The snow fell gently around him, as he walked slowly toward her door. He was nearly six foot tall by now, hair a light brown, shaggy and unkept. His blue eyes looked to the sidewalk and watched his feet shuffle. His black jacket was unzippered. A small bundle of flowers-two daisies and rose-was gripped by a gloved right hand, while the gloved left hand lingered between his chin and forhead.
He passed her door three times before mustering the courage to walk up and knock. Just three times, but with purpose, so that the door immediately opened. An older man stood there, staring. He was tall and imposing, wearing a plaid red sweater, his gray hair neatly combed back. He said nothing but looked at the young man with great indifference.
The two passed a few moments in silence. At last, the younger of the two took a deep breath and exhaled.
"Mr. Abney," the young man stated. "I need to speak to Alison." His voice was low but confident. The older gentleman still said nothing. "Please. I need to speak to Alison." Still nothing "Please, Mr. Abney." This time there was an air of pleading and his eyes began to show their weary deliberation.
"Who is it, dear?" came a softer, more cheerful voice somewhere behind Mr. Abney. He turned his head to the side.
"It's that Ethan, kid. Said he needs to speak to Alison."
"Well, let him in," she chided then appeared at the door. "Come on Paul, move aside. Let him in." She gently pushed her husban, to which he moved but did not take his gaze of Ethan. "Goodness Paul, he's not a kid. He's your daughter's husband. And he's clearly freezing. Let him in." She pushed the screen door open and welcomed the young man.
The wife was much more jovial than the husband, and Ethan wondered how the two put up with one another for such a long time. They seemed polar opposites, but maybe that's why everyone said opposites attract.
For his own part, he and Alison had been opposites from the start. He was timid, often too soft-spoken for his own good, but very intelligent and great with computers. He loved deeply, but was not often confident enough in himself to show it. Alison was bright, bubbly, outgoing. She commanded the attention of any room she entered and, drawn to Ethan's mysteriously shy nature, she took an instant liking to him.
Ethan realized in this moment that they were earily similar to her parents.
to be continued....
Saturday, December 13, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
in an attempt to avoid writing, she got in the car and started driving. first stop: the gas station for a fountain coke and a pack of cigarettes. the day was rainy, drops falling steadily on a windshield then being swept away seconds later by wipers lazily moving back and forth, back and forth. the slightly cracked window let the smoke out and tiny drops in.
she shivered a bit because of the chill and so turned the heat on. full blast. sticking her free hand in front of the vent to warm her fingers.
she had come to prefer Arizona in the rain. too much sun, she decided. no place should be that sunny. weather, she determined, should match the moods of humans. that is why seasonal weather made so much more sense, for sometimes she felt icy, sometimes warm and fuzzy, still others boiling and lazy like the summer months. she sometimes dreamed of living in Seattle, where the rain would match her dominant mood.
today, she was feeling especially gray and yet strangely giddy that the earth felt the same. she drove for nearly an hour, hardly noticing the scenery in all its familiarity. it was all the same, all the time. miles of grassless terrain, full of dessert foliage, mostly cacti and bush, brown dead-looking plants leading to the base of the mountains she loved. mountains on three sides, and then even on the fourth, distant shadows of mountains.
her husband had moved them here, to follow his band. as a writer, she had no need to object, for she could work anywhere. and she loved him. but she hated being stagnant and they had been here for nearly a year and the band had gone nowhere. he worked at Best Buy part-time to pay the bills and she wrote articles for a local magazine.
so she drove. south in the direction of Tucson. the rain falling steadily down and the sky promising more of the same. she smoked three cigarettes then stopped at McDonalds for lunch and wrote the next chapter of her novel.
she shivered a bit because of the chill and so turned the heat on. full blast. sticking her free hand in front of the vent to warm her fingers.
she had come to prefer Arizona in the rain. too much sun, she decided. no place should be that sunny. weather, she determined, should match the moods of humans. that is why seasonal weather made so much more sense, for sometimes she felt icy, sometimes warm and fuzzy, still others boiling and lazy like the summer months. she sometimes dreamed of living in Seattle, where the rain would match her dominant mood.
today, she was feeling especially gray and yet strangely giddy that the earth felt the same. she drove for nearly an hour, hardly noticing the scenery in all its familiarity. it was all the same, all the time. miles of grassless terrain, full of dessert foliage, mostly cacti and bush, brown dead-looking plants leading to the base of the mountains she loved. mountains on three sides, and then even on the fourth, distant shadows of mountains.
her husband had moved them here, to follow his band. as a writer, she had no need to object, for she could work anywhere. and she loved him. but she hated being stagnant and they had been here for nearly a year and the band had gone nowhere. he worked at Best Buy part-time to pay the bills and she wrote articles for a local magazine.
so she drove. south in the direction of Tucson. the rain falling steadily down and the sky promising more of the same. she smoked three cigarettes then stopped at McDonalds for lunch and wrote the next chapter of her novel.
re: festival for freedom
The truth is, they had been lovers for many months now. His first, her second. But they loved each other, deeper possibly than they had ever loved anyone else in their lives. He was drawn to her artistic free-spirit; she to his quiet, confident nature.
