apology

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....

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.

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.

festival for freedom

re: hmmm...

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.

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.

midday heat

re: pavement lines/there used to be dancing

There used to be dancing, she thought, her hands closed over each other on her lap. There used to be dancing and sex. These two things she remembered most. The sky glittered before her, huge white fluffy clouds lazing about. She was alone for the time being, though that was sure to end soon. They never left her alone as long as she thought was necessary.

She remembered the nights, hot sticky nights out with her girls and they would dance for hours. Someone would play the music, a band or a one-man act, in the corner of the barn and everyone was there. Their dresses clung and stuck to their thighs, but they wouldn’t give up until they were absolutely exhausted. Men and boys alike always tried to crowd in on them, but they weren’t there for that. They were there for the dancing.

Erma met the love of her life there, she remembered casually, as if it were inconsequential to the story she was replaying in her mind. He was on leave, a man in uniform, heading to Germany as soon as his company got shipped out. He was hansome, a bit rugged but clean-shaved after the army layed hands on him. And he was a gentleman, standing near the wall, a glass of water in his hand. When a slow song started, a crooning love song sang by a busy woman in a long black dress, he made his way toward Erma.

“Can I convince you to dance with me?” he asked, quietly in her ear. She was surrounded by friends and they were just recovering from a wild dance, sweat dripped from their forheads and they were laughing at and with each other, as though they had just shared an inside joke. Erma pretended not to hear and continued to laugh. The man simply cleared his throat and waited. He was good at waiting, she noted to herself.

Finally, she turned toward him and looked him in the eye, fully intending to tell him no. But she didn’t. She looked deep in his eyes and couldn’t talk, could barely breathe. He took her hand in his and led her out onto the floor. Taking a deep breath, she regained her composure. She casually put her arms around him, not wanting to portray this as anything more serious than it was.

“So, soldier,” she said, her voice playful and teasing. “What’s your name?” He smiled and she couldn’t help but feel a rippling tingle through her stomach.

“Roger Bannister. What’s yours?”

“Erma. Erma Montgomery.”

Just then a woman in white walked up. Erma flinched a bit, as if she had just woken up.

“It’s time, Mrs. Masters.”

“No, no…Roger and I were just finishing our dance. I don’t remember what song it is, but it’s lovely. And Roger has his hands on the small of my back and he looks so hansome tonight. Let me just finish dancing and then we can go.” The woman just nodded and reached forward for Erma’s arm. She took it with no hesitation but moved only as if she were dancing with the woman.

“It’s a shame you have to go away so soon,” Erma said.

“I’m not going anywhere, Mrs. Masters.”

“Oh Roger, don’t tease me. You know how much I want you to stay here. We’ve only just met and this seems so unfair.” She put on a frown and pouted. The woman decided to try another approach.

“Let’s go to your room, Mrs. Masters.” She put her hand underneath Erma’s arm and began to lead her away.

“Roger!” Erma exclaimed. “You naughty boy!” This was smiling, though it was clear she was trying to be harsh. “Don’t you know who my daddy is?” The woman continued walking, pretending to be oblivious to Erma’s insistence that she was her husband. “He’s the preacher, Roger, you bad boy! How dare you ask to take me to my room!” Again, her reprimanding words were undermined by her playful tone.

The two continued on like this, Erma playfully arguing with Roger and the woman trying to keep her composure and lead the old woman back to the safety of her room. But the path they were on was long and extended all the way across the yard to the back door of the large house. And Erma was not likely to go easily.

“Wait a minute,” she screamed, stopping suddenly and jerking her arm from the control of the woman in white’s hand. “Wait just a damn minute!” She looked around, dazed. “What did you do with him?! Where is he?”

“Mrs. Masters,” the woman in white said very cautiously, as though she were walking on a sheet of thin ice. She kept her voice low, even, smooth.

“Don’t you dare! Don’t you dare talk to me that way!” She screamed in a blind rage, staring at the woman with intensity. “This is your fault, you bastard! If he hadn’t wanted to please you, he never would have gone. You know it. That’s why you can’t say anything to me right now! But what you need to be saying is sorry! Oh god! Roger!” Her voice changed suddenly, from extreme anger to deep anguish. “Roger, baby, what did they do to you? I’m so sorry! So sorry!”

