow

Richard Linklater’s Fast Food Nation is an ugly, ugly film that you should probably see. Based on the non-fiction book of the same name by Eric Schlosser, the film follows a handful of interwoven storylines that revolve around Mickey’s, a made-up fast food chain.

When corporate executive Don Anderson (Greg Kinnear) is sent to investigate the disturbing findings that cow manure is turning up in the company’s hamburger patties, the spotlight turns onto the small town of Cody, Colorado.

Located near Cody is the giant meat-processing plant where all of Mickey’s “Big One” burger patties are created. Anderson rolls into town alongside a vanload of illegal immigrants, fresh from a nearly botched border crossing. They will soon become employees of the meat plant.

The scenes of the meat-packing plant are easily the most disturbing; a sense of dread accompanies each return to this gruesome setting. Linklater cuts quickly through shots of white-clad employees at their various stations within the facility, all of whom are working with dangerous tools and machines. We realize how easily the combination of knives, saws, slippery floors and other factors could lead to horrific on-the-job injuries.

This is only made worse by the portrayal of a somewhat tyrannical supervisor who uses his authority to sexually exploit certain female workers. And I haven’t even mentioned the poor cows.

The film, however, is not an exposé. It is a fictional adaptation, and the choice is an interesting one. Most of the film’s message comes through in the dialogue, including a memorable cameo scene with Bruce Willis, whose character tries to rationalize that the dirty secrets of the meat-packing industry are not really a problem. The meat has a little bit of cow sh--? Well you’re supposed to cook the meat, he says.

Fast Food Nation takes the form of such recent films as Traffic, Crash and Syriana, each of which uses the branching narrative structure to examine a complex social problem.

Unlike with some of those films, however, Linklater and Schlosser’s screenplay avoids the route of becoming grandiose and instead brings the material to a relatable, human level. Kinnear’s character is a regular family man with some slightly amusing secrets of his own. The subtle details of the characters’ lives are just as important to the big picture as the shock-value images.

Ultimately, the film is not only about awareness; it grapples with the difficult question of what we do with our awareness. Is Kinnear’s character more interested in fixing a widespread problem or in keeping his job? Does a college activist group embark on a futile letter-writing campaign against the meat plant or risk legal consequences by attempting something that might actually bring about change? In the case of undocumented aliens facing hazardous working conditions every day, what choices do they have? What does an audience do after seeing this kind of film?

Make no mistake. Fast Food Nation is difficult to digest. The cinematography itself is often grainy and unattractive. But as with cattle, it sometimes takes some uncomfortable prodding to move us from our complacency.

The Prestige: a review by F'er

Christopher Nolan’s The Prestige presents a fine example of the inherent dangers in a “twist ending” film. When an audience has already solved a major piece in the puzzle because of too many not-so-subtle hints, is there any satisfaction in the final payoff?

Like Nolan’s first film, Memento, the story begins at the end with a violent death. A live disappearing act goes terribly wrong, leaving Hugh Jackman’s character, a turn-of the-century magician, drowned in a locked tank underneath the stage. Christian Bale’s character witnesses the event and is put on trial for murder. Like in Memento, we are left to wonder what led to these disturbing events.

From here the film jumps back to where it all began, when the two men, Robert Angier (Jackman) and Alfred Borden (Bale), get their start in the magic business as apprentices to an accomplished trick inventor played by Michael Caine. Angier feels slightly threatened by and suspicious of his elusive partner, a brash and impulsive hopeful who insists that people want to see newer, more dangerous tricks. When Borden’s risky behavior leads to an on-stage tragedy, an embittered rivalry immediately develops.

As the two magicians go on to begin their separate careers, Angier becomes obsessed with learning the secret to Borden’s astonishing “transporting man” trick. It quickly becomes a question of how far Jackman’s character is willing to go to outperform his opponent, and to what lengths Borden is prepared to guard his secrets.

