6:45 is not the best time to wake up when you have to leave at 7:00, especially if you stink and have to shower. It can be done though, as I found out. Well, sort of.
I may not have woken up at all if it were not for a piercing leg cramp. They seem come from nowhere. A metal claw reaches out of the night and grabs whatever portion of my leg it can grab onto and yanks indiscriminately. It used to always be my calves. The clamp operator must have been more particular back then, an artisan with his tools. The new operator just grabs at anything--thigh, calf, ankle, big toe. He doesn't care about location. It's g-force he's after.
The pain is excruciating, and I can go from being in R.E.M. to standing on my feet in seconds.
And so I did. The pain is so intense, it's hard to know what to do. Staying in bed is impossible. Standing hurts like hell. Moving my ankle back and forth helps a little, if I can do it. Pain is an awful thing. The little man in the fire lookout inside my head looks out and sees the entire world burning toward him--a 360 degree view of an inferno closing in. Frozen in terror, that red phone might as well be a thousand miles away.
And so I stood there, pain my complete existence, waiting for it to subside enough so that I could sit back down and rub my ankle, which seemed to be the focus of the malicious claw man that particular morning. I waited and waited, wondering if I'd pass out. In the real world, it was probably a couple of minutes or less, but there is no real world in the world of pain. One yearns for reality like a man in the desert yearns for a well. There is no way in such a moment to focus on real things--for instance, that the earth is a speck in space and in time in a universe that stretches out to incomprehensible dimensions both in distance and eons. In the grand scheme of galactic events--of exploding and imploding stars, of black holes and super novas, of entire galaxies colliding into each other, not to mention the big bang itself--this moment of pain is immeasurably small. I shouldn't even take notice of it.
Nope reality does not exist in pain. Pain is all. The room itself, not to mention the world and the great big universe that surrounds it, vanishes.
Yet, amazingly, God does not. In a moment of intense pain everyone reaches for that red phone, whether the little man in the watch tower in the head is frozen or fear or not.
I think I said "Oh God, help me" three times in my head, but it could have been more--or less. Mathematics is not really part of the world of pain. Then the pain slacked off enough to take a step towards the door to the living room.
I had it in my head that if I could walk as far as the kitchen sink, all would be right. As I get legs cramps frequently, the fuzzy notion that, yes, indeed I would be alright was now filtering in like sunlight, reaching down into the depths of the redwoods and landing spottily on the fern covered forest floor.
I reached for the door, ready to enter reality again.
I carefully made my way through the gray-dawn living room to the lamp and flicked it on. I walked oh so carefully, feeling every stretch of the muscles in my ankle along the way. By the time I reached the sink, except for a dull ache, the pain was gone. I got a glass from the cupboard, turned on the tap and got a drink of water. Outside three deer stood in a frosted field of cheat grass. Another one, closer up, chewed on a juniper bush I have growing in a pot. I tapped on the window, hoping to scare her off. She looked up at me and then proceeded with her destruction. So, I went to the glass door, opened it, and clapped my hands. That set off our two pugs. Marci called from the bedroom, "Would you shut the dogs up?"
I thought, Now, just how do I do that?
Ignoring Marci, I turned around to head back to the bedroom and noticed the clock on the microwave said,6:50.
Oh my, I better get in the shower.
Tuesday, September 4, 2018
Wednesday, August 29, 2018
A Week of Worry: Three Times the Morning of Wednesday, December 10, 2017
I woke up wet with sweat. My body stank and my nose wanted to disown it. I got up to go to the restroom and while in there, looked at the clock. 5:00 a.m. I used to keep the clock on the desk next to my bed, but I'd reach over in my sleep and turn it off. Apparently, my brain really did not like to get up. Once I moved the alarm clock to the restroom, I won. In fact, apparently my brain did not like the aggravating sound of an alarm so much that after moving it, I usually woke up a half hour before it was set to go off at 5:30. That day was no exception. Apparently my brain believed it was better to wake up on its own a half hour before that tortuous noise than to have that awful repetition reach deep down into my sleep, the mechanical fingers slithering through dreams like metallic snakes. So, unlike most people, including myself, my brain was proactive. Once it could no longer simply send my arm over to hit the snooze button at first beep, it made a new plan.
As a result of that new plan, I found myself bleary-eyed, standing taking a pee, looking at the clock on the cluttered bathroom vanity. 5:00 a.m. I thought about making good use of that extra half hour by working on my novel. But the room was still out of focus, my eyes caked over with crud. Besides it was cold now that I was no longer under a heap of blankets. And unlike my brain, I am not proactive. I'm lazy and luxury-seeking to the core. Avoidance is my most prominent quality. It stands high above the rest of me like a black volcanic plug rising high above the surrounding forest, a fire look-out resting precariously atop its rutted basalt cliff walls. I often picture some little man in there who looks out through binoculars scanning for danger. What threatens me most? Action. So when he sees the need to get up and do something on the horizon, he zips across the look-out on a rubberized rolling office chair to the little desk there and immediately takes the receiver off the red telephone. "Hello, Avoidance, this is Look-Out One. We have a situation. I need an excuse immediately."
The little man in the watch tower was provided one. I said to myself, You won't even be able to see the computer screen through all that eye gunk, and then I went back to bed.
I was glad to get back in bed because although I'd woken up wet with sweat, it was actually quite cold. It was December after all, and even though it was an unusually warm year, as most all years were in recent years, it was still plenty cold, especially in the bathroom, where I just was staring at myself in the mirror though a gunky-eyed blur.
I laid in bed and drifted off to sleep. There was a song, a slow rambling-rolling song. It went swoosh back and forth like slow blue jazz. There was a moonlit bay and water slapped against rounded boulders. Nothing big. Not Big Sur or anything--just a gentle slap against the rocks. Maybe it was more like the north shore of Lake Superior.
The water seemed to stretch out forever, glazed in moonlight. A cool breeze bit at my arms as I walked out on a stony jetty towards a light house. The silhouettes cold-weather pines jutted up into sky that circled the shore. If there were hills, they were low, for the pines poked right up into turquoise-black night. A few stars could still be seen even with the intense moonlight.
Crickets chirped. I could see campfires across the bay.
All of the sudden, I heard "Good Gandhi, What is happening here?" I couldn't tell where it was coming from. It seemed to come out of the moon, as if the moon was a big, dangling speaker, and I was in the Truman Show.
"Is the devil actually inhabiting you? Are you capable of that level of evil? Oh, no--No, No, NO! Michael, you idiot!"
At that point, the shell of the moon exploded into tiny fragments of computer-screen substrate that fell to earth like a hard sleet. I ran for the trees to take cover, but I was hit by a sharp shard that penetrated my scalp, sank through my brain, and landed on the roof of a fire lookout I had so often imagined. It hit with a great thud. The little man on a rubberized rolling office chair zipped over to the red phone, picked it up, and screamed, "Get up!" That was not his usual motif..
So I did. I staggered out into the living room and found my son Rio at the desk, shutting down the computer.
"When did you get here?" I asked, trying to sort things out.
"11:00."
"What time is it?"
"6:10."
"Why are you up so early?"
"Never went to bed. Michael and I were playing League of Legends. Dumb butt lost the game."
"Are you out of school for Christmas vacation already?"
"No, I just quit. That's all."
"You quit? That's all?"
"Yea, don't worry Pops. It'll all work out."
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. That's not true. I knew exactly what to say, I just didn't believe that I had what it took to deliver it effectively. I also wasn't sure Rio had what it took to take it all in effectively. I pictured the normal father/son drag out argument unfolding and knew how absolutely ineffective those were on me. Although I now agreed with almost everything my father ever told me outside the political realm (where I still disagree), at the time, all it did was put distance between us. I think I would have taken the same road no matter what he said. All it managed to do was further crush my already low self esteem. So, perhaps saying nothing was actually best. Still, I didn't really believe that. Walking back to bed, I wrote the speech in my head that I should have delivered to him:
Fear flattens us. Big skyscraper Resistance with a capital "R" seeks to squelch our dreams with a big, cow-crud covered boot. We scatter before the capital "R," leaving our innate paths to happiness behind and find other ways to busy our time.
As I got back into bed, I realized that here I would take a long pause for effect, and then continue:
Your grandma was a concert pianist who spent her life vacuuming. Your cousin was born to be Bono and blow the mind of millions at stadiums across the globe, and he's filling little pill bottles at the local pharmacy, making good money, yet yearning to be back stage, on a stool, guitar in hand, while the crew cleans up everything. I have spent my life teaching, and I'm an adequate teacher. No, I was born to teach. I'm a good teacher. But out of fear, I chose the wrong venue. I don't know why, but when I write, I have this power that doesn't come from me, that I didn't earn, that I don't necessarily deserve. Yet, I know I have it. It isn't ego. It isn't conceit. It's just there. Something God granted me to make up for all I'm lacking. Books should be my medium. Words sent out on a page like gospel. Not because I have anything special to say, not because I have some unique wisdom, but because the words come--as long as I don't deny them. Resistance knows that. Resistance worked like hell to stop it. I listened. I let Resistance win. Like your grandma, and perhaps like your cousin. Your uncle didn't do that. He paid a big price for it, but he knows he has done what he came to earth to do: paint. He will leave a legacy behind, a record of his successful war against Resistance..
Laying in bed, even while living out this imagined scenario in my head, I paused, not because I wanted to, but because my words wanted to go in another direction--a direction I did not want them to go:
Still, perhaps it is alright to let Resistance win. True, the defeat leaves a great, undeniable hole. But, maybe it doesn't matter. If Grandma became that concert pianist, what would my life have been like? I'm not sure. Your cousin has all those wonderful girls of his. What would their lives be like had he pursued the path of musician? I know that although I wrote well when I was younger, I was also miserable and hated my life and my God. Would that softening, that opening, have happened if I had successfully fought Resistance and pursued what I came here to do? Thwarted dreams create complex, compassionate people. Maybe God has set up a win-win situation for us, and it's pretty difficult to leave this life not a better person than when we got here, no matter what mistakes we make along the way. Of course, there are exceptions. There are miserable old people that just drag everybody down. But not many. Wisdom is attached to age for a reason.
At this point, I stopped my imaginary speech, realizing I didn't have any worthwhile advice to give him. Then, I continued because, well, parents don't know how to shut up when lecturing their children, even when the lecture is only taking place in the mind:
Hell, I don't know; you'll just have to live your life and see what happens. I think it's stupid to drop out of school, but who knows, it may be the best damn stupid thing you ever do. You may end up homeless. But then that homelessness may give you the guts later to accomplish what you really are living for. Maybe you need to face foraging through a dumpster for your next meal to realize what life is all about. I just don't know.
Then, going through this imagined scenario, I realize that there was one thing I do know for sure:
This I can tell you. No man finds complete happiness until he makes peace with his maker. True peace. True connection. It can't be out of blind obedience. It can't be out of fear. It must be out of love. Love for life. Love for being here. Love of living. Gratitude for being born and experiencing life. Not because it is easy, but because it is. Once one truly gets that, nothing else really matters. If you win over Resistance and write that novel you were born to write, play that piano at Carnegie Hall, fill that stadium with adoring fans at the greatest rock show of the decade--fantastic. But you'll still be happy vacuuming, or teaching, or filling out prescriptions at the local drug store. It won't matter. If you don't get that, if you don't come to terms with your maker, learn to speak to him, learn to listen, then there will always be a hole. You will always be looking for something better. There will be an unquenchable thirst always driving you to do more, more and more. You will be attracted to drugs, alcohol, sex, or just being in the spotlight. You may obtain much, but you will never fully obtain a complete sense of self. That hole is built in, a beacon, a yearning to steer you home. Some, however, never do listen. It is they who die miserable, consumed by the self in a house of mirrors.
I reached over to where my alarm clock used to be, looking for a piece of paper and a pencil. My fingers couldn't locate paper. So, I grabbed a book, The Wind up Bird Chronicles, by Haruki Murakami, turned on the lamp, and wrote in the front cover, Speak to Rio, turned off the light and went back to sleep for the third time that same morning.
As a result of that new plan, I found myself bleary-eyed, standing taking a pee, looking at the clock on the cluttered bathroom vanity. 5:00 a.m. I thought about making good use of that extra half hour by working on my novel. But the room was still out of focus, my eyes caked over with crud. Besides it was cold now that I was no longer under a heap of blankets. And unlike my brain, I am not proactive. I'm lazy and luxury-seeking to the core. Avoidance is my most prominent quality. It stands high above the rest of me like a black volcanic plug rising high above the surrounding forest, a fire look-out resting precariously atop its rutted basalt cliff walls. I often picture some little man in there who looks out through binoculars scanning for danger. What threatens me most? Action. So when he sees the need to get up and do something on the horizon, he zips across the look-out on a rubberized rolling office chair to the little desk there and immediately takes the receiver off the red telephone. "Hello, Avoidance, this is Look-Out One. We have a situation. I need an excuse immediately."
The little man in the watch tower was provided one. I said to myself, You won't even be able to see the computer screen through all that eye gunk, and then I went back to bed.
I was glad to get back in bed because although I'd woken up wet with sweat, it was actually quite cold. It was December after all, and even though it was an unusually warm year, as most all years were in recent years, it was still plenty cold, especially in the bathroom, where I just was staring at myself in the mirror though a gunky-eyed blur.
I laid in bed and drifted off to sleep. There was a song, a slow rambling-rolling song. It went swoosh back and forth like slow blue jazz. There was a moonlit bay and water slapped against rounded boulders. Nothing big. Not Big Sur or anything--just a gentle slap against the rocks. Maybe it was more like the north shore of Lake Superior.
The water seemed to stretch out forever, glazed in moonlight. A cool breeze bit at my arms as I walked out on a stony jetty towards a light house. The silhouettes cold-weather pines jutted up into sky that circled the shore. If there were hills, they were low, for the pines poked right up into turquoise-black night. A few stars could still be seen even with the intense moonlight.