Erma now lay crumpled on the sidewalk, tears streaming down her face. She saw him there in the casket, in his uniform. He was so cold. So cold. She reached for his hand, but stopped. She couldn’t remember him this way. She rocked a bit, as though trying to comfort herself and could only mutter his name over and over again. The next thing she remembered was waking in her room, the bed and dresser and mirror coming slowly into focus. She knew where she was but couldn’t recall how she’d gotten there.

She recalled being pregnant as one of the most terrifying experiences she’d ever had. Terrifying and exciting and lonely and amazing. She would rub her belly constantly, loving how it pushed beyond her small stature and protruded out. She thought of Roger when she layed her hand on it, romantically dreaming that the action itself brought her closer to him.

pavement lines

re: facing reality

re: urban organization

the straight lines manicured
lawns that suffocate running
perfectly alongside empty
sidewalks remind me
someday i will die.

facing reality

She had driven nearly 1000 miles for this. Waited 2 weeks and smoked 3 packs of cigarettes. Her mom said she was crazy for doing it, that the mission would never succeed. Her sister refused to acknowledge the quest, but her best friend supported her whole-heartedly even though she couldn’t join her.

The ride took nearly two day but was filled with the beautiful mountainous scenery of the Appalachian mountains. She slept overnight in her car, snacking on the peanut butter sandwich and cheez-its stashed in a cooler in the back seat. Pulling off on some side road at nearly 1 am had it’s disadvantages. After all, there weren’t lights for miles, except those of dimly lit houses scattered here and there. And she didn’t have a cell phone should a stranger with fancy ideas try anything.

But Emily did have peace and quiet, and no one did try anything. In fact, it was a quiet night and she slept well. That is until the sun rose at 6 am. She couldn’t sleep with the light peering through the windows so she began driving again.

A light steam was rising from the ground, covering the bushes and grass in a hazy fog. The sun, shining his rays down on the scene, made everything seem hazy and dreamy. She admired the beauty of this moment, the simplicity of creation. She even saw a couple deer by the road way, a doe and her baby. They lifted their heads up and froze like statues as she drove by, but she saw them dip their heads to take more grass from her rearview mirror.

After several hours, she decided to stop at a gas station off the highway. It was a fairly deserted area, and the one gas station seemed run-down. She pulled in, the questioned whether it was even open. As she sat debating whether or not she should just jump back on the highway and young woman came barreling through the front door, letting the wooden framed screen door slam behind her. The woman didn’t dare look in her direction, just stared ahead determinedly as she strode across the parking lot.

“Elaine,” a scrubby man screamed as he threw open the door. “Elaine! Come back,” he yelled. “I swear woman, if you don’t get your wobbly ass back here, I’m gonna throw you over my shoulder and drag you home where you belong.” At that, the woman stopped and turned toward the man.

“Oh yah, Earl?!” Elaine questioned, though it was obvious she wasn’t really asking him anything.

“Yeah,” he said, daring to challenge her.

“Come and get me,” she said, her voice now low and teasing. She stared down Earl, who was suddenly rushing her. Stunned, she didn’t move and he was able to get right in front of her, dip his shoulder and scoop her over it. She was laughing by this point and pounding her fists against his backside.

“Earl,” she screamed. “Earl, put me down!” He just laughed and shifted the sucker in his mouth. Elaine kicked and continued screaming as he carried her back inside the building. Emily waited, trying to process all that she had just seen. She hesitated going inside, afraid of what the young couple might be doing.

Fortunately, when she stepped through the front door, it was just the young man behind the counter. He was turning the dial on a well-worn radio, though nothing seemed to be coming in. Emily approached the counter slowly, noting a strange smell, like pizza mixed with toilet bowl cleaner.

“Excuse me,” she asked. “Do you have a restroom?” without looking up, he pointed the corner behind her.

“Thanks,” said Emily as she turned around. The bathroom was less than desirable, which was to be expected. But she got a water and some M&M’s and got back on the road, happy to put that whole scene behind her.

Several hours later, she rolled into a small town just outside of Greensboro, North Carolina. It was a quaint town, flags flying from the porches of nearly all the houses lining main street, lawns well-manicured and kids riding bikes. It was like a scene torn from the pages of Mayberry.

And now here she sat, in front of a yellow ranch style home with a large front porch. The porch had two wooden rocking chairs and one of those planters that looks like a bench, overflowing with pink azaleas. A large tree offered shade to the front yard, and a cat with a swooshy tail sat staring out the front window. This was it. This was her father’s home.