It is an entertaining, suspenseful film with strong performances by Bale and Jackman. Caine, in wonderful fashion, provides the objective, moral center of the film. Scarlett Johanson also acts well as the love interest to both magicians, although Nolan does not seem to bring her character to any kind of completion. For a while she serves vitally to the plot; eventually she is all but forgotten.

The Prestige represents a strong effort, but comes up a little bit short of being an effective movie. Its sometimes sloppy handling of nonlinear storytelling and its inconsistent dabbling into the realm of actual magic contribute to a sometimes confused film that never quite achieves full potential. Worst of all is the film’s resolution. It’s as if Christopher Nolan is one of the magicians, setting up for the trick, revealing just enough hints and enigmas to culminate in a spectacular finish. Unfortunately, the payoff of the film was ruined when I figured out one of the great plot mysteries halfway into the movie. I could see what Nolan was hiding up his sleeve.

In this post-Sixth Sense era of filmmaking, many directors and screenwriters have capitalized on this twist ending premise, including Nolan himself with his effective debut Memento. Sometimes it is done well, justified by the point of view of a certain character who is just as surprised as the audience when the secrets are made known. At other times, however, it is hardly more than cheap, artificial storytelling, determined by a conscious decision to omit certain plot details here and there. The goal, perhaps, is to show enough that the audience will feel silly for not noticing all the hints scattered throughout the film. Nolan might have been too bold this time, which is too bad; his film is otherwise a clever study of the obsessive human desire for…well, prestige.

Pick Up

“You may be making a grievous err,” said the blonde in the red dress to the man seated in the adjacent stool.

“Don’t tell me you’re married.”

“Ha! Of course not.”

“You’re not interested in men.”

“Oh please.”

“You don’t find me attractive.”

“I’ve dated worse looking men.”

“Geez, woman, what is it then?”

“Woman?”

That Massive Structure

There is a massive concrete grain elevator that dominates the scenery of the new town that I call home. Shaped like an enormous amphitheater, the city layout stretches outward and uphill from the very location of this old grain elevator. It is an ugly, ominous, and strangely captivating structure, a haunting mystery of an edifice that seems to lord over the spellbound town like a high wizard's fortress. At night it is always completely lit up, and its windows--all the way to the uppermost levels of the building--put forth an eerie glow, as if indicating activity within. There is never in the slightest, however, any movement to be seen in those vacant, illuminated corridors. Still, from the comfortable darkness of my upper-level apartment, I maintain a vigilant watch upon the structure throughout the night, because I feel that it is watching me.

Perhaps there are ghosts there, such as the ghost of F. M. Martin, who in life was the man that rose to fame and fortune with his profitable milling operations, beginning in 1907 at what is now the site of the giant grain elevator. His company was successful due to its ability to both store grain and mill wheat at the same location. However, the town's website also credits a large part of the man's success to his close connections with federal government agencies, through which he was awarded profitable contracts, supplying grain to such government institutions as an insane asylum, a penitentiary, a reformatory, and an "institution for the feeble minded." There were eight contracts in all. As power begets power and wealth begets wealth, it comes as no surprise that this citizen was also famous for his pursuits in banking and real estate. His son Clarence even became the governor of the state.

Is it any surprise that I would connect this strange history to the qualms I feel as I gaze in fascinated suspicion upon the concrete tower, relic of the old Martin dynasty? The cold, time-stained walls of that structure resemble the stone walls of a prison. Is it ironic that that edifice carries such real-life, historical connections to a state penitentiary? I marvel at the curious histories of these small agricultural boom towns, forgotten to most. I wonder at such towns where the street signs bear the same names that are chiseled in stone above the doors of the old banks, banks that are built like temples. My new town was named after a Boston railroad tycoon.