Crickets chirped. I could see campfires across the bay.
All of the sudden, I heard "Good Gandhi, What is happening here?" I couldn't tell where it was coming from. It seemed to come out of the moon, as if the moon was a big, dangling speaker, and I was in the Truman Show.
"Is the devil actually inhabiting you? Are you capable of that level of evil? Oh, no--No, No, NO! Michael, you idiot!"
At that point, the shell of the moon exploded into tiny fragments of computer-screen substrate that fell to earth like a hard sleet. I ran for the trees to take cover, but I was hit by a sharp shard that penetrated my scalp, sank through my brain, and landed on the roof of a fire lookout I had so often imagined. It hit with a great thud. The little man on a rubberized rolling office chair zipped over to the red phone, picked it up, and screamed, "Get up!" That was not his usual motif..
So I did. I staggered out into the living room and found my son Rio at the desk, shutting down the computer.
"When did you get here?" I asked, trying to sort things out.
"11:00."
"What time is it?"
"6:10."
"Why are you up so early?"
"Never went to bed. Michael and I were playing League of Legends. Dumb butt lost the game."
"Are you out of school for Christmas vacation already?"
"No, I just quit. That's all."
"You quit? That's all?"
"Yea, don't worry Pops. It'll all work out."
I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing. That's not true. I knew exactly what to say, I just didn't believe that I had what it took to deliver it effectively. I also wasn't sure Rio had what it took to take it all in effectively. I pictured the normal father/son drag out argument unfolding and knew how absolutely ineffective those were on me. Although I now agreed with almost everything my father ever told me outside the political realm (where I still disagree), at the time, all it did was put distance between us. I think I would have taken the same road no matter what he said. All it managed to do was further crush my already low self esteem. So, perhaps saying nothing was actually best. Still, I didn't really believe that. Walking back to bed, I wrote the speech in my head that I should have delivered to him:
Fear flattens us. Big skyscraper Resistance with a capital "R" seeks to squelch our dreams with a big, cow-crud covered boot. We scatter before the capital "R," leaving our innate paths to happiness behind and find other ways to busy our time.
As I got back into bed, I realized that here I would take a long pause for effect, and then continue:
Your grandma was a concert pianist who spent her life vacuuming. Your cousin was born to be Bono and blow the mind of millions at stadiums across the globe, and he's filling little pill bottles at the local pharmacy, making good money, yet yearning to be back stage, on a stool, guitar in hand, while the crew cleans up everything. I have spent my life teaching, and I'm an adequate teacher. No, I was born to teach. I'm a good teacher. But out of fear, I chose the wrong venue. I don't know why, but when I write, I have this power that doesn't come from me, that I didn't earn, that I don't necessarily deserve. Yet, I know I have it. It isn't ego. It isn't conceit. It's just there. Something God granted me to make up for all I'm lacking. Books should be my medium. Words sent out on a page like gospel. Not because I have anything special to say, not because I have some unique wisdom, but because the words come--as long as I don't deny them. Resistance knows that. Resistance worked like hell to stop it. I listened. I let Resistance win. Like your grandma, and perhaps like your cousin. Your uncle didn't do that. He paid a big price for it, but he knows he has done what he came to earth to do: paint. He will leave a legacy behind, a record of his successful war against Resistance..
Laying in bed, even while living out this imagined scenario in my head, I paused, not because I wanted to, but because my words wanted to go in another direction--a direction I did not want them to go:
Still, perhaps it is alright to let Resistance win. True, the defeat leaves a great, undeniable hole. But, maybe it doesn't matter. If Grandma became that concert pianist, what would my life have been like? I'm not sure. Your cousin has all those wonderful girls of his. What would their lives be like had he pursued the path of musician? I know that although I wrote well when I was younger, I was also miserable and hated my life and my God. Would that softening, that opening, have happened if I had successfully fought Resistance and pursued what I came here to do? Thwarted dreams create complex, compassionate people. Maybe God has set up a win-win situation for us, and it's pretty difficult to leave this life not a better person than when we got here, no matter what mistakes we make along the way. Of course, there are exceptions. There are miserable old people that just drag everybody down. But not many. Wisdom is attached to age for a reason.
At this point, I stopped my imaginary speech, realizing I didn't have any worthwhile advice to give him. Then, I continued because, well, parents don't know how to shut up when lecturing their children, even when the lecture is only taking place in the mind:
Hell, I don't know; you'll just have to live your life and see what happens. I think it's stupid to drop out of school, but who knows, it may be the best damn stupid thing you ever do. You may end up homeless. But then that homelessness may give you the guts later to accomplish what you really are living for. Maybe you need to face foraging through a dumpster for your next meal to realize what life is all about. I just don't know.
Then, going through this imagined scenario, I realize that there was one thing I do know for sure:
This I can tell you. No man finds complete happiness until he makes peace with his maker. True peace. True connection. It can't be out of blind obedience. It can't be out of fear. It must be out of love. Love for life. Love for being here. Love of living. Gratitude for being born and experiencing life. Not because it is easy, but because it is. Once one truly gets that, nothing else really matters. If you win over Resistance and write that novel you were born to write, play that piano at Carnegie Hall, fill that stadium with adoring fans at the greatest rock show of the decade--fantastic. But you'll still be happy vacuuming, or teaching, or filling out prescriptions at the local drug store. It won't matter. If you don't get that, if you don't come to terms with your maker, learn to speak to him, learn to listen, then there will always be a hole. You will always be looking for something better. There will be an unquenchable thirst always driving you to do more, more and more. You will be attracted to drugs, alcohol, sex, or just being in the spotlight. You may obtain much, but you will never fully obtain a complete sense of self. That hole is built in, a beacon, a yearning to steer you home. Some, however, never do listen. It is they who die miserable, consumed by the self in a house of mirrors.
I reached over to where my alarm clock used to be, looking for a piece of paper and a pencil. My fingers couldn't locate paper. So, I grabbed a book, The Wind up Bird Chronicles, by Haruki Murakami, turned on the lamp, and wrote in the front cover, Speak to Rio, turned off the light and went back to sleep for the third time that same morning.
Wednesday, August 15, 2018
2017: Another TV
January 30, 2017, 10:00 a.m.
A woman stood on the corner of Wyoming and Las Vegas Boulevard wearing a black and white paisley-print blouse and very roomy white pants, her head and fleshy parts all angled down towards the gum-spotted, exhaust-stained sidewalk. A harsh desert light ignited her every physical flaw, of which there were many, especially the thin patches of white hair on her head, the pink scalp shining profoundly through. Her blouse was low cut, the arms tailored short, both exposing large quantities of flesh that sought the safety of the ground against the onslaught of gravity. Her abundant exposed pink flesh advertised her weight and age.
A kind observer would note that we all wrinkle, sag and drop gobs of hair eventually. An ignorant observer would use her appearance as a window on her interior world and make all kinds of assumptions about her that might be totally false, using labels like "white trash" to simplify her life and categorize her. Perhaps God would see a woman made in his own image, a spiritual child who had given up a glorious immortality and temporarily taken on a body of flesh and blood by choice to experience such grand experiences as divorce, working minimum wage jobs after you're sixty, and standing on an ugly street corner in Las Vegas, Nevada at 10:00 a.m. as a means of slow, soft enlightenment, a wearing down to empathy and understanding. He would know her dreams, see the money she slips into an envelope and mails to her grandchildren on each of their birthdays despite the fact that her children seldom visit, and so she hardly knows her grandchildren, and when her offspring do come, they spend the week asking dehumanizing questions like, Why don't you pay your bills on time?, Why don't you clean up once in a while? and Why do you save all this junk? Then they ask for money and leave.
But a mind-droplet detached from the host mind only sees the way a camcorder sees. It detects only light, form, movement and sound. And so the mind droplet floating above the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard the morning January 31, 2017 at 10:00 a.m. only saw what the Google Earth van would see if it were passing at that moment: the street and its objects, including the woman.
The corner of Wyoming and Las Vegas Boulevard is about as ugly as any corner can get, even by Las Vegas standards, but the mind droplet only saw details removed from aesthetic evaluation. On the corner, a single palm stood in between a wood electrical pole and metal support pole for the traffic lights. The palm tree and the traffic pole stood in a square of smog-stained gravel. A yellow plastic-coated support cable angled up to the electrical pole. There was a button on the traffic-light pole to push to cross the street. Across Wyoming was a parking lot, a nondescript white concrete block building, and a giant three-sided billboard on stilts--one side advertising the law firm of De Casterverde at (702) 222-9999; on it two men in dark gray suits smiled towards the traffic.
However, directly below the sign, literally tucked under its giant four-pillar scaffolding was a tiny bright colored food shack boasting in bold black letters the name Puerto Rico Express. The small structure was bright red at the base, just above the parking lot, above which it hovered slightly, sitting on unseen two-by-four skids. Above the red, the plywood sides were a bright Caribbean blue. Above that, a thin stainless steel counter, about nine inches deep, wrapped around three sides of the structure, creating a bar. On the side facing Las Vegas Boulevard were four bar stools, three of which were the same shape and height, all stainless steel. The left one, the odd one out, was wider, wood, and painted white. The almost unity--but not quite--added to the island feel of the food shack, intended or not.
Above the bar were two large plate-glass windows trimmed by red wavy molding. The one on the left facade had a neon Open sign in it and bright colored posters advertising the various dishes. Through the one facing Las Vegas Boulevard one could see stainless steel napkin holders, a salt and pepper shaker set and a small flat screen TV facing out towards the four empty bar stools.
The mind droplet noticed it was on. A speaker mounted to the plywood wall allowed the sound to come outside.
The mind droplet hovered right outside where nobody sat and observed the TV.
On the screen there was a woman in her late 40s or early 50s with short brown hair with a few random streaks of gray. Two men in suits stood behind her. At the bottom of the screen, across the left and center were bright red letters: BREAKING NEWS: TRUMP FIRES ACTING ATTORNEY GENERAL. On the right, it said MSNBC.
The screen changed, making a swooshing sound, and showed pictures of the supreme court as the audio continued... "hours from now Donald Trump will be announcing his selection for the Supreme Court, likely setting off an epic battle with senate democrats. The screen changed again and showed a computer generated museum-like setting showcasing large pictures from the upcoming stories in the broadcast. As the camera zoomed down the gallery hallway it came to rest on an image of a woman in her late forties or early fifties sporting blond hair with silver-frosted tips. She glanced to the right, to a red vertical graphic bar and the name ANDREA MITCHELL REPORTS in large blue letters.
The camera then zoomed in on a live, speaking Andrea Mitchell seated in front of an image of the white house. She appeared older than the still-shot Andrea Mitchell in the previous picture. Her eyes were deeper set, dark shadows angled over them, and the lines on her face and neck more pronounced. She wore a simple green dress and a big gold colored necklace. She said, "Good day everyone, I'm Andrea Mitchell in Washington. We are awaiting John Kelley's first press conference as Secretary of Homeland Security. The cloud of controversy surrounding Trump's travel ban and top cabinet secretaries, including Kelly, being kept out of the loop. Joining me now, NBC National Correspondent Peter Alexander at the White House. NBC Justice Correspondent Pete Williams in our news room".
There was a slight swoosh sound as the image changed to a split screen with Alexander on the left and Williams on the right.
"Peter, first to you. We have a situation where Steve Bannon and Steve Miller, the two top White House aids, along with other top aids, excluding the cabinet secretaries, as well as the state department, which is now without a leader--of course, Rex Tillerson not yet confirmed. What do we know about that, about how they're trying to fix the situation, and their very close connection with Attorney General Senator Sessions, who of course, is up for confirmation, and has been apparently working behind the scenes on all of this?
Peter Williams said, "Yeah, what's notable here is that we can report that house judiciary aids, not the actual bosses, not the members of the congress and house judiciary committee, but their aids, were party to this effort to draft an executive order that was announced, and is now controversial, not only because of the policy itself, but because the way it was communicated. There is reporting today that James Mattis of Defense, John Kelly of Homeland Security, and even Rex Tillerson had no idea this was coming, and certainly didn't know the details, only the wide concept until it was announced".
The screen showed a man with gray, receding hair and wearing a black suit while standing at a podium, next to two flags--one for the U.S. and one for the Department of Defense.
On the bottom of the screen it said, "BREAKING NEWS: HOMELAND SECRETARY SPEAKS ON TRUMP'S IMMIGRATION BAN." On the right bottom of the screen was another box that said, "Trump Supreme Court Pick Today" Next to it there was distinguished picture of the president.
The Homeland Security Secretary began to speak: "I would like to clarify what the most recent executive order does and does not mean. This is not a travel ban; this is a temporary pause that lets us review the refugee and vetting system. Over the next 30 days we will analyze and assess the strengths and weaknesses of our current immigration system, which is the most generous in the world. We will then provide our foreign partners sixty days to cooperate with our national security requirements. This way we can ensure that the system is doing what it is designed to do, which is protect the American people. This analysis is long overdue and strongly supported by the department's career officials".
As the mind-droplet continued to observe the TV, the woman wearing a black and white paisley-print blouse and very roomy white pants crossed Wyoming and headed towards the bright colored Puerto Rico Express. Perhaps she would stop, order, and have a seat under the shade of the scaffolding of the giant billboard advertising the law firm of De Casterverde at (702) 222-9999. More likely, she would pass on by. It was January, only 48 degrees. Shade and drink were not likely high priorities. Unless she came especially for the food at that particular stand, there would be no reason to stop.