She hadn’t seen the man since she was two, so the only memories she had had been passed down stories, fabricated scenes in her imagination of a man who was vibrant, outgoing, the life of the party. He was clearly not ready for the demands of childhood, but Emily’s fantasies never focused on this fact. She chose, instead, to dream about the life she could have had, would have had with her father.

She decided nearly two years ago that she would meet her father when she turned eighteen. She did her research and found just 6 months later. Holding onto this information, she waited for graduation to pass and then her 18^th birthday two weeks later. Her mother was against this and her older sister, having known her father better, did not support the decision either. And so, Emily was on her own.

She had been sitting in front of this house for nearly two hours. The fever of meeting the man she’d long dreamed of had turned into a fear of his reality. It all seemed so fragile, suddenly, as though it might slip through her fingers or tremble and shatter into a million pieces. Finding her father had been the easy part, she was now realizing. It was facing him that would prove to be the greatest challenge.

She sighed and turned up the radio, a Counting Crows song crooning over the airways. A car passed by, causing her to jump a bit. She looked back at the house, in all it’s perfection and reached for the door handle.

urban organization

re: pet shop wonders...

pet shop wonders...

Sarah lived alone. It was this fact that spurred her to purchase two rather large parrots, with green wings and yellow beaks. They were the only two birds left in the small pet store near her house. A little Indian man stood behind the counter. He held his hands behind his back, and teetered back and forth as he called out his greeting in a language barely noticeable as English. The room had a yellow haze hanging about it. Little gerbils crawled about lazily in cages next to the birds. A fat orange cat mewed and strutted past Sarah, rubbing his long back along her legs and purring contentedly.

Sarah moved toward the counter to ask the man about a pet that would be best for her. The man just smiled and raised his arm to the side, pointing toward the glorious birds. Sarah made her way to them hesitantly. She wanted a pet to keep her company but had never had birds before. Cats, dogs, chickens, rabbits, even a wild pig that roamed about the yard of her parents’ farm. But never birds.

The birds sat very still, like statues. Sarah had to stick her finger in one of the cages to get him to move. Just to see if they were, in fact, alive. One bird merely cocked his head to one side, then looked away again. The other began to chatter furiously. His words were nonsense at first, then he began to repeat things Sarah was sure he heard from other customers. At point he reprimanded a small boy for dragging his feet.

Sarah had to laugh. She was intrigued by the curious strength and aloofness of the one and the friendly outgoing nature of the other. She moved along the rest of the strange store, passing snake tanks, tapping on the glass of a tarantula, petting the soft fuzzy fur of some rather lazy rabbits. Meanwhile, the owner just stood smiling. At one point a woman joined him, speaking in a language Sarah could only imagine was Indian or whatever other language was their original language.

Their voices were kept to a low murmur as Sarah made her way around the store, the orange cat lazily following behind, stopping to rub again empty cages on the ground. He closed his eyes and purred as he did this, looking content. The voices grew louder, though, and Sarah could tell they were arguing. She woman’s voice was more dominant and she kept gesturing to a door near the back of the room.

And then, just as abruptly as it started, it was over. The woman had stormed back toward the door and slammed it shut. The happy little man was now crying, his head buried in his hands, sobbing silently. Sarah had sympathy for the man and moved toward the counter.

“Is there anything I can do,” she asked, noting the awkwardness of the moment. The man removed one hand from his head, only to gesture her away. She stood there a bit longer, waiting to see if he would change his mind.

“Well, I’d like to buy your birds, if they’re still available.” She pointed to the back wall where the odd pair were stationed. At this the man perked up. He wiped his eyes on a handkerchief he’d just pulled from his pocket. He then replaced it and moved quickly away from behind the counter.

“You ever raise birds,” he asked in his broken English. Sarah nodded her head that no, she hadn’t. “It is very simple,” he continued. “You must treat them just like you would a human, with same respect. They need space. They need to be loved. You pretend they are new roommates and you will all be fine.” Sarah found this to be strange advice but did not think herself in any place to question the man who had obviously kept them alive for this however long. They were now at the cages and sarah was beginning to doubt her decision. The cages seemed to have blown up and she wondered how she would get them home.

“How much are the cages?” she asked, to which the man responded by dismissing her again with a wave of his hand. She looked at him strangely, then began to help him pick up the cages. They were not heavy, just bulky and the birds were obviously disgruntled. They spread their wings, hopping about on the bar that ran across the cage and squawking in tremendously loud voices. Even the one that had previously seemed so astute and aloof seemed genuinely disturbed and upset. He eyed the man who was now holding his cage with a murderous eye.