It is very possible that Mr. Martin was a delightful, benevolent individual. I would have to do more research to determine more of his character. But his brief story, combined with my initial bewilderment at the grain elevator leaves me wondering. I have many large questions. For example, what are the secret machinations that take place between the heads of state and the wealthy elite? I don't think there are such family dynasties as the Martins today. At least, they do not seem to work as they once did. We hardly know the names of our town officials. Instead, we recognize the names of the conglomerate corporations, some of which are the residual monikers of the founding families: Ford, Dole, etc. In 1943, the Martin Milling Company sold its assets to the National Biscuit Company, a.k.a. Nabisco, and the operations have continued to pass hands to other companies ever since.

F. M. Martin continues to exert his power over this little town, perhaps not financially, but vicariously through the physical enormity of the grain elevator. As I go about my business around town this coming year, I will continue to look up. I will continue to keep watch for a sign of movement within. We cannot afford to lose sight of the hidden connections between money and power. We must watch for the unseen hand that would gather in everything around us, for the mouth of the insatiable beast that would swallow up our entire communities.

The Warehouse: a brief history and outlook

Have you ever considered how the warehouse originated? Although most people today may not realize it, the history of the warehouse is rich and intriguing, dating back to ancient times. In fact, it is now commonly upheld among the archaeological community that the Egyptian pyramids are the oldest remaining warehouses. While modern industrialists would scoff at their geometrically inefficient use of space, these immense structures nevertheless contained inner chambers in which the Egyptian pharaohs stockpiled and organized vast amounts of valuable merchandise to be used in the afterlife. Because most of the pyramid chambers have been discovered empty, we must assume that the inventories of these storerooms were either looted due to lack of security measures or successfully “shipped” to the nether regions.

The warehouse has since evolved, adopting several innovative features along the way that have become standardized and universal. The use of walkie-talkies in larger warehouse buildings, for example, has replaced the prior use of tin cans and connecting strings, resulting in clearer communication between workers and a boosted sense of self-importance for all device carriers. Two other significant innovations are the wooden pallet and forklift truck, used in conjunction for the easy level transport of materials throughout a warehouse, much preferred to the original use of manual slave labor (this method too often resulted in damaged merchandise due to the collapse of exhausted workers).

Even today, the warehouse industry is advancing, and the job market is becoming increasingly competitive. Safe and efficient use of both time and space is the name of the game, and employers are continually seeking out only the most capable of individuals. In addition to forklift certification, several major warehouse employers are beginning to require a TETRIS score of 500,000 for all new hires. Scientists anticipate that robots will completely replace the human warehouse worker by the year 2025, assuming that robot labor unions will be able to negotiate favorable retirement benefits for all involved.

Trivia: Saint Barbara, who was locked away in a tower by her cruel father Dioscorus, is the patron saint of warehouses. She is also, of course, the patron saint of prisoners.

Physical

terror is blue blood
seeping and filling
oxygenated places
outside of the skin

dread is masticated meatloaf
congealing and crowding
septic passageways
within an otherwise efficient excretory system

death and discomfort
threaten and cripple
my vibrant mortal frame
below

Where Have All the Birthday Balloons Gone?

Denny's Restaurant used to provide patrons with a free meal on their birthdays. It was a sad day when that tradition ended. Year after year, I find it increasingly difficult to swallow the sad truth that my birthday is actually depreciating in value. I struggle over a moral dilemma: is my desire for recognition and celebration justified? Or am I clinging to childish conceitedness?

I am, too often, a selfish and self-seeking [along with a horde of other self-"fill-in-the-blank" adjectives] creature, bent on rationalizing my personal woes and sensitivities. But there is also a deep-rooted nature within me that wants to rebel against the time-worn copout that "life is unfair." There is an unselfish part of me that desires to be an advocate for the neglected birthday boys and girls around the world. I am a firm believer that a person's birthday should forever be a "special" day, in which humble sacrifices are made to accomodate for said person's general happiness and pleasure, in which the individual's significance is valued above that of the greater group, whatever group that may be. What has become of the significance and appreciation of the individual? It has gone the way of the buffalo, trampled beneath the westward expasion of "corporate" or "economic" interest.