Dino's Lounge was a more likely destination, not because of how the woman looked, but simply because it had four cars in front of it; Puerto Rico Express had none. Statistically speaking, more people in Las Vegas need a strong, dry drink at 10:00 a.m. than whatever flavors Puerto Rico Express serves up. A small Mexican man in a worn over-sized black suit with very baggy trouser legs walked up the street as well. One could not tell though if his destination was the bar or some place well beyond.
Millions--no billions--of people moved around the country and planet on January 31st, 2017, except, of course, those singled out by the travel ban.
The Vegas sun was very intense even in the dead of winter.
A woman stood on the corner of Wyoming and Las Vegas Boulevard wearing a black and white paisley-print blouse and very roomy white pants, her head and fleshy parts all angled down towards the gum-spotted, exhaust-stained sidewalk. A harsh desert light ignited her every physical flaw, of which there were many, especially the thin patches of white hair on her head, the pink scalp shining profoundly through. Her blouse was low cut, the arms tailored short, both exposing large quantities of flesh that sought the safety of the ground against the onslaught of gravity. Her abundant exposed pink flesh advertised her weight and age.
A kind observer would note that we all wrinkle, sag and drop gobs of hair eventually. An ignorant observer would use her appearance as a window on her interior world and make all kinds of assumptions about her that might be totally false, using labels like "white trash" to simplify her life and categorize her. Perhaps God would see a woman made in his own image, a spiritual child who had given up a glorious immortality and temporarily taken on a body of flesh and blood by choice to experience such grand experiences as divorce, working minimum wage jobs after you're sixty, and standing on an ugly street corner in Las Vegas, Nevada at 10:00 a.m. as a means of slow, soft enlightenment, a wearing down to empathy and understanding. He would know her dreams, see the money she slips into an envelope and mails to her grandchildren on each of their birthdays despite the fact that her children seldom visit, and so she hardly knows her grandchildren, and when her offspring do come, they spend the week asking dehumanizing questions like, Why don't you pay your bills on time?, Why don't you clean up once in a while? and Why do you save all this junk? Then they ask for money and leave.
But a mind-droplet detached from the host mind only sees the way a camcorder sees. It detects only light, form, movement and sound. And so the mind droplet floating above the middle of Las Vegas Boulevard the morning January 31, 2017 at 10:00 a.m. only saw what the Google Earth van would see if it were passing at that moment: the street and its objects, including the woman.
The corner of Wyoming and Las Vegas Boulevard is about as ugly as any corner can get, even by Las Vegas standards, but the mind droplet only saw details removed from aesthetic evaluation. On the corner, a single palm stood in between a wood electrical pole and metal support pole for the traffic lights. The palm tree and the traffic pole stood in a square of smog-stained gravel. A yellow plastic-coated support cable angled up to the electrical pole. There was a button on the traffic-light pole to push to cross the street. Across Wyoming was a parking lot, a nondescript white concrete block building, and a giant three-sided billboard on stilts--one side advertising the law firm of De Casterverde at (702) 222-9999; on it two men in dark gray suits smiled towards the traffic.
However, directly below the sign, literally tucked under its giant four-pillar scaffolding was a tiny bright colored food shack boasting in bold black letters the name Puerto Rico Express. The small structure was bright red at the base, just above the parking lot, above which it hovered slightly, sitting on unseen two-by-four skids. Above the red, the plywood sides were a bright Caribbean blue. Above that, a thin stainless steel counter, about nine inches deep, wrapped around three sides of the structure, creating a bar. On the side facing Las Vegas Boulevard were four bar stools, three of which were the same shape and height, all stainless steel. The left one, the odd one out, was wider, wood, and painted white. The almost unity--but not quite--added to the island feel of the food shack, intended or not.
Above the bar were two large plate-glass windows trimmed by red wavy molding. The one on the left facade had a neon Open sign in it and bright colored posters advertising the various dishes. Through the one facing Las Vegas Boulevard one could see stainless steel napkin holders, a salt and pepper shaker set and a small flat screen TV facing out towards the four empty bar stools.
The mind droplet noticed it was on. A speaker mounted to the plywood wall allowed the sound to come outside.
The mind droplet hovered right outside where nobody sat and observed the TV.
On the screen there was a woman in her late 40s or early 50s with short brown hair with a few random streaks of gray. Two men in suits stood behind her. At the bottom of the screen, across the left and center were bright red letters: BREAKING NEWS: TRUMP FIRES ACTING ATTORNEY GENERAL. On the right, it said MSNBC.
The screen changed, making a swooshing sound, and showed pictures of the supreme court as the audio continued... "hours from now Donald Trump will be announcing his selection for the Supreme Court, likely setting off an epic battle with senate democrats. The screen changed again and showed a computer generated museum-like setting showcasing large pictures from the upcoming stories in the broadcast. As the camera zoomed down the gallery hallway it came to rest on an image of a woman in her late forties or early fifties sporting blond hair with silver-frosted tips. She glanced to the right, to a red vertical graphic bar and the name ANDREA MITCHELL REPORTS in large blue letters.
The camera then zoomed in on a live, speaking Andrea Mitchell seated in front of an image of the white house. She appeared older than the still-shot Andrea Mitchell in the previous picture. Her eyes were deeper set, dark shadows angled over them, and the lines on her face and neck more pronounced. She wore a simple green dress and a big gold colored necklace. She said, "Good day everyone, I'm Andrea Mitchell in Washington. We are awaiting John Kelley's first press conference as Secretary of Homeland Security. The cloud of controversy surrounding Trump's travel ban and top cabinet secretaries, including Kelly, being kept out of the loop. Joining me now, NBC National Correspondent Peter Alexander at the White House. NBC Justice Correspondent Pete Williams in our news room".
There was a slight swoosh sound as the image changed to a split screen with Alexander on the left and Williams on the right.
"Peter, first to you. We have a situation where Steve Bannon and Steve Miller, the two top White House aids, along with other top aids, excluding the cabinet secretaries, as well as the state department, which is now without a leader--of course, Rex Tillerson not yet confirmed. What do we know about that, about how they're trying to fix the situation, and their very close connection with Attorney General Senator Sessions, who of course, is up for confirmation, and has been apparently working behind the scenes on all of this?
Peter Williams said, "Yeah, what's notable here is that we can report that house judiciary aids, not the actual bosses, not the members of the congress and house judiciary committee, but their aids, were party to this effort to draft an executive order that was announced, and is now controversial, not only because of the policy itself, but because the way it was communicated. There is reporting today that James Mattis of Defense, John Kelly of Homeland Security, and even Rex Tillerson had no idea this was coming, and certainly didn't know the details, only the wide concept until it was announced".
The screen showed a man with gray, receding hair and wearing a black suit while standing at a podium, next to two flags--one for the U.S. and one for the Department of Defense.
On the bottom of the screen it said, "BREAKING NEWS: HOMELAND SECRETARY SPEAKS ON TRUMP'S IMMIGRATION BAN." On the right bottom of the screen was another box that said, "Trump Supreme Court Pick Today" Next to it there was distinguished picture of the president.
The Homeland Security Secretary began to speak: "I would like to clarify what the most recent executive order does and does not mean. This is not a travel ban; this is a temporary pause that lets us review the refugee and vetting system. Over the next 30 days we will analyze and assess the strengths and weaknesses of our current immigration system, which is the most generous in the world. We will then provide our foreign partners sixty days to cooperate with our national security requirements. This way we can ensure that the system is doing what it is designed to do, which is protect the American people. This analysis is long overdue and strongly supported by the department's career officials".
As the mind-droplet continued to observe the TV, the woman wearing a black and white paisley-print blouse and very roomy white pants crossed Wyoming and headed towards the bright colored Puerto Rico Express. Perhaps she would stop, order, and have a seat under the shade of the scaffolding of the giant billboard advertising the law firm of De Casterverde at (702) 222-9999. More likely, she would pass on by. It was January, only 48 degrees. Shade and drink were not likely high priorities. Unless she came especially for the food at that particular stand, there would be no reason to stop.
Dino's Lounge was a more likely destination, not because of how the woman looked, but simply because it had four cars in front of it; Puerto Rico Express had none. Statistically speaking, more people in Las Vegas need a strong, dry drink at 10:00 a.m. than whatever flavors Puerto Rico Express serves up. A small Mexican man in a worn over-sized black suit with very baggy trouser legs walked up the street as well. One could not tell though if his destination was the bar or some place well beyond.
Millions--no billions--of people moved around the country and planet on January 31st, 2017, except, of course, those singled out by the travel ban.
The Vegas sun was very intense even in the dead of winter.
Thursday, July 26, 2018
2017: Six Doors In Texas
The future novelist Steve Brown dreamed of six doors in Texas. Why? He wasn't sure. But the locations were crystal clear. Sometimes that is all a writer cares about: a place, a slant of light, an anchor--something to hold on to, something to believe in while entering the incredibly white void of the page before him. It was a lonely, terrifying experience. Also thrilling. His spirit knew what he needed to write more than he did. Through this dream he had his doors. He would at least approach them.
1.
The first door stood on the chalky loose gravel trail 100 feet above the Rio Grande River, the heavy weight of the walls of Santa Elena Canyon towering over it, blocky and black-shadowed in the severe moonlight. It was early morning, Sunday, January 29, 2017. The door stood upright, partially open, right across the trail. It was an old door, once painted turquoise, but now weather-worn, mostly a smooth, soft gray with little chips of paint here and there hanging on for dear life. It almost looked purple in the moonlight. A stained green-purple-blue. It was much like the canyon walls--time had worn into its very fabric. Yet very distinct. A beautiful obstruction with an old antique glass handle. No wall was holding it up. Only the frame. It stood as an odd monument to stop the eye from following the chalky white path down into the awesome blackness of the canyon.
There it stood in the moonlight, a boulder and a yucca on its left and the slick silvery slip of the river below. On the right rock-ruble tumbled frozen in place (for now) down the hillside, an almost static slide of atrocity waiting to happen.
A bunny hopped across the trail under the immense silence, the universe poised for something bigger to happen.
2.
An iron door stood at the top of a dune at Monahans Sandhills under that same moonlight. It was rusted and had ship-weight. At eye level, there was small eight-inch window of heavy reinforced glass--something you might see on a prison office door. The door was fastened shut to the iron frame by a heavy chain. As the mind of the writer approached it, he saw the whole thing was anchored to a concrete slab by enormous iron bolts.
The dreaming writer wondered. Anyone could easily walk around the obstruction. The soft sands were rippled lavender-blue in the moonlight. They blew and shifted. There was no guarantee they would always support the awful weight of the door that loomed in the night.
Below the dune and the door was a tent at a campsite. The aluminum shade next to the tent felt like a feather to eye's mind compared to the door on the dune. On the road, next to it, sat a small hatchback car from the 80s. Beyond that, down the small, winding campground road were more picnic shades and a few scattered RV's. One had its interior lights on. You could hear an occasional semi pass on the four-lane. Everything would be peaceful and right if it were not for that door.
But the door remained.
3.
As Central Expressway hummed and rattled with early morning traffic before everything later slowed and clogged when the hot summer sun first pinked the horizon--before this, on a comparatively sleepy straight side street, a door stood in the middle of the road. The dreamer knew the road well. It was Polk Street. The door was polished steel and had big, glass theater light bulbs lining the art deco door frame. The door frame also had two speakers sticking out of the top corners like pig ears. The old type of speakers that look like megaphones. A David Bowie song played:
Transition, transmission
Transition, transmission
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
The theater lights streamed and blinked with the beat of the music. The cicadas in the big trees that lined the street seemed to join in. As did the horns on the cars that lined both sides of the lane. All the non-human world was singing in their own way:
Transition, transmission (beep-beep, um beep-beep)
Transition, transmission (beep-beep, um beep-beep)
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
The humans slept oblivious.
Transition, transmission (beep-beep, um beep-beep)
Transition, transmission (beep-beep, um beep-beep)
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
4.
A door stood on the beach at Sea Rim State Park south of Port Arthur, Texas. The moon was full, the wind oh so warm and sticky, and a line of tropical clouds hung on the horizon ignited by frequent flashes of lightening. Waves rolled in with some intensity, kicked up by the hot hurricane-like wind.
Intensity abounded in the air like electricity.
Fires in rusted oil drums along the beach glowed, circles of beach-party goers circling them, music coming from various audio devices.
Something sad and sulky seemed to lurk just below the sand.
The dreamer realized if the scene weren't from real life, it would be from a B-grade movie. There would soon be lots of screaming as something big, black and unmentionable crawled from the backwater slime unseen behind the beach revelers. There would be panic and running towards the sea.
But, as this was life and not a B-grade movie, the line of fires simply lined the beach mile after mile. The writer walked the beach listening to the laughter and joy--to the music--from a distance. He longed to join them. He wasn't sure it was even possible. He didn't know whether or not he had it in him. A younger version of himself would have pushed forward towards one of those little circles of humanity to find out. He would have been driven by the warm glow of the fire light licking the skin of women in bikinis. He would have wanted pictures. He would have used his camera as an excuse to join the fun. He would have posed as a photographer. He would have wanted alcohol to block out the awful shyness that always kept him at a distance. He would have joined and drank and woke up on the beach the next morning staring at the beak of a buzzard diving in and out of the open flesh of his belly. Yuck. What a terrible way to go down.
Older now, he appreciated the distance. At least a little. Enough to keep him trudging through the soft loose sands of the dunes between the beech and the backwaters. He knew somewhere along this beech there was a lone door standing. He'd seen it before. He just couldn't quite remember the location.
It was an old door, painted navy blue and wind-worn., paint chipped off and weathered wood showing through.
It faced the sea and under the moonlight it was quite beautiful.
He had been there before and seen it.
He had started writing a poem, listening to the constant drum of the sea.
But the distant fires and laughter called to him. He followed. He tried to fit in. The poem was lost but nothing gained.
Older now, he knew that poem had to be written. We are each here for a reason of our choosing but we don't know it. Our earthly yearnings are often but distractions.