Meanwhile Sarah worked to shift the weight of her cage so that she could more easily carry it to the car. Her bird was also eyeing her, but in more of a curious fashion, as though she were unlike any creature he had ever seen.

“There a couple important things to remember,” the man continued as they walked to her car. Sarah expected him now to elaborate on the birds’ diet or what to do to clean out their cages or tips on handling them. She wondered if they had their wings clipped or if it was normal to let them fly about the room.

“You must remember to never let them near the window,” he said, looking at her.

“Oh, because they’ll try to escape, right?” she asked, smiling and thinking that the man must find her to be extremely ignorant in the ways of birds.

“No,” he said sternly and this time turned to face her. “You must never let them near a window. Never. I will mean death.” At this he put the cage in the back seat of Sarah’s car. Despite her earlier worries, it fit perfectly. The man said no more and Sarah was too stunned to question him on his meaning of the word “death.” She let it go that he must not know the correct English term for what he really meant.

They got both cages in with no problems. When Sarah reached for her wallet, the man again dismissed her with a wave.

“How much do I owe you,” Sarah insisted. The man only smiled.

“These birds have been my companions for many years. I am happy only to have them with a good owner.” He smiled again and walked back to the store.

“Wait!” Sarah called. “What do I feed them.”

“Do not worry,” said the man. “They will know what to do.” Sarah was now sincerely regretting this decision. But she could not take them back in. The man seemed so relieved to have gotten rid of them. Plus, they were both now staring at her as though they knew she were now their bread and butter. An overwhelming sense of responsibility coursed through her and she realized she did not know their names. She would just have to name them herself, she resolved. And so, the two unnamed birds and Sarah set off to start their own adventure.

re: serendipity

Ironically,
nature always wins.
we may bind her and paint her
and make her seem so other than
and make her think we
have won and we’re stronger.

But nature holds on
to each of us,
just plotting her revenge.

serendipity

re: silence.

silence.

I am keenly aware of the silence creeping in around me, just as one is aware of the smell of skunk on the highway. I sit alone in the living room, the washing machine churning upstairs and the cats casually knocking important paperwork off the table, chasing one another across the room, pausing to pose another attack.

My body feels pleasantly relaxed and an ice pack rests on my right leg, helping to ease the discomfort of an earlier bike injury. That sounds much more glorious than it really is. In fact, it’s quite embarrassing. I rode to a local trail and decided to brave it. It’s a rough trail, designed for riders much more experienced with off-roading than I am at this juncture. I decided to stick to it anyway.

The trail was narrow, only about a foot wide, and wooded on all sides. It was rocky and filled with tree roots, and would take sudden dips or rise out of nowhere or even offer a long and steep downhill. After about 10 minutes I ran into someone coming from the other direction.

“Sorry,” I offered.

“You’re going the wrong way,” he muttered under his breath. Feeling extremely embarrassed and like the amateur I am, I turned around and steered the course the opposite direction, which turned out to be much easier. Until I hit the gravely drive, where I failed to mount the higher terrain. I put my foot down to steady myself, but lost my balance anyway and went down on my right leg, a large pointy rock creating an instant welt.

So I sit, nursing it a bit and preparing mentally for another week of work. I find I struggle inwardly to figure out who I am. The writer/artist/hippie side of me loves creating my own schedule, filling it with writing, reading, naps and visiting the library or farmer’s market. She is unconventional, fun-loving and childlike and finds little to no need for money.

Then there is the “professional,” the side of me that loves to have a reason for dressing up, a title and place to hone her business and people skills. She feels constantly the pressure to look and act the part, to fulfill the needs and demands of her employers, to play the game and live by the rules. She recognizes the deep need for cash flow to pay of debts and live comfortably.

I battle between these two parts of me continually, not knowing which to side with. Perhaps that is not even an option right now. So I will choose to dwell in the silent tension, knowing that tomorrow the professional will come out full-force, but tonight I am still the hippie.

re: untitled

Waves upon waves of suburban concrete crash down around me. Sometimes I fear I will drown in it. The funny thing is, I’m not sure I get here. This place of perfection, of clean-cut lines and the trash out every Tuesday morning and my wife with the decorative towels in the bathroom that I can’t use to dry my hands. Who puts towels in the bathroom that can’t be used? They’re pink with little daisies embroidered on them. I hate pink.