Tomorrow marks the first time that I will ever have had to work on my birthday. I have a summer birthday, which means that I also never went to school on any of my birthdays, a fact that I have always considered a true privilege. There is a TV moniter in the break room of my place of work that periodically displays the names all of the plant employees who have birthdays in the month of June. Unfortunately, I am merely a "temp" (I have been working there for exactly three months now) and not an actual company "partner," apparently unworthy of recognition. I hate my job; I do not believe that I should have to go. I do not believe that anyone should have to work on their birthday. I would love nothing more than for someone to tell me to sleep in and enjoy myself for a day, to do nothing deemed worthy of being a "societal contribution," but simply to contemplate and celebrate the profundity of my existence.

It is now well past my bedtime. I am about to get into bed. When I wake up tomorrow, I will abide by the demands of the unjust system of which I am a part (a small cog). But I also vow to do my utmost to be a martyr for my own happiness if need be. I will enjoy and be grateful of my existence. I will be defiant.

Reader, forget not that you exist, and that, more importantly, your life is a beautiful and unfathomable miracle. You were created for an amazing and unique purpose, more valuable and significant than the existence of your government or school or even the company for which you work. Happy birthday! Praise be unto the day upon which you were brought into the world! It would be incomplete without you.

Given

To accept, to receive, to offer, to yield, to share, to expand, to produce, to grow, to multiply, to satisfy, to enjoy, to sustain, to provide, to nourish, to improve, to enrich, to release, to unlock, to explore, to excite, to create, to fulfill, to partake, to bestow, to honor, to bless, to love, to challenge, to send forth, to draw out, to discover, to reveal, to make known, to break through, to repair, to invent, to construct, to examine, to ponder, to try, to fail, to renew, to continue, to replenish, to encourage, to rejuvenate, to invigorate, to brighten, to lighten, to use, to hold, to cherish, to touch, to see, to smell, to hear, to taste, to delight, to adorn, to praise, to protect, to preserve, to defend, to lay claim, to impart, to entrust, to distinguish, to seal, to set apart, to shine, to beckon, to guide, to unite, to forgive, to inspire, to teach, to discipline, to refine, to sharpen, to generate, to enliven, to intensify, to surge, to explode, to remain, to outlast, to triumph, to ascend, to overcome, to understand, to realize, to actualize, to eclipse all lies, to cast off all pride, to lay down one’s rights, as a sacrifice, from the father of lights, as the gift of life. We are given.

Amateur Backyard Wildlife Photography

Highlight
Unnoticed
Mundane
Moments
Inside
Narrow
Generated
Boxes,
Isolating
Resultingly
Dramatic
Spectacles

For
Everyone’s
Enlightened
Discovery.

Beware
Extinction,
Excellent
Specimen.

Persevere
Or
Lose
Life's
Enjoyments,
Notwithstanding
Another
Tragic
End.

To Walla Walla and Back

I. Skid Marks

They curve to the left
And disappear into oblivion,
That is, the oblivion of our
Forgetting, as we drive on
Toward our own destinations.

Where were you going,
And where are you now?
What caused you to stray from the
Simple straightforwardness of the path at hand,
An obstruction,
Boredom,
An untimely black hole,
Or did something in the distant hills attract your attention?

Whatever it was,
The moment came suddenly and
Left its ambiguous, screeching remark.
You left your mark:
A final, fateful testament,
Two parallel back lines,
Reminding us all of your departure.

II. (Coming Home)

As I drive my car through the mountain pass in summer, I am blissfully enthralled by the overpowering landscape that cradles me in green and blue shadows; I place myself on a particularly steep and remote forested hillside. Not once, however, have I strayed from the beaten trail and witnessed the true remoteness of nature.

Surfing the sea of faces (that is myspace)

Your digital testimonies intrigue, perplex, and overwhelm me. My soul is shaken with grief. Your lives, laid bare before me, display their brokenness. Where is your voice behind all of those pixels and words? I am trying to read your story with the scroll button of my mouse. I have missed you (have I?), and I want to know you again, where you are and, perhaps, where you have been. But who is going to interpret this senseless clutter of words, sounds, and pictures?