He had been called away from that poem, his center.
There are doors one must enter.
5.
Although the fifth door was a bright yellow obstruction on a pathway in Big Thicket National Preserve at high noon, it might as well have been invisible for up a ways on the trail a woman wearing a white tank top and Daisy Dukes crouched down on the holding her dog. She had long, thick black hair and beautiful black almond shaped eyes. There was a dimpled smirk on her face. In front of her a tripod sat just off the path on the leaf-littered forest floor.
Slowly the dreamer noticed the door and the forest, but it took the determination of a writer to see the whole scene. All he really wanted to do was walk over and look down into those big dark eyes and kiss that little dimpled smirk.
But he knew that wasn't what he was there for. He had already dreamed four doors, so the bright, sunflower yellow metal door in the path must be a destination.
"Oh how I'd love to kiss you," he said, simply moving his thoughts from his head to his mouth.
She looked up, her smile widening. "What?"
"I'd love to kiss you, but I can't. It's not why I'm here."
"Really? Well, I'm not here for you either, you know."
"Yeah, I know."
"You do? How can you say that? You don't even know me."
"True, but we all have our own paths."
"I hope so. God knows I'm really searching. Houston is such a sprawling mess. Life just unravels there like a box of compacted springs."
"Yeah, I think it's like that anywhere. You seem pretty focused though for someone so young. Who's the picture for?"
She stood up, holding her dog. "Oh that," she said, pointing to the camera using her lips. (Yep, Native American, he thought.) "I'm working on a post for my blog."
"Oh really."
"Yeah, I'm hoping it leads to something."
"Most things don't, but you never know. Hey, good luck. I got to move on and see what this door is all about."
"Yeah, nice meeting you. You still want that kiss?"
"Oh yeah, but I better check out this door instead."
"Good luck. Some doors open. But not most."
"You can say that again. How did you get through?," he asked, pointing to the door blocking the path. It was clear the ground was permanently squishy on both sides.
"Oh, I just walked around. It's a bit boggy though. Watch for snakes. There's a lot of cotton mouths.
I had to put my walking stick through the head of one of them. The other I flung into the creek with my boot."
It was at that point he noticed her shiny high-topped black hiking boots. They looked so cute against her smooth bare legs.
"Maybe I could take that kiss after all."
She smiled again. "I don't think so. As you said, we each have our own path. You go that way," she said pointing to the door, "and I'll go mine."
And with that she was gone. Vanished.
The door now stood in all its manufactured glory.
A pure yellow form of perfect architecture.
The dreamer hated it, but the writer inside him knew he was there for a reason. A purpose that didn't involve the girl.
Damn.
6.
The sixth door was not really a door but rather the gate in the back hall of the writer's old junior high. That hall led in from the bus ramp. In the writer's dream, the gate hadn't changed. It was just your typical roll down, see-through metal gate, like you see at the malls when the stores are closed. The staff would keep that gate closed until they were ready to let the students in. They waited as long as they could and the dreaming writer didn't blame them.
Yet, strangely the writer wanted in. That had never been true as a kid. Auschwitz was a word that came to mind. His yearning to get past that gate was not too unlike a jew driven to see what happened inside a gas chamber. Overstated? Yes. And he didn't like that. One people's experience with near-genocide should never become easy metaphor to be used by the world for trifling comparisons. Yet Auschwitz was the only word that seemed to label the fear he felt as he stood there in the dream facing what had blotted out a good part of his life.
There was no question about what this door was about--an attempt at recovery. He stood there frozen, a tiger pacing back and fourth across the hall between the gate and himself. It was night. The school was empty. He found himself looking at the awful soda-cracker print tile floor oddly blue under the random florescent lights that remained illuminated for security.
All was silent except the breathing of the pacing
tiger.
That wasn't loud either.
Almost silent.
But not quite.
The writer realized he had the key to the gate in his hand. He was there for a reason.
Fear filled the hall like thick sticky gas. He didn't like the tiger. The eyes that eyed him. The random, pointed snarls jabbing him like the end of a guerrilla man's riffle waking someone up in the middle of the night. But it was not the tiger per se. It was not death per se. He couldn't name it per se. Other than by using the word that felt wrong: Auschwitz. That seemed just about right.
There was some part of him that had been extinguished long ago, and partially resurrected, he was here to pick up the ashes and try to see if he could glue himself back whole.
But how? Fear fingered his throat.
He realized the other five doors were nothing but distractions. They likely had no meaning. Just the dreamer's mind putting off this inevitable moment.
The tiger too was probably an illusion. An excuse. A zone of safety between him and the lock to that gate. But Auschwitz was real. Oh so real.
An awful crowded light angled down through hall thick and dusty from somewhere beyond the gate. He couldn't see its source, but the slowly drifting particles seemed like tiny skeletons randomly tumbling through the universe.
Perhaps this was a tiny bit of a taste of what Christ felt upon that cross. He knew that wasn't true. Hyperbole again. Images. Words. Distractions to avoid the reason he was here facing this gate.
Yet he could not move forward.
He was frozen in space.
Did stalactites and stalagmites dream of escape? Did they stand beneath the constant cold drip growing with each wet fear thinking I better move on before becoming further encased in my own sorry self?
With that thought, the writer woke up. He got out of bed, took a shower, went to his computer, and got to work. He wasn't quite sure how to go about it, but he knew there were doors to open. The blank white space of the Word document stood blankly before him. In his mind he saw one last door, a modernist door, pure minimalism. It stood at the end of a straight, narrow white marble path cantilevered out into the sky somewhere far above the earth--ethereal blue surrounding it. The door was pure white. There was no handle. If there was a space between the door and its frame, he couldn't perceive it. To get through, he would have to blow holes in it. Machine gun the hell out of it. With words. Whatever words came to mind. Until he could walk through.
1.
The first door stood on the chalky loose gravel trail 100 feet above the Rio Grande River, the heavy weight of the walls of Santa Elena Canyon towering over it, blocky and black-shadowed in the severe moonlight. It was early morning, Sunday, January 29, 2017. The door stood upright, partially open, right across the trail. It was an old door, once painted turquoise, but now weather-worn, mostly a smooth, soft gray with little chips of paint here and there hanging on for dear life. It almost looked purple in the moonlight. A stained green-purple-blue. It was much like the canyon walls--time had worn into its very fabric. Yet very distinct. A beautiful obstruction with an old antique glass handle. No wall was holding it up. Only the frame. It stood as an odd monument to stop the eye from following the chalky white path down into the awesome blackness of the canyon.
There it stood in the moonlight, a boulder and a yucca on its left and the slick silvery slip of the river below. On the right rock-ruble tumbled frozen in place (for now) down the hillside, an almost static slide of atrocity waiting to happen.
A bunny hopped across the trail under the immense silence, the universe poised for something bigger to happen.
2.
An iron door stood at the top of a dune at Monahans Sandhills under that same moonlight. It was rusted and had ship-weight. At eye level, there was small eight-inch window of heavy reinforced glass--something you might see on a prison office door. The door was fastened shut to the iron frame by a heavy chain. As the mind of the writer approached it, he saw the whole thing was anchored to a concrete slab by enormous iron bolts.
The dreaming writer wondered. Anyone could easily walk around the obstruction. The soft sands were rippled lavender-blue in the moonlight. They blew and shifted. There was no guarantee they would always support the awful weight of the door that loomed in the night.
Below the dune and the door was a tent at a campsite. The aluminum shade next to the tent felt like a feather to eye's mind compared to the door on the dune. On the road, next to it, sat a small hatchback car from the 80s. Beyond that, down the small, winding campground road were more picnic shades and a few scattered RV's. One had its interior lights on. You could hear an occasional semi pass on the four-lane. Everything would be peaceful and right if it were not for that door.
But the door remained.
3.
As Central Expressway hummed and rattled with early morning traffic before everything later slowed and clogged when the hot summer sun first pinked the horizon--before this, on a comparatively sleepy straight side street, a door stood in the middle of the road. The dreamer knew the road well. It was Polk Street. The door was polished steel and had big, glass theater light bulbs lining the art deco door frame. The door frame also had two speakers sticking out of the top corners like pig ears. The old type of speakers that look like megaphones. A David Bowie song played:
Transition, transmission
Transition, transmission
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
The theater lights streamed and blinked with the beat of the music. The cicadas in the big trees that lined the street seemed to join in. As did the horns on the cars that lined both sides of the lane. All the non-human world was singing in their own way:
Transition, transmission (beep-beep, um beep-beep)
Transition, transmission (beep-beep, um beep-beep)
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
The humans slept oblivious.
Transition, transmission (beep-beep, um beep-beep)
Transition, transmission (beep-beep, um beep-beep)
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
Oh my TVC 15, uh oh, TVC 15
A door stood on the beach at Sea Rim State Park south of Port Arthur, Texas. The moon was full, the wind oh so warm and sticky, and a line of tropical clouds hung on the horizon ignited by frequent flashes of lightening. Waves rolled in with some intensity, kicked up by the hot hurricane-like wind.
Intensity abounded in the air like electricity.
Fires in rusted oil drums along the beach glowed, circles of beach-party goers circling them, music coming from various audio devices.
Something sad and sulky seemed to lurk just below the sand.
The dreamer realized if the scene weren't from real life, it would be from a B-grade movie. There would soon be lots of screaming as something big, black and unmentionable crawled from the backwater slime unseen behind the beach revelers. There would be panic and running towards the sea.
But, as this was life and not a B-grade movie, the line of fires simply lined the beach mile after mile. The writer walked the beach listening to the laughter and joy--to the music--from a distance. He longed to join them. He wasn't sure it was even possible. He didn't know whether or not he had it in him. A younger version of himself would have pushed forward towards one of those little circles of humanity to find out. He would have been driven by the warm glow of the fire light licking the skin of women in bikinis. He would have wanted pictures. He would have used his camera as an excuse to join the fun. He would have posed as a photographer. He would have wanted alcohol to block out the awful shyness that always kept him at a distance. He would have joined and drank and woke up on the beach the next morning staring at the beak of a buzzard diving in and out of the open flesh of his belly. Yuck. What a terrible way to go down.
Older now, he appreciated the distance. At least a little. Enough to keep him trudging through the soft loose sands of the dunes between the beech and the backwaters. He knew somewhere along this beech there was a lone door standing. He'd seen it before. He just couldn't quite remember the location.
It was an old door, painted navy blue and wind-worn., paint chipped off and weathered wood showing through.
It faced the sea and under the moonlight it was quite beautiful.
He had been there before and seen it.
He had started writing a poem, listening to the constant drum of the sea.
But the distant fires and laughter called to him. He followed. He tried to fit in. The poem was lost but nothing gained.
Older now, he knew that poem had to be written. We are each here for a reason of our choosing but we don't know it. Our earthly yearnings are often but distractions.
He had been called away from that poem, his center.
There are doors one must enter.
5.
Although the fifth door was a bright yellow obstruction on a pathway in Big Thicket National Preserve at high noon, it might as well have been invisible for up a ways on the trail a woman wearing a white tank top and Daisy Dukes crouched down on the holding her dog. She had long, thick black hair and beautiful black almond shaped eyes. There was a dimpled smirk on her face. In front of her a tripod sat just off the path on the leaf-littered forest floor.
Slowly the dreamer noticed the door and the forest, but it took the determination of a writer to see the whole scene. All he really wanted to do was walk over and look down into those big dark eyes and kiss that little dimpled smirk.
But he knew that wasn't what he was there for. He had already dreamed four doors, so the bright, sunflower yellow metal door in the path must be a destination.
"Oh how I'd love to kiss you," he said, simply moving his thoughts from his head to his mouth.
She looked up, her smile widening. "What?"
"I'd love to kiss you, but I can't. It's not why I'm here."
"Really? Well, I'm not here for you either, you know."
"Yeah, I know."
"You do? How can you say that? You don't even know me."
"True, but we all have our own paths."
"I hope so. God knows I'm really searching. Houston is such a sprawling mess. Life just unravels there like a box of compacted springs."
"Yeah, I think it's like that anywhere. You seem pretty focused though for someone so young. Who's the picture for?"
She stood up, holding her dog. "Oh that," she said, pointing to the camera using her lips. (Yep, Native American, he thought.) "I'm working on a post for my blog."
"Oh really."
"Yeah, I'm hoping it leads to something."
"Most things don't, but you never know. Hey, good luck. I got to move on and see what this door is all about."
"Yeah, nice meeting you. You still want that kiss?"
"Oh yeah, but I better check out this door instead."
"Good luck. Some doors open. But not most."
"You can say that again. How did you get through?," he asked, pointing to the door blocking the path. It was clear the ground was permanently squishy on both sides.
"Oh, I just walked around. It's a bit boggy though. Watch for snakes. There's a lot of cotton mouths.
I had to put my walking stick through the head of one of them. The other I flung into the creek with my boot."
It was at that point he noticed her shiny high-topped black hiking boots. They looked so cute against her smooth bare legs.
"Maybe I could take that kiss after all."
She smiled again. "I don't think so. As you said, we each have our own path. You go that way," she said pointing to the door, "and I'll go mine."
And with that she was gone. Vanished.
The door now stood in all its manufactured glory.
A pure yellow form of perfect architecture.
The dreamer hated it, but the writer inside him knew he was there for a reason. A purpose that didn't involve the girl.
Damn.
6.
The sixth door was not really a door but rather the gate in the back hall of the writer's old junior high. That hall led in from the bus ramp. In the writer's dream, the gate hadn't changed. It was just your typical roll down, see-through metal gate, like you see at the malls when the stores are closed. The staff would keep that gate closed until they were ready to let the students in. They waited as long as they could and the dreaming writer didn't blame them.