They told each other everything, including her dreams to travel abroad and his desires to take care of her. His parents didn't understand and her parents didn't care. They planned to marry, to live like hippies, supertramps backpacking the country, sleeping on the beach and the sides of roads. She dreamed of singing her songs to strangers and he envisioned holding her in his arms.
Two weeks ago, they started arguing. It started with her distance, shrugging him off, not talking. He asked about her silence but she didn't answer. Then she became easily agitated, nitpicking his shoes and hair. Eventually, driven to dispair, he began talking and yelling. Sometimes she responded; sometimes not. She no longer allowed him to hold her and began refusing to see him.
Three weeks ago, she found out she was pregnant. A baby was a weight, she knew, to hold her down and chain her forever. Scared and just 17, she cut herself free a week later then cried for three days.
This would be the last time she saw him, this Freedom Festival, for she had packed her backpack and guitar and would be leaving town. She would kiss him good-bye and walk away. He would call on her tomorrow, only to find a note of her intention. He would never know why, even as an old man, but would miss her still.
They told each other everything, including her dreams to travel abroad and his desires to take care of her. His parents didn't understand and her parents didn't care. They planned to marry, to live like hippies, supertramps backpacking the country, sleeping on the beach and the sides of roads. She dreamed of singing her songs to strangers and he envisioned holding her in his arms.
Two weeks ago, they started arguing. It started with her distance, shrugging him off, not talking. He asked about her silence but she didn't answer. Then she became easily agitated, nitpicking his shoes and hair. Eventually, driven to dispair, he began talking and yelling. Sometimes she responded; sometimes not. She no longer allowed him to hold her and began refusing to see him.
Three weeks ago, she found out she was pregnant. A baby was a weight, she knew, to hold her down and chain her forever. Scared and just 17, she cut herself free a week later then cried for three days.
This would be the last time she saw him, this Freedom Festival, for she had packed her backpack and guitar and would be leaving town. She would kiss him good-bye and walk away. He would call on her tomorrow, only to find a note of her intention. He would never know why, even as an old man, but would miss her still.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Sunday, August 31, 2008
re: midday heat
with a sigh, he sinks into the pavement. the temperature on the bank index flashes 96 degrees. there is nothing for him to do in this town of limited activity. school is out and not set to start for another month. he has recently been laid off from his job at the grocery store because of budget cuts.
so here he sits for several hours. his girl companion hums familiar tunes as she sketches fairy-like figures in a well-worn sketch book. eventually the heat overtakes him and the humming lulls him into a shallow sleep.
he does not dream. neither asleep nor awake. he would, if he understand the meaning of the word, consider himself content. the world is not wholly good or bad to him, just blissfully spinning one day into the next.
there is truth, also, in all those things he doesn't see. the hard poverty his parents endure, and that he will experience in the coming years as an adult. he will graduate high school, with no aspirations beyond the corner grocery, smoking camels on the corner, drinking beer on a friend's patio. he will marry, which may end in divorce, or worse, too many mouths to feed.
but for now, he is content. and even he is not blind to the importance of the here and now.
so here he sits for several hours. his girl companion hums familiar tunes as she sketches fairy-like figures in a well-worn sketch book. eventually the heat overtakes him and the humming lulls him into a shallow sleep.
he does not dream. neither asleep nor awake. he would, if he understand the meaning of the word, consider himself content. the world is not wholly good or bad to him, just blissfully spinning one day into the next.
there is truth, also, in all those things he doesn't see. the hard poverty his parents endure, and that he will experience in the coming years as an adult. he will graduate high school, with no aspirations beyond the corner grocery, smoking camels on the corner, drinking beer on a friend's patio. he will marry, which may end in divorce, or worse, too many mouths to feed.
but for now, he is content. and even he is not blind to the importance of the here and now.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
hmmm...
I am in an extremely pessimistic state of the moment, thinking that not even this writing will be redeemable. For everyone will die. Everyone. And moments flit by so fast that even good ones are soon gone. My life is nothing more than a blip on the radar, overcrowded and sometimes overlapped by other blips. Tomorrow I will go to work. I will calculate my hours in the form of dollars. I will trapped at times, and elated at others. I will want to be sleeping; I will be buzzing with caffeine. What is the point of it all?
I believe in god and the other-worldly hope and all that stuff. But how is one supposed to cope with the inevitability and finality of life-ending. Of things stopping without resolution or stories that do not finish getting told. Of regret and the wondering how things would have been had just another choice been made. How does one cope with the reality of lives unlived, dark and gray? How do I begin to tell the stories of my family without blame or pointing fingers? When it seems so obvious that someone must be to blame….someone must be brought to justice for the heinous and unforgivable crimes of destroying the ones they love, or that love them.
Or perhaps not. Perhaps it is grace that is the storytellers truest friend. Grace that lies between the critical eye and the frantic fingers. Grace their only companion thru years of isolation and loneliness. How I long for this grace….
Someday I will return to life as the beauty I know it to be, beyond the walls of conventional society, into the grasses and hillsides of wild country. For now, I must understand the beauty of fellow humans, lives being lived next to mine. I must find that grace and record these lives, with understanding and empathy, bold enough to tell the truth but gracious enough to tell it with compassion; justice but no blame. No black and white. Brave enough to traverse the gray areas.
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