What am I looking for? Your "pages" do not fit into a book that I can read from start to finish. There is no end to this maze of underlined words and dead-end photographs. It is an unattractive gridlock, signifying very little. Cheap, seductive poses. Columns of dialogue as prolific as bacteria but without substance or emotion. Interchangeable lists of pop-culture nouns, presented as flimsy proof of individuality. This journey of constant clicking presents so much but offers so little in the end. I give up and write. Your stories, I conclude, are all the same, and I am no longer interested. How can all of us be so cool?

I think I stand above you, looking down. So many of you were my friends, somewhere along the way, who rejected me and moved along. Was I completely forgotten, passed over? Or did I leave something behind, something of truth and significance that I might have imparted, in spite of my timidity? Our intertwined destinies have loosened and separated, leaving us connected only by the continually thinning frays of distant memories. This is my list of favorites.

Secrets shared and games of defining character played upon the wide-open range of the playground.

Countless birthday parties to which I was given but one, non-repeated invitation.

Girls. Girls. Girls. A day or two of love and validation, followed by years of waiting, hoping, and reminiscing upon those handful of said (bittersweet) days.

Your childhood is fled. Your innocence never really was. But this is our youth! What are we doing? Our lifeblood has been converted into cash by people in fancy offices. I am looking in from the outside, either too afraid or too disgusted to let myself into your proud circle. Should I also expose myself to the turmoil of this voyeuristic wasteland? Should I expose my need of affirmation? No, really. I need it. I still try to be cool. You were the cool ones! But I think that you are all trapped. How do I know? Because you all "logged in" today!

Cops and Dogs

I passed a motorcycle cop on my way home from work. He was sitting on his bike, perpendicular to the highway, monitoring the law-abidingness of the passing travelers (I assume). The spot where he picked to station himself was particularly striking, the base of a smooth green hillside, not at all hidden or surreptitious. His bold presence was simply impenetrable. He immediately resembled a knight and his noble steed, an imposing black rider upon a white stallion. I lowered my driving speed by three or four miles-per-hour and checked my rear-view mirror for the next few hundred yards; I was only five over to begin with.

Sometimes driving feels like gun-running. I was riding with my dad a few weeks ago while he was fulfilling a bank errand. There is a road that goes into town, running parallel to the aforementioned highway, which was currently closed for repairs, open only to local traffic. Disregarding the large orange barriers, my dad drove the blockaded roadway. I suppose he felt obliged to waive the personal annoyance of adding unnecessary minutes to his task. It was like we were executing an illegal border crossing. There was a tiny thrill in knowing that we were trespassing, and a sense that we were justified in our cause. Both circumstances reminded me of Kurosawa’s The Hidden Fortress, in which a small outfit of rebels seeks safe passage across a war-torn feudal Japan, venturing bravely across hostile territories and guarded borders.

As civilized human beings we face the simultaneous threat and protection of civil order. It is part and parcel of a territorial impulse that is intrinsic to biological life, where order and chaos hang in an uncertain balance. Animals are born with instincts and mechanisms by which to fend off territorial challengers. I confront this fact every time I walk down to get the mail. Try as I might to move silently, I usually attract the attention of a pack of neighbor dogs who do not regard me as friend. At first, I hear the barking from a distance. And then I can hear the charge of the leader, this brown gangly mutt. I am pretty sure I will be safe. Then again, they seem pretty angry and they outnumber me. The last time I went down to get the mail, that gangly dog came right up behind me and acted as if he were about to take a big bite out of my right flank. Yes, that moment scared me. In retrospect, however, I am left with the indication that they at least considered me a threat.

packing

They will fit nicely
Iwill make themfit
Together ifittakes
Alldayevensoit will
W o r k outfinesee