Yet, strangely the writer wanted in. That had never been true as a kid. Auschwitz was a word that came to mind. His yearning to get past that gate was not too unlike a jew driven to see what happened inside a gas chamber. Overstated? Yes. And he didn't like that. One people's experience with near-genocide should never become easy metaphor to be used by the world for trifling comparisons. Yet Auschwitz was the only word that seemed to label the fear he felt as he stood there in the dream facing what had blotted out a good part of his life.
There was no question about what this door was about--an attempt at recovery. He stood there frozen, a tiger pacing back and fourth across the hall between the gate and himself. It was night. The school was empty. He found himself looking at the awful soda-cracker print tile floor oddly blue under the random florescent lights that remained illuminated for security.
All was silent except the breathing of the pacing
tiger.
That wasn't loud either.
Almost silent.
But not quite.
The writer realized he had the key to the gate in his hand. He was there for a reason.
Fear filled the hall like thick sticky gas. He didn't like the tiger. The eyes that eyed him. The random, pointed snarls jabbing him like the end of a guerrilla man's riffle waking someone up in the middle of the night. But it was not the tiger per se. It was not death per se. He couldn't name it per se. Other than by using the word that felt wrong: Auschwitz. That seemed just about right.
There was some part of him that had been extinguished long ago, and partially resurrected, he was here to pick up the ashes and try to see if he could glue himself back whole.
But how? Fear fingered his throat.
He realized the other five doors were nothing but distractions. They likely had no meaning. Just the dreamer's mind putting off this inevitable moment.
The tiger too was probably an illusion. An excuse. A zone of safety between him and the lock to that gate. But Auschwitz was real. Oh so real.
An awful crowded light angled down through hall thick and dusty from somewhere beyond the gate. He couldn't see its source, but the slowly drifting particles seemed like tiny skeletons randomly tumbling through the universe.
Perhaps this was a tiny bit of a taste of what Christ felt upon that cross. He knew that wasn't true. Hyperbole again. Images. Words. Distractions to avoid the reason he was here facing this gate.
Yet he could not move forward.
He was frozen in space.
Did stalactites and stalagmites dream of escape? Did they stand beneath the constant cold drip growing with each wet fear thinking I better move on before becoming further encased in my own sorry self?
With that thought, the writer woke up. He got out of bed, took a shower, went to his computer, and got to work. He wasn't quite sure how to go about it, but he knew there were doors to open. The blank white space of the Word document stood blankly before him. In his mind he saw one last door, a modernist door, pure minimalism. It stood at the end of a straight, narrow white marble path cantilevered out into the sky somewhere far above the earth--ethereal blue surrounding it. The door was pure white. There was no handle. If there was a space between the door and its frame, he couldn't perceive it. To get through, he would have to blow holes in it. Machine gun the hell out of it. With words. Whatever words came to mind. Until he could walk through.
Tuesday, June 5, 2018
2017: Laura Sanchez Sits in Traffic on Central Expressway
Laura Sanchez entered Central Expressway in the predawn pumped on world beats. It was her stand against the ethnocentric rise of the radical right across the globe. She knew it was absurdly ineffective: one woman in a car trying to change the world simply by what she listened to. It was ridiculous. And yet it still felt good--far better than listening to some Nazi-loving ethnocentric Hitler wanna-be from the Netherlands in a story on NPR or her own bigoted president here in the good ol' U.S.A. Not my president, she corrected herself. It was important to not accept an evil reality even if it was only a rejection of it through thought. Mind mattered. She believed that. There is an energy that we all send out, and I intend to send out a freaking wall of love against the hate.
The confluence of LBJ & Central was never pretty. Well, architecturally speaking, it was quite extraordinary. Laura was amazed each time she passed by or through it. Right now it towered and sprawled against the the blue-green sky as day slowly edged over the eastern horizon. Called the "High Five" for its five layers, the interchange included 43 bridges, the highest of which is twelve stories tall, which lay thinly across massive single-post supports that were made of precast concrete molded into art-deco designs with single stars at the capitals. The columns were painted terracotta and green and were quite striking. And according to her father, the new interchange definitely had improved traffic flow over the old partial clover leaf that predated it. Yet, two major freeways converging in a massive metropolitan area like Dallas was never a pretty thing, traffic-wise. As Coit entered Central a bit beyond the modern marvel, she jockeyed for position. She was pumped on her beats, crouched over her steering wheel, ready for the new day. This was her day. She was making a stand for all that was beautiful. Cultures and communities converging like the lanes of this interchange. Her play list contained music from South Africa, Morocco, Haiti, Thailand, even North Korea. Her generation was different. They didn't hate. They didn't isolate. They didn't ignore large overwhelming realities, such as global warming. If the world survived until they took over, maybe everything would be alright. She was certainly ready for the fight.
And then all the tail lights ahead of her shined that awful brighter red. She hit the brake slow and steady and watched the speedometer drop. It was stop and go, stop and go--well, almost. Just when traffic almost came to a stand-still, it would move slowly forward. She kept thinking, alright, here we go. But then nothing really happened. After a couple of miles, her speedometer actually hit zero. The freeway traffic had solidified, frozen in place like cooled lava. She sat there looking at the scattering of buildings at Royal Lane and Central in the early dawn.
There were two ugly low high-rise structures. Two squat examples of early 80s architecture--late modernism. The architects clearly were no longer committed to modern ideals, but also clearly not ready to adopt post-modernism. Functional and uncommitted these buildings were.
The structure to the south was the more tolerable of the two. Four stories tall, it sat perpendicular to the freeway and retained a few features of 1950s modernism: an asymmetrical design, ribbon windows, a cantilevered roof at the top, long horizontal runs of exposed concrete indicating where the floors were. A yellow brick veneer filled in between the concrete and the ribbon windows. It reminded Laura a little bit of Le Corbusier's long high-rises, like Unity d'Habitation, but with a lot fewer intricacies and details. The architect clearly knew the notes but was too lazy to play them.
The building to the north was pure ugly. 1980s cheep. It was basically four stacks of Villa Savoy piled three high to make a squat version of a cube. It was a white box with three rows of black ribbon windows. It was clear the walls were prefabricated and set in place by a crane. If there was an architect at all, he was as involved in his work as a bag boy at a grocery store. In life, the architect might have done better than landing a minimum wage job at the McDonald's drive-through, but his attitude didn't show it. He was probably boinking his secretary and driving home to some ugly suburban three-story French chateau wanna-be atrocity in Plano. That was clearly the kind of guy he was. No imagination. No zeal. Just going through the process of life, rather than living it. No integrity--that much was clear. No architect with a conscience could do that to the vocabulary of Le Corbusier and go on living.
These were Laura's thoughts as the traffic stood still.
The confluence of LBJ & Central was never pretty. Well, architecturally speaking, it was quite extraordinary. Laura was amazed each time she passed by or through it. Right now it towered and sprawled against the the blue-green sky as day slowly edged over the eastern horizon. Called the "High Five" for its five layers, the interchange included 43 bridges, the highest of which is twelve stories tall, which lay thinly across massive single-post supports that were made of precast concrete molded into art-deco designs with single stars at the capitals. The columns were painted terracotta and green and were quite striking. And according to her father, the new interchange definitely had improved traffic flow over the old partial clover leaf that predated it. Yet, two major freeways converging in a massive metropolitan area like Dallas was never a pretty thing, traffic-wise. As Coit entered Central a bit beyond the modern marvel, she jockeyed for position. She was pumped on her beats, crouched over her steering wheel, ready for the new day. This was her day. She was making a stand for all that was beautiful. Cultures and communities converging like the lanes of this interchange. Her play list contained music from South Africa, Morocco, Haiti, Thailand, even North Korea. Her generation was different. They didn't hate. They didn't isolate. They didn't ignore large overwhelming realities, such as global warming. If the world survived until they took over, maybe everything would be alright. She was certainly ready for the fight.
And then all the tail lights ahead of her shined that awful brighter red. She hit the brake slow and steady and watched the speedometer drop. It was stop and go, stop and go--well, almost. Just when traffic almost came to a stand-still, it would move slowly forward. She kept thinking, alright, here we go. But then nothing really happened. After a couple of miles, her speedometer actually hit zero. The freeway traffic had solidified, frozen in place like cooled lava. She sat there looking at the scattering of buildings at Royal Lane and Central in the early dawn.
There were two ugly low high-rise structures. Two squat examples of early 80s architecture--late modernism. The architects clearly were no longer committed to modern ideals, but also clearly not ready to adopt post-modernism. Functional and uncommitted these buildings were.
The structure to the south was the more tolerable of the two. Four stories tall, it sat perpendicular to the freeway and retained a few features of 1950s modernism: an asymmetrical design, ribbon windows, a cantilevered roof at the top, long horizontal runs of exposed concrete indicating where the floors were. A yellow brick veneer filled in between the concrete and the ribbon windows. It reminded Laura a little bit of Le Corbusier's long high-rises, like Unity d'Habitation, but with a lot fewer intricacies and details. The architect clearly knew the notes but was too lazy to play them.
The building to the north was pure ugly. 1980s cheep. It was basically four stacks of Villa Savoy piled three high to make a squat version of a cube. It was a white box with three rows of black ribbon windows. It was clear the walls were prefabricated and set in place by a crane. If there was an architect at all, he was as involved in his work as a bag boy at a grocery store. In life, the architect might have done better than landing a minimum wage job at the McDonald's drive-through, but his attitude didn't show it. He was probably boinking his secretary and driving home to some ugly suburban three-story French chateau wanna-be atrocity in Plano. That was clearly the kind of guy he was. No imagination. No zeal. Just going through the process of life, rather than living it. No integrity--that much was clear. No architect with a conscience could do that to the vocabulary of Le Corbusier and go on living.
These were Laura's thoughts as the traffic stood still.
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
Small Framed Kim Stands at the Kitchen Sink
January 24, 2017. Kim stood at the kitchen sink and stared at the street lights outside her second story apartment window in Barrow, Alaska. A slight sleet hit the window and bounced off with little pings. Her reflection blurred into the scene outside, which in turn was blurred by streams of water running down the inside of the window as inside air condensed against the cold glass. A large pick-up made its way west on Ahkovak Street. She could see the lights around Fred Ipalook Elementary School across the way through water beads. But mostly she saw her own reflection--a woman alone at a sink at the top of the world. Usually, that was a good thing. She liked Facebooking friends back home about her far-flung life. But right now it only depressed her. Here she was nearly thirty, alone, staring out a steamy window. She looked at the frozen bits of ice around the aluminum window frame--on the inside, not the outside! she thought. She had been proud of that. She had Facebooked photos of it. "It's so cold, I'm growing ice inside my apartment" she had proudly written when posting the close-ups of ice clinging to the edges of glass and aluminum. Now though, she wondered. She wondered about it all. Why was she here? What was the point? The world was sliding towards catastrophe and nobody seemed to give a damn. Just today, she thought, Trump issued several memos to hasten the work on the Dakota Access and Keystone XL pipelines. Perhaps it was that she couldn't share these thoughts. Almost everyone living on the North Slope, even the Natives, was connected to the mining or petroleum industries in some way. Barrow was not the place for a liberal environmentalist.
But it was more than that. Although what could be bigger than humanity racing towards destruction while the president of the second biggest contributor of greenhouse gasses worked diligently towards increasing emissions? Nothing was bigger than that. She knew it. It was her life's mission to counter that evil. And yet it seemed like there must be more. More than standing alone a kitchen sink at the top of the world watching little sparks of ice wander out of the night and slam their little frozen bodies against the glass pane.
Without a conscious thought about it, she shut down her mind and pulled the drain on the rinse water in the right sink. She watched it swirl-out with a sucking sound. Then she walked over to the cabinet by the fridge and grabbed a $9 can of pork and beans.
But it was more than that. Although what could be bigger than humanity racing towards destruction while the president of the second biggest contributor of greenhouse gasses worked diligently towards increasing emissions? Nothing was bigger than that. She knew it. It was her life's mission to counter that evil. And yet it seemed like there must be more. More than standing alone a kitchen sink at the top of the world watching little sparks of ice wander out of the night and slam their little frozen bodies against the glass pane.
Without a conscious thought about it, she shut down her mind and pulled the drain on the rinse water in the right sink. She watched it swirl-out with a sucking sound. Then she walked over to the cabinet by the fridge and grabbed a $9 can of pork and beans.
Saturday, May 5, 2018
Ed Owens Thinks of Florida
Ely, Nevada; January 21, 2017.
"Together, we'll make America great again," Ed Owens said the night before. He had been sitting at the bar counter of the Jailhouse Lounge, watching the inauguration with a couple of friends. When he woke up he wasn't so sure of things. He wasn't so sure of anything in the mornings, especially winter mornings. He hated waking up to a cold house and the heavy smell of coal. His house was an old house, a small house, along the railroad tracks. It had no central heating. He could have fixed that. He could fix anything. Except, perhaps his life. Nothing was quite the same since Mildred had died. There was no reason to install a furnace since then. He had his routine. His quiet places outside the house. This place was simply a place to drop his head at night. But he should have fixed the furnace for Mildred. He couldn't imagine why he hadn't. That had been thoughtless. Now it was payback time. Karma was kicking butt as some new age hippie would put it. He looked around the room in the gray dawn from beneath the dingy pink quilt that Mildred had made long ago. Why he was awake, he didn't know. There was the cold and the heavy smell of coal.
He returned home from the Jailhouse Casino late. He had convinced Dora, the bar tender, to join in and have a drink while she was on the job. There was just the four of them--Jack Peters, Bill Mitchell, Dora and he--but they'd had a good time celebrating a new America. Too good of a time. His head hurt. His bones ached, and because of that damn coal stove, his lungs hurt too. He coughed in the early morning light.