On Wednesdays we have dinner with her parents and Thursdays are movie nights with a couple from church. My wife expects the dishes to be done and the living room to be swept before they come over. And after they come over because he tracks in mud on his work boots. He works construction during the day. Sweaty skin beneath the sun’s rays, swinging hammers and calling crude remarks out to women as they walk by. I’ve never looked at dirt with such longing.

But I sweep it up. I light a candle that sits on the coffee table so the room smells like vanilla, my favorite scent. Then I change into a freshly ironed pair of khakis and a polo, tussle my hair a bit and style with some gel. This makes me look younger and my wife likes it best this way.

She works for a men’s clothing company, with models in clothing we can’t even afford to buy. But she knows what is most fashionable and picks out most of my clothing. I love her and she’s good to me so I try to please her. I don’t really care about my appearance, but marriage is a give and take, right?

I work in an office doing pointless paperwork. Ok, it’s not so pointless. But it feels pointless. I’m sure someone, somewhere appreciates what I do. I daydream them finding exactly the document they needed at exactly the right time, smiling and wondering what promising hopeful might be out there, ready to promote at that very moment.

What I really want to do is run, work with my hands, feel the burn in my calves from standing too long and the sting in my eyes as sweat runs down my face. I want to come home and wash dirt out from under my fingernails, sit down to a hearty meal and then relax in my chair with a good beer. My grandparents were farmers. Or at least my grandfather was. It is him I picture when I think of this, his overalls stained with grease from laying beneath a tractor all day, fixing the problem, or dirt from the fields. We would eat the things he grew, collect the eggs from his chickens, swing from the trees in the apple orchard.

I talk to my wife about moving to the country, maybe when we have kids. I describe the two-story farmhouse that surely awaits us. A red barn on the property with a couple silos for storing the grain I plan to buy. A cat and a dog that roam the property. Goats for the kids to help raise and cows we will slaughter in the fall or keep for fresh milk. My story grows bigger and bigger every time I tell it. She smiles, touches my cheek and suggests I start by planting the trees we just bought in the backyard. And maybe while I’m at it, she says I can mow the yard and rake the leaves and til that area in the front yard where she wants to plant some flowers.

So I put on my best cut-off shorts, the one with the little holes that are the style now. I put on a shirt from college, one of the few that have survived the years and the many wardrobe changes. I dedicate a Saturday to making my yard beautiful. A neighbor or two stops my progress to chat about the weather, what the homeowner’s association will be doing about the political signs in the yards or that one lazy neighbor who will never mow the lawn. What an eyesore! they proclaim, and I agree. They joke and tease me about finally tending to my lawn, to which I just nod and make a comment about the wife cracking the whip. To which he heartily agrees and then mentions needing to get back to his own “honey-do” list.

The yard looks great when I am done, trees planted just where she wanted them. Ground broken up and tilled under, the flowers arranged with perfect distance between them but not yet planted. I like to leave that to her; it’s her favorite part. She likes to feel the dirt between her fingers, to be a part of creation renewing itself. But she doesn’t have all day, this I know because the living room has to be swept again before company comes over.

I put all my tools back in the our shed, and sweep the clippings from the drive-way and sidewalk. My back is all sweaty and is showing through my shirt. I leave my old tennis shoes on, covered in dirt and grass, just for a bit longer. Just long enough to walk to the bathroom down the hall. I wash the dirt from beneath my fingernails and check my reflection in the mirror. My hair hangs down, sweat dripping from the end and I’ve gotten some sun on my forehead and nose. My beard is beginning to make an appearance. Rugged, I decide. Definitely rugged. Sexy, even.

I splash cold water on my face and hang my head, letting it drip off. I reach for a towel, careful not to grab one of the pink ones and put it to my face. I carefully remove my shirt and use it to wipe the sweat from my arms and neck. I walk back to the front door and take off the shoes at last, putting them in the closet, away from unseen eyes. I head to the shower and notice an outfit layed out for me on the bed. Back to my khakis and polo.

untitled

re: tonight is a night for camels

Tonight is a night for Camels

Tonight is a night for Camels
it is a night for saying “fuck” a lot
for staying up past my bedtime
for pushing the limits and drinking too much coffee
for consuming too many scones.
it is a night for crazy stories
and laughing about stupid things
just because I’m still awake and I can

Tonight is a night for idle despair
For ceasing to care about tomorrow,
for living only for this moment.
It is a night that sets me free from the “professional”
and awakens the hippie writer in me.
Tonight is a night
I feel alive.