Outside it was 10 degrees. A thin smokey fog settled in the black rock neck of the canyon on Ely's west side. The top of the five story historic Hotel Nevada poked above it. The lights from the giant miner on the Nevada Club lit up the dry fog as did the much brighter blue and pink neon from the Jailhouse Casino across the street. The streetlights were still on and lit up the all but empty Highway 50. A few stars could still be seen in the west. Looking east, a white light slowly spread above the Shell Creek Range. Beyond that was Spring Valley, the Snake Range, the Snake Valley, the Confusion Range, the House Range, the Pahvaunt Valley--187 miles to 1-15 in Utah, 187 miles of near nothingness. If you were to go west, towards Fallen, it was even further, 257 miles of emptiness on this, the "loneliest highway in America".
Of course, just because it was the official loneliest highway in America didn't make it so. There are no absolutes. There were lonelier highways. There were more remote places. Colder places. The wilds of Alaska. Antarctica. The moon. And Pluto.
But that January morning, lying in bed with a hang-over, under a smoky decaying pink quilt created by his dead wife years ago, Ed Owens felt Ely, Nevada was cold enough and remote enough for anybody, even a recluse, western, old-time miner like himself.
He had a son in Florida. It was a thought.
"Together, we'll make America great again," Ed Owens said the night before. He had been sitting at the bar counter of the Jailhouse Lounge, watching the inauguration with a couple of friends. When he woke up he wasn't so sure of things. He wasn't so sure of anything in the mornings, especially winter mornings. He hated waking up to a cold house and the heavy smell of coal. His house was an old house, a small house, along the railroad tracks. It had no central heating. He could have fixed that. He could fix anything. Except, perhaps his life. Nothing was quite the same since Mildred had died. There was no reason to install a furnace since then. He had his routine. His quiet places outside the house. This place was simply a place to drop his head at night. But he should have fixed the furnace for Mildred. He couldn't imagine why he hadn't. That had been thoughtless. Now it was payback time. Karma was kicking butt as some new age hippie would put it. He looked around the room in the gray dawn from beneath the dingy pink quilt that Mildred had made long ago. Why he was awake, he didn't know. There was the cold and the heavy smell of coal.
He returned home from the Jailhouse Casino late. He had convinced Dora, the bar tender, to join in and have a drink while she was on the job. There was just the four of them--Jack Peters, Bill Mitchell, Dora and he--but they'd had a good time celebrating a new America. Too good of a time. His head hurt. His bones ached, and because of that damn coal stove, his lungs hurt too. He coughed in the early morning light.
Outside it was 10 degrees. A thin smokey fog settled in the black rock neck of the canyon on Ely's west side. The top of the five story historic Hotel Nevada poked above it. The lights from the giant miner on the Nevada Club lit up the dry fog as did the much brighter blue and pink neon from the Jailhouse Casino across the street. The streetlights were still on and lit up the all but empty Highway 50. A few stars could still be seen in the west. Looking east, a white light slowly spread above the Shell Creek Range. Beyond that was Spring Valley, the Snake Range, the Snake Valley, the Confusion Range, the House Range, the Pahvaunt Valley--187 miles to 1-15 in Utah, 187 miles of near nothingness. If you were to go west, towards Fallen, it was even further, 257 miles of emptiness on this, the "loneliest highway in America".
Of course, just because it was the official loneliest highway in America didn't make it so. There are no absolutes. There were lonelier highways. There were more remote places. Colder places. The wilds of Alaska. Antarctica. The moon. And Pluto.
But that January morning, lying in bed with a hang-over, under a smoky decaying pink quilt created by his dead wife years ago, Ed Owens felt Ely, Nevada was cold enough and remote enough for anybody, even a recluse, western, old-time miner like himself.
He had a son in Florida. It was a thought.
Wednesday, May 2, 2018
2017: Natasha Babbitt Turns on the Lamp to Confirm What She Thought She Saw in the Murky Light
Dear. I'm dead. I should have listened to you. It is dangerous to suck on Halls Cool Berry Breezers in bed after all. Who would have thought? They're small, slippery and melt; you'd think they'd be safe. Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't listen. I didn't fall asleep though. I was sitting up, like you always told me. Anyway, it's not my time yet. Wake up, you have to save me.
So ended the dream of Natasha Babbitt at 5:42 a.m., January 6, 2017. Her eyes shot open. The blurry bedroom came into focus. She saw what she knew was her bright green sweater dangling over the edge of her dresser. That bothered her. She should have folded it up and put it away. She started to think about how bold it was of her to wear spring colors in the dead of winter, when "Wake up, you have to save me," repeated in her brain. She had a brief war with the heavy winter comforter, flipped over, and found Bruce in the gray dawn, laying lifeless beside her, a stream of drool flowing out of the open breathless cave of his mouth and pooling on the pillow beside her.
She reached over him and turned on the lamp to confirm what she thought she saw in the murky light.
She screamed the confirmation.
So ended the dream of Natasha Babbitt at 5:42 a.m., January 6, 2017. Her eyes shot open. The blurry bedroom came into focus. She saw what she knew was her bright green sweater dangling over the edge of her dresser. That bothered her. She should have folded it up and put it away. She started to think about how bold it was of her to wear spring colors in the dead of winter, when "Wake up, you have to save me," repeated in her brain. She had a brief war with the heavy winter comforter, flipped over, and found Bruce in the gray dawn, laying lifeless beside her, a stream of drool flowing out of the open breathless cave of his mouth and pooling on the pillow beside her.
She reached over him and turned on the lamp to confirm what she thought she saw in the murky light.
She screamed the confirmation.
Monday, April 30, 2018
2017: Bruce R. Babbitt Hears Himself Sing for the First Time
At 5:41 a.m. on January 6, 2017 Bruce R. Babbitt floated out of this life and into the next. After looking down on his corpse for a while from near the ceiling, disgusted that he'd drooled all over his pillow case, he felt himself slip through the ceiling boards and enter an intense light.
There was simply no way to describe the light other than as pure love. Intense joy surrounded him, a light that permeated every molecule of his mind, a white so vibrant it should have incinerated him. He thought I should be ash. But he wasn't. He was sure of that. He still had his form. He studied his fingers, little sausages of light. All was light. All was knowledge. He wondered how there could be so much light and no glare. It was hard to explain, but the white was goodness. As he was verbalizing this, or rather thinking it, there was no difference, a man walked towards him from a great distance; on earth it would have been perhaps a block away. He was on the other side of an iron gate. There was a fence too, also iron. On the man's side of the fence was a garden. Even from that distance, Bruce could perceive the intense colors. Light flicked and flaked, darting this way and that way like water droplets in sunlight hitting a hot tin roof.
Oh the joy he felt. He wanted to sing. He did sing. And he could sing. That amazed him. Natasha, his wife, would be so proud. He wanted her to hear him. On earth he couldn't sing. Sitting near him at church must have been very hard on Natasha. He felt bad for her. All those years listening to a man who couldn't sing pour his soul out in song each Sunday. As he thought this, he was back in the chapel at his old ward house in Provo, Utah. He was sitting next to Natasha. She wore her elegant blue dress with white birds and white irises on it. The congregation was singing "If You Could Hei to Kolob," his favorite hymn, and he heard for the first time him singing through the ears of Natasha. They were on the third verse--
The works of God continue,
And worlds and lives abound;
Improvement and progression
Have one eternal round.
There is no end to matter;
There is no end to space;
There is no end to spirit;
There is no end to race.
--and his voice definitely was not pretty when he hit the high note on "spirit." He knew the song only intensified as it progressed, and he winced as he imagined what he would sound like in the fifth verse when he hit the high note on "being":
There is no end to glory;
There is no end to love;
There is no end to being;
There is no death above.
He felt himself as Natasha anticipating that moment; she wanted to slouch down on the bench, dreading the note's arrival.
As Bruce was experiencing this earthly moment, he felt a warm, fatherly embrace of his hand. He looked up and saw the man who had been at the iron gate. He realized it was Natasha's father, Wayne, who had died in August. Wayne laughed. "She needs to work on that."
"Work on what?"
"Not caring so much what others think. Embarrassment keeps her from fully experiencing love. Go ahead though. Follow this memory through."
As Bruce did this, he came to the moment where he actually tortured that note on "being," and he felt Natasha giggle inside. It was not a laugh of ridicule, but a chuckle of acceptance. This was the man she loved even if his singing made her want to crawl under the bench and hide. He also noticed others around her were giggling inside too. There was one little honest girl behind them, the Jones's girl, who was more blunt. The thought in her head was, "Oh somebody kill him now, please." That made Bruce laugh, and all of the sudden, it didn't matter whether he could sing back on earth or not.
He could sing now--really sing. But he didn't care about that either. What he cared about was the light and the love. He had no words to describe the joy he felt inside.
Perceiving his thought, Wayne said, "It feels good, doesn't it?"
"It does. Very good. But will Natasha be alright?"
There was simply no way to describe the light other than as pure love. Intense joy surrounded him, a light that permeated every molecule of his mind, a white so vibrant it should have incinerated him. He thought I should be ash. But he wasn't. He was sure of that. He still had his form. He studied his fingers, little sausages of light. All was light. All was knowledge. He wondered how there could be so much light and no glare. It was hard to explain, but the white was goodness. As he was verbalizing this, or rather thinking it, there was no difference, a man walked towards him from a great distance; on earth it would have been perhaps a block away. He was on the other side of an iron gate. There was a fence too, also iron. On the man's side of the fence was a garden. Even from that distance, Bruce could perceive the intense colors. Light flicked and flaked, darting this way and that way like water droplets in sunlight hitting a hot tin roof.
Oh the joy he felt. He wanted to sing. He did sing. And he could sing. That amazed him. Natasha, his wife, would be so proud. He wanted her to hear him. On earth he couldn't sing. Sitting near him at church must have been very hard on Natasha. He felt bad for her. All those years listening to a man who couldn't sing pour his soul out in song each Sunday. As he thought this, he was back in the chapel at his old ward house in Provo, Utah. He was sitting next to Natasha. She wore her elegant blue dress with white birds and white irises on it. The congregation was singing "If You Could Hei to Kolob," his favorite hymn, and he heard for the first time him singing through the ears of Natasha. They were on the third verse--
The works of God continue,
And worlds and lives abound;
Improvement and progression
Have one eternal round.
There is no end to matter;
There is no end to space;
There is no end to spirit;
There is no end to race.
--and his voice definitely was not pretty when he hit the high note on "spirit." He knew the song only intensified as it progressed, and he winced as he imagined what he would sound like in the fifth verse when he hit the high note on "being":
There is no end to glory;
There is no end to love;
There is no end to being;
There is no death above.
He felt himself as Natasha anticipating that moment; she wanted to slouch down on the bench, dreading the note's arrival.
As Bruce was experiencing this earthly moment, he felt a warm, fatherly embrace of his hand. He looked up and saw the man who had been at the iron gate. He realized it was Natasha's father, Wayne, who had died in August. Wayne laughed. "She needs to work on that."
"Work on what?"
"Not caring so much what others think. Embarrassment keeps her from fully experiencing love. Go ahead though. Follow this memory through."
As Bruce did this, he came to the moment where he actually tortured that note on "being," and he felt Natasha giggle inside. It was not a laugh of ridicule, but a chuckle of acceptance. This was the man she loved even if his singing made her want to crawl under the bench and hide. He also noticed others around her were giggling inside too. There was one little honest girl behind them, the Jones's girl, who was more blunt. The thought in her head was, "Oh somebody kill him now, please." That made Bruce laugh, and all of the sudden, it didn't matter whether he could sing back on earth or not.
He could sing now--really sing. But he didn't care about that either. What he cared about was the light and the love. He had no words to describe the joy he felt inside.
Perceiving his thought, Wayne said, "It feels good, doesn't it?"
"It does. Very good. But will Natasha be alright?"
Saturday, April 21, 2018
2017: Nora James Closes the Door to Her Room at the El Rancho Hotel in Gallup, New Mexico
December 31, 2016. Nora James closed the door to her room at the El Rancho Hotel in Gallup, New Mexico, looking down at her pink Nikes against the dark, scuffed hardwood floors. She had thought about getting dressed up as it was New Year's Eve. But, she didn't know where she wanted to go. She was alone and had no plans other than to walk down 66 in the light winter rain and stop in at random bars. Still, for a brief moment, she pictured her cherry red pumps against that historic wood floor. This place had once been the stomping grounds of movie stars. Even though she was a mixed martial arts fighter, and had been the UFC's Flightweight Champion before giving it all up to be a pollster, she still liked to look dazzling once in a while. But, she didn't like senseless pain. A fist against the head in the thrill of the fight was one thing, but aching feet just to turn men's heads, well that was just stupid. Still, she looked down at her feet. Those heals would have allowed her to wear that little red dress, which she had brought along, just in case. Instead, she wore Levis, a white v-neck t-shirt that said WTF: Where There's Frybread, and a black leather jacket.
As she was standing there looking at her feet, she heard a nearby door open and looked up. She couldn't believe it. A man who looked just like Paul McCartney was half in the room next door and half out into the hall. He smiled. He was elderly, but then Paul McCartney was elderly too. Sadly, his face seemed like either Spanish moss or a slow-moving glacier decidedly determined to reach lower ground. But his hair was still long and thick, and he had those unmistakable McCartney eyes and eyebrows that were Walmart smiles turned upside-down. He wore a black leather jacket, a white t-shirt and jeans. It couldn't be.
She laughed when she realized they matched.
"What," he said with a British accent.
Maybe all Brits just look alike, she thought, realizing he couldn't really be McCartney. She pointed to his jacket. "I guess everyone who comes here dresses the same."
"Hey, we match."
She smiled. "We do."
"Except," he noted, "I could be your granddad."
"A pretty stylish one at that." She said.
"Thanks love."
Oh that sounded so Beatle-ish. But it couldn't be. Should she? Why not? "You look oddly familiar," she continued. "Do I know you from somewhere."
"I get that a lot."
"You do. You look just like--"
"Shhh. Don't let it get out."
"You aren't though, right?"
"You mean one of those four lads from Liverpool?"
She laughed, covering her mouth, and looking down at the floor in mock embarrassment. She looked up, her dark brown eyes catching the light. "Yes, one of them."
"Now what would Sir Paul McCartney be doing all alone in Gallup, New Mexico on New Year's Eve?"
Now she really was embarrassed. "You're right. It's just that you--" She needed to save herself. She pointed to all the signed pictures of old movie stars on the wall. "This is the home away from home for the stars, you know."
"Or was," he said, smiling. "It's no longer the 50s."
"Yes, I guess you're right," she said, clearly let down.
"But hey," he said, "I would be glad to pretend to be him. It's not like I haven't done it before."
Now she was worried. It was not like her to just hang out with strangers. She might be the former UFC's Flightweight Champion, but she wasn't stupid. Even a girl like her could get herself into a dangerous situation.
The Sir Paul McCartney look-alike seemed to sense her reluctance. "Sorry, love," he said. "No big deal. I just thought, since, as you pointed out, we match, we might hit a pub or two together."
"Yeah, I don't think so. It's just that I don't know you."
"What if you do. Or at least know of me."
She gave a nervous glance. "Are you saying that you really are--"
He reached in his back pocket, pulled out a black wallet.
"How would that change anything?" She said before he got a chance to flip it open. "I'm not some groupie you can bed for the night."
He put his wallet back. "Of course not. Have a good night." He walked off, clearly hurt by her assumption.
She stood there for a moment, watching his backside as he entered the balcony area surrounding the large two-story great room that was the lobby. The overhead lights caught the hair on the top of his head. It's New Year's Eve and I might be passing up a night out on the town with Sir Paul McCartney. Now that's just stupid, isn't it?
She quickly ran after him and grabbed his arm.
He stopped. "Yes."
"I guess I'd be a fool to pass this up, if you really are him."
"I know about them."
"Who?" She was taken back. Who was 'them'?
"About fools. They live on hills. You don't happen to live on a hill do you?"
She laughed. "I do."
"Oh yeah, where at?"
"In a place called Wheatfields. It's not too far from here. I just come here to get away from my family and focus on my work."
Now they were standing on the balcony, holding on to the large log rail, looking down one of the staircases that curved down around the massive stone fireplace in the center of the great room.
"You're married?"
"No, not that family. My parents. My siblings. My cousins. I'm Navajo. There is no end to family. Everywhere I turn, I have a relation."
"Sounds like mine."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Once Linda, I and the band were performing in Liverpool, and this heckler in the crowd kept insulting her. Finally, I just stopped the show, you know, to deal with the bastard. Sometime later, I'm at a family event and this skinny lad comes up to me. Some relative of mine, and he says, 'You remember the time you stopped the show cause some arse was insulting Linda?' I said yes, and he said, 'Well, that was me!' Then he broke into laughter. 'Got you good, didn't I?'"
"You know, you play this whole McCartney character rather well," Nora said, smiling. "That's a great story. You almost convinced me."
"I do, do I? Sometimes I can almost convince myself. When I step away from it all. That's why I like it here. I still get recognized. But it's not the same. I have a ranch not too far from here."
Nora glanced over the lobby below--the dark red tile floors, the log furniture with deep red cushions, the Navajo print rugs. She often came here with her grandpa as a kid.
"Why do you come here, if you have a ranch?" She thought she'd trapped him. She didn't mind the act. She was sure he enjoyed it. It's just that she was beginning to like this old man, and wanted to find out who he really was.
"I just like New Mexico. I thought I'd go on a bit of a walk-about?"
"And you're not with anybody?"
"Nope. Should I just show you my licence? It would end all this guessing."
Nora thought about it, chewing lightly on her lower lip. "No, I think I'd like it better telling the story of how I might have spent New Year's Eve on the town with Sir Paul McCartney. Something is lost in the knowing."
He smiled and put his arm around her shoulder, still looking down on the lobby. "Alright then. Where should we go first? Your car or mine?"
For a second the arm-around-the-shoulder move irritated her, but as he kept it there, she realized it didn't seem sexual in any way.
"Have I been presumptuous?" he asked, noticing the pause.
She had to think about that one. If he really was Paul McCartney and he really had a ranch in New Mexico, the car really would be his. What better way to find out if he was authentic? But, she could just have him flash his I.D. for that. Why didn't she just do that. Because, she thought, it shouldn't matter. She was only slightly famous, but she was famous enough to know how it felt when people only want to be around you because of your name.
"Let's walk," she said. "I like the rain."
He sang, oh so naturally, in Paul's voice,
You've never felt the rain my friend,
until you've felt it running down your back.
Maybe it was him after all.
"'Mamunia' from Band on the Run."
"Yep, Love. I thought you'd be too young."
My Grandpa is a fan," she said simply.
Maybe he was McCartney after all. Oh the story she would have to tell. She didn't want to tell it though. She didn't want to be like everyone from Lukachukai to Wheatfields who treated her so differently since she'd become somewhat of a celebrity, something she admittedly exploited in her polling business. At least now she understood it. The elderly gentleman clearly was charming, but he was far more charming as Paul McCartney. Like it or not, she thought, fame matters.
Nora James laughed out loud, realizing she'd given up what little fame she had to take polls for a living.
"What?" said the man who might be McCartney.
"Oh nothing. I just realized I am that fool"
"The one on the hill?"
"Yep. That'd be me. A fool on a hill in Wheatfields, Arizona."
As she was standing there looking at her feet, she heard a nearby door open and looked up. She couldn't believe it. A man who looked just like Paul McCartney was half in the room next door and half out into the hall. He smiled. He was elderly, but then Paul McCartney was elderly too. Sadly, his face seemed like either Spanish moss or a slow-moving glacier decidedly determined to reach lower ground. But his hair was still long and thick, and he had those unmistakable McCartney eyes and eyebrows that were Walmart smiles turned upside-down. He wore a black leather jacket, a white t-shirt and jeans. It couldn't be.
She laughed when she realized they matched.
"What," he said with a British accent.
Maybe all Brits just look alike, she thought, realizing he couldn't really be McCartney. She pointed to his jacket. "I guess everyone who comes here dresses the same."
"Hey, we match."
She smiled. "We do."
"Except," he noted, "I could be your granddad."
"A pretty stylish one at that." She said.
"Thanks love."
Oh that sounded so Beatle-ish. But it couldn't be. Should she? Why not? "You look oddly familiar," she continued. "Do I know you from somewhere."
"I get that a lot."
"You do. You look just like--"
"Shhh. Don't let it get out."
"You aren't though, right?"
"You mean one of those four lads from Liverpool?"
She laughed, covering her mouth, and looking down at the floor in mock embarrassment. She looked up, her dark brown eyes catching the light. "Yes, one of them."
"Now what would Sir Paul McCartney be doing all alone in Gallup, New Mexico on New Year's Eve?"
Now she really was embarrassed. "You're right. It's just that you--" She needed to save herself. She pointed to all the signed pictures of old movie stars on the wall. "This is the home away from home for the stars, you know."
"Or was," he said, smiling. "It's no longer the 50s."
"Yes, I guess you're right," she said, clearly let down.
"But hey," he said, "I would be glad to pretend to be him. It's not like I haven't done it before."
Now she was worried. It was not like her to just hang out with strangers. She might be the former UFC's Flightweight Champion, but she wasn't stupid. Even a girl like her could get herself into a dangerous situation.
The Sir Paul McCartney look-alike seemed to sense her reluctance. "Sorry, love," he said. "No big deal. I just thought, since, as you pointed out, we match, we might hit a pub or two together."
"Yeah, I don't think so. It's just that I don't know you."
"What if you do. Or at least know of me."
She gave a nervous glance. "Are you saying that you really are--"
He reached in his back pocket, pulled out a black wallet.
"How would that change anything?" She said before he got a chance to flip it open. "I'm not some groupie you can bed for the night."
He put his wallet back. "Of course not. Have a good night." He walked off, clearly hurt by her assumption.
She stood there for a moment, watching his backside as he entered the balcony area surrounding the large two-story great room that was the lobby. The overhead lights caught the hair on the top of his head. It's New Year's Eve and I might be passing up a night out on the town with Sir Paul McCartney. Now that's just stupid, isn't it?
She quickly ran after him and grabbed his arm.
He stopped. "Yes."
"I guess I'd be a fool to pass this up, if you really are him."
"I know about them."
"Who?" She was taken back. Who was 'them'?
"About fools. They live on hills. You don't happen to live on a hill do you?"
She laughed. "I do."
"Oh yeah, where at?"
"In a place called Wheatfields. It's not too far from here. I just come here to get away from my family and focus on my work."
Now they were standing on the balcony, holding on to the large log rail, looking down one of the staircases that curved down around the massive stone fireplace in the center of the great room.
"You're married?"
"No, not that family. My parents. My siblings. My cousins. I'm Navajo. There is no end to family. Everywhere I turn, I have a relation."
"Sounds like mine."
"Really?"
"Yeah. Once Linda, I and the band were performing in Liverpool, and this heckler in the crowd kept insulting her. Finally, I just stopped the show, you know, to deal with the bastard. Sometime later, I'm at a family event and this skinny lad comes up to me. Some relative of mine, and he says, 'You remember the time you stopped the show cause some arse was insulting Linda?' I said yes, and he said, 'Well, that was me!' Then he broke into laughter. 'Got you good, didn't I?'"
"You know, you play this whole McCartney character rather well," Nora said, smiling. "That's a great story. You almost convinced me."
"I do, do I? Sometimes I can almost convince myself. When I step away from it all. That's why I like it here. I still get recognized. But it's not the same. I have a ranch not too far from here."
Nora glanced over the lobby below--the dark red tile floors, the log furniture with deep red cushions, the Navajo print rugs. She often came here with her grandpa as a kid.
"Why do you come here, if you have a ranch?" She thought she'd trapped him. She didn't mind the act. She was sure he enjoyed it. It's just that she was beginning to like this old man, and wanted to find out who he really was.
"I just like New Mexico. I thought I'd go on a bit of a walk-about?"
"And you're not with anybody?"
"Nope. Should I just show you my licence? It would end all this guessing."
Nora thought about it, chewing lightly on her lower lip. "No, I think I'd like it better telling the story of how I might have spent New Year's Eve on the town with Sir Paul McCartney. Something is lost in the knowing."
He smiled and put his arm around her shoulder, still looking down on the lobby. "Alright then. Where should we go first? Your car or mine?"
For a second the arm-around-the-shoulder move irritated her, but as he kept it there, she realized it didn't seem sexual in any way.
"Have I been presumptuous?" he asked, noticing the pause.
She had to think about that one. If he really was Paul McCartney and he really had a ranch in New Mexico, the car really would be his. What better way to find out if he was authentic? But, she could just have him flash his I.D. for that. Why didn't she just do that. Because, she thought, it shouldn't matter. She was only slightly famous, but she was famous enough to know how it felt when people only want to be around you because of your name.
"Let's walk," she said. "I like the rain."
He sang, oh so naturally, in Paul's voice,
You've never felt the rain my friend,
until you've felt it running down your back.
Maybe it was him after all.
"'Mamunia' from Band on the Run."
"Yep, Love. I thought you'd be too young."
My Grandpa is a fan," she said simply.
Maybe he was McCartney after all. Oh the story she would have to tell. She didn't want to tell it though. She didn't want to be like everyone from Lukachukai to Wheatfields who treated her so differently since she'd become somewhat of a celebrity, something she admittedly exploited in her polling business. At least now she understood it. The elderly gentleman clearly was charming, but he was far more charming as Paul McCartney. Like it or not, she thought, fame matters.
Nora James laughed out loud, realizing she'd given up what little fame she had to take polls for a living.
"What?" said the man who might be McCartney.
"Oh nothing. I just realized I am that fool"
"The one on the hill?"
"Yep. That'd be me. A fool on a hill in Wheatfields, Arizona."
Saturday, April 14, 2018
2017: One TV
January 31, 2017, 8:00 a.m.
It was a cold bright morning. A long shadow was cast across the eastern third of the Snake Valley by the low but geologically twisted and tormented Confusion Range. The shade stretched down the long dry alluvial fan, and a thin strip of highway followed it in a strait line. About two thirds of the way down, the cool blue-gray ended in a jagged edge roughly perpendicular to the highway. Then, the extremely dry valley glowed ocher orange. To the west the snow clad towering peaks of Wheeler and Moriah glistened in the morning sun.
A small motel sat equally bright in the intense light towards the western edge of the valley. Out front a towering sign announced Border Inn / Motel / Slots / Cafe. A rusted, yellow Ford F-100 sat next to one of the two well-sized globular Utah Juniper's at the entrance. Long shadows were caste across the gravel parking area by the aluminum canopy over the service station pumps. Not far from the pumps sat an enormous replica of a water bucket with a sign that read "Don't Let Las Vegas Destroy Nevada. Keep Your Pipes Out of Our Aquifer".
Inside the casino was mostly quiet and dark. There was the usual random low sounds of the slots enticing players to pull the handle. On a flat screen TV mounted on the wall behind the bar, Fox News played. A white light poured in through the entry from the kitchen, and a Miller Lite sign glowed in neon blue and pink above the doorway. A collection of liquor bottles sat on a counter directly below the TV.
A man in a black Stetson hat sat at the bar facing the TV. Behind him, slightly above the height of his head, a mind-droplet floated, pearly, bean-shaped, unseen, the size of a speck of dust, recording the scene for nobody--a satellite of communication communicating nothing. There were billions of these information-filled micro-drops of dew just floating around waiting for some mind to connect with them. This one observed a TV set in a small, all-but-empty casino on the loneliest road in America.
On the screen was a picture of the white house at night from the ground looking up, the extreme 3-D perspective enhancing its stateliness. The Fox & Friends logo was also in 3-D, getting larger as it came towards the viewer. The entire picture projected on a screen in the studio faded out around the edges, giving it the quality of a historic photograph, except that it was in shades of blue rather than sepia-tone. A man with blond hair stood at the side of the projected scene wearing a blue suit and a pink tie.
He said, "Thank you Brian, the president's border order spurs outrage from the emotional left."
Bold letters zoomed in from the bottom left with a swooshing sound:
NOT BACKING DOWN
WH VOWS TO ENFORCE RULE, DESPITE JUDGE RULING
A man appeared on the screen, reading a statement:
"This executive order was mean spirited and unconstitutional."
On the bottom of the screen, same bold print:
SEN CHUCK SCHUMER (D-NY)
SENATE MINORITY LEADER
The screen split into three and each screen showed the same woman from a different angle holding a megaphone. Two of the views were blurred, like the shot of the woman walking by the wall on the Abbey Road album cover. Through the blurred shots, one woman with a megaphone took on the ominous power of a riot.
Riot woman said, "It is unconstitutional; it will be overturned."
At the top left, words appeared:
BOSTON
TWITTER/SEN ELIZABETH WARREN
On the bottom of the screen same bold letters reiterated
NOT BACKING DOWN
WH VOWS TO ENFORCE RULE, DESPITE JUDGE RULING
The screen changed to head-shots in year-book fashion:
Hillary Clinton, Michael Moore, Jill Stein
Elizabeth Warren, Rosie O'Donnell, John Lewis
At the top of the screen:
ISSUED A CALL TO ACTION
A voice said, "Familiar faces, including Michael Moore, Rosie O'Donnell and Jill Stein, are also blasting the plan to vet refugees for the next 90 days, riling up supporters to protest. So, who's really fanning the flames?"
The screen changed with swooshing sound. Split screen.
The liberal head on left, frowning, wore a suit that appeared too tight--a gray suit, with a blue shirt, clinched tightly around his neck like a noose held in place by the knot of his brown spotted suit tie. He looked out of date, out of touch, from the 1950s, and somewhat distraught.
The conservative head on the right smiled and wore a loose, black suit and an open-collared bright yellow shirt. He was at ease and comfortable in his clothes. He seemed as casual as if he were sitting in your living room having a cup of coffee.
On the bottom of the screen, in extra-big, bold letters:
LIBERALS CALL FOR CHAOS
MICHAEL MOORE, ROSIE O'DONNELL, URGE PROTESTS
The audio said, "Here for a family debate is Dallas Woodhouse. He is the Executive Director of the North Carolina Republican Party, and his brother Brad, who is President of Americans United for Change. One's a Democrat, and one's a Republican, and so the family feud."
The man in the pink tie popped in between the two political heads to moderate. Dallas Woodhouse grabbed the collar of his own sunny Florida-casual shirt in a mocking gesture, as if to say, "Okay, I'm ready for a serious debate".
Dallas said, pointing to himself, "I just want to make sure you know I'm the Republican; I don't want to be tagged as a Democrat."
Center head said, "Now Dallas, a lot of people on the political left really don't like what Trump is doing with this 90 day pause to try and figure out how to get a handle on immigration. How do you defend what the president did?"
Dallas said, "Well, I defend him because he is putting America first, and he is dispensing with the Blame America First crowd. We have the right to protect our borders; we have the right to decide who comes in and out. Far more people were inconvenienced by Delta's computer problem's yesterday then were a couple hundred people at airports across America. Now, we don't want to inconvenience people unfairly, but that happens to virtually anyone who goes to an airport".
Middle moderator-head said, "Sure."
Dallas said, "We're causing some disruption in the system, and that's good, because for too long American interest have been put on the back burner, and they need to be put on the forefront. That is what President Trump is doing, and he shouldn't apologize for it."
While the Dallas spoke, Brad scowled and shook his head, his head tilted slightly back, his eyes squinting.
The middle head smiled in calm, knowing peaceful agreement, and then said, "Now for a contrary point of view, his brother".
At this point, the Brad impatiently jumped in, "Dallas--"
The middle-head moderator serenely took control of the situation, beaming a knowing smile. "Yes, Brad"
Brad continued, "Dallas, you are full of crap, and so is this president. This is a blemish on America. 50 years ago a law was passed in this country that you could not determine immigration status based on national origin, and this goes beyond national origin. This is a ban of Muslims. This is the president telling an entire religion that they are not welcome in the United States of America".
Dallas threw open his arms in wonder. "How? I hope we're not banning a religion. I hope we're banning terrorists."
Brad reasserted, "This is a ban on Muslims. Rudy Giuliani, who wrote this executive action, who helped write this policy, said on Fox News yesterday that this was a ban on Muslims".
Middle moderator-head popped in, "Brad, Brad, Brad... I have read it, I have read it, and I would be delighted in you circling and faxing me the part that shows where the president did that. You also said that the president does not have it in his authority...."
Brad tried to jump in.
"Hold on a sec," said middle moderator-head, waving his finger. "You also said that the president doesn't have it in his authority, and yet the constitution is very clear that the constitution states the president can do whatever it takes to keep Americans safe, right? Dallas?"
"That's right," said Dallas. "And I think it's very disturbing that my brother, the Blame America First crowd, does not recognize America's right to decide who comes here and who doesn't."
Dallas continued, outstretching both arms, and cupping both hands. The camera temporarily zoomed out to accommodate this Moses-like gesture, although no heroic music rose in the background. "Is it in the best interest of the American citizen to let somebody in here first--whatever their situation is back home--and, of course, we will continue to welcome immigrants, welcome refuges--"
Brad tried to cut in.
Dallas became angry and yelled, "Brad, why don't you want to put Americans first?"
Brad screamed back, "I am putting Americans first!"
Moderator middle-head jumped in, "One at a time, one at a time."
19 miles away, at an elevation of 10,900 feet above sea level, the morning sunlight warmed the wide, gnarled trunk of a 4000 year-old snow-clad bristlecone pine, the towering limestone cliff of Wheeler Peak glowing in the background with snow strung every which way in the cracks and crannies of a masonry wall millions of years old reaching to a height of 13,064 feet above sea level.
The air was still. The sun intense. The cold pronounced.
Silence surrounded.
If one were to look east, one would witness the mountain drop down to the desert floor. Out beyond where the pinion and juniper end, an ever-so-thin line of road would cut strait across a desert valley, and there would be a little white speck, the Border Inn, where inside, one man in a Stetson hat observed America raging.
Outside, it's America. Outside, it's America.*
Many miles away there's a shadow on the door
Of a cottage on the shore
Of a dark Scottish lake
Many miles away.**
* U2 & Bono, "Bullet the Blue Sky," The Joshua Tree, 1987.
** Sting, "Synchronicity II," Synchronicity by the Police, 1983.
The dialog from the Fox & Friends is real, and I tried to describe what is happening on the screen as objectively as possible given the limitations of print when describing video. I only used loaded words when I felt the show was using loaded images to influence perception. I chose January 31, 2017 not because of the show's content that day but as a beginning book-end to a s series that of news clips that will be placed throughout the novel, ending December 31, 2017. I want these clips to represent typical news days of 2017 rather than exceptional news days. There will also be news clips from MSNBC, which I will handle in the same manner.
Below, is the actual video used as the source for this segment:
It was a cold bright morning. A long shadow was cast across the eastern third of the Snake Valley by the low but geologically twisted and tormented Confusion Range. The shade stretched down the long dry alluvial fan, and a thin strip of highway followed it in a strait line. About two thirds of the way down, the cool blue-gray ended in a jagged edge roughly perpendicular to the highway. Then, the extremely dry valley glowed ocher orange. To the west the snow clad towering peaks of Wheeler and Moriah glistened in the morning sun.
A small motel sat equally bright in the intense light towards the western edge of the valley. Out front a towering sign announced Border Inn / Motel / Slots / Cafe. A rusted, yellow Ford F-100 sat next to one of the two well-sized globular Utah Juniper's at the entrance. Long shadows were caste across the gravel parking area by the aluminum canopy over the service station pumps. Not far from the pumps sat an enormous replica of a water bucket with a sign that read "Don't Let Las Vegas Destroy Nevada. Keep Your Pipes Out of Our Aquifer".
Inside the casino was mostly quiet and dark. There was the usual random low sounds of the slots enticing players to pull the handle. On a flat screen TV mounted on the wall behind the bar, Fox News played. A white light poured in through the entry from the kitchen, and a Miller Lite sign glowed in neon blue and pink above the doorway. A collection of liquor bottles sat on a counter directly below the TV.
A man in a black Stetson hat sat at the bar facing the TV. Behind him, slightly above the height of his head, a mind-droplet floated, pearly, bean-shaped, unseen, the size of a speck of dust, recording the scene for nobody--a satellite of communication communicating nothing. There were billions of these information-filled micro-drops of dew just floating around waiting for some mind to connect with them. This one observed a TV set in a small, all-but-empty casino on the loneliest road in America.
On the screen was a picture of the white house at night from the ground looking up, the extreme 3-D perspective enhancing its stateliness. The Fox & Friends logo was also in 3-D, getting larger as it came towards the viewer. The entire picture projected on a screen in the studio faded out around the edges, giving it the quality of a historic photograph, except that it was in shades of blue rather than sepia-tone. A man with blond hair stood at the side of the projected scene wearing a blue suit and a pink tie.
He said, "Thank you Brian, the president's border order spurs outrage from the emotional left."
Bold letters zoomed in from the bottom left with a swooshing sound:
NOT BACKING DOWN
WH VOWS TO ENFORCE RULE, DESPITE JUDGE RULING
A man appeared on the screen, reading a statement:
"This executive order was mean spirited and unconstitutional."
On the bottom of the screen, same bold print:
SEN CHUCK SCHUMER (D-NY)
SENATE MINORITY LEADER
The screen split into three and each screen showed the same woman from a different angle holding a megaphone. Two of the views were blurred, like the shot of the woman walking by the wall on the Abbey Road album cover. Through the blurred shots, one woman with a megaphone took on the ominous power of a riot.
Riot woman said, "It is unconstitutional; it will be overturned."
At the top left, words appeared:
BOSTON
TWITTER/SEN ELIZABETH WARREN
On the bottom of the screen same bold letters reiterated
NOT BACKING DOWN
WH VOWS TO ENFORCE RULE, DESPITE JUDGE RULING
The screen changed to head-shots in year-book fashion:
Hillary Clinton, Michael Moore, Jill Stein
Elizabeth Warren, Rosie O'Donnell, John Lewis
At the top of the screen:
ISSUED A CALL TO ACTION
A voice said, "Familiar faces, including Michael Moore, Rosie O'Donnell and Jill Stein, are also blasting the plan to vet refugees for the next 90 days, riling up supporters to protest. So, who's really fanning the flames?"
The screen changed with swooshing sound. Split screen.
The liberal head on left, frowning, wore a suit that appeared too tight--a gray suit, with a blue shirt, clinched tightly around his neck like a noose held in place by the knot of his brown spotted suit tie. He looked out of date, out of touch, from the 1950s, and somewhat distraught.
The conservative head on the right smiled and wore a loose, black suit and an open-collared bright yellow shirt. He was at ease and comfortable in his clothes. He seemed as casual as if he were sitting in your living room having a cup of coffee.
On the bottom of the screen, in extra-big, bold letters:
LIBERALS CALL FOR CHAOS
MICHAEL MOORE, ROSIE O'DONNELL, URGE PROTESTS
The audio said, "Here for a family debate is Dallas Woodhouse. He is the Executive Director of the North Carolina Republican Party, and his brother Brad, who is President of Americans United for Change. One's a Democrat, and one's a Republican, and so the family feud."
The man in the pink tie popped in between the two political heads to moderate. Dallas Woodhouse grabbed the collar of his own sunny Florida-casual shirt in a mocking gesture, as if to say, "Okay, I'm ready for a serious debate".
Dallas said, pointing to himself, "I just want to make sure you know I'm the Republican; I don't want to be tagged as a Democrat."
Center head said, "Now Dallas, a lot of people on the political left really don't like what Trump is doing with this 90 day pause to try and figure out how to get a handle on immigration. How do you defend what the president did?"
Dallas said, "Well, I defend him because he is putting America first, and he is dispensing with the Blame America First crowd. We have the right to protect our borders; we have the right to decide who comes in and out. Far more people were inconvenienced by Delta's computer problem's yesterday then were a couple hundred people at airports across America. Now, we don't want to inconvenience people unfairly, but that happens to virtually anyone who goes to an airport".
Middle moderator-head said, "Sure."
Dallas said, "We're causing some disruption in the system, and that's good, because for too long American interest have been put on the back burner, and they need to be put on the forefront. That is what President Trump is doing, and he shouldn't apologize for it."
While the Dallas spoke, Brad scowled and shook his head, his head tilted slightly back, his eyes squinting.
The middle head smiled in calm, knowing peaceful agreement, and then said, "Now for a contrary point of view, his brother".
At this point, the Brad impatiently jumped in, "Dallas--"
The middle-head moderator serenely took control of the situation, beaming a knowing smile. "Yes, Brad"
Brad continued, "Dallas, you are full of crap, and so is this president. This is a blemish on America. 50 years ago a law was passed in this country that you could not determine immigration status based on national origin, and this goes beyond national origin. This is a ban of Muslims. This is the president telling an entire religion that they are not welcome in the United States of America".
Dallas threw open his arms in wonder. "How? I hope we're not banning a religion. I hope we're banning terrorists."
Brad reasserted, "This is a ban on Muslims. Rudy Giuliani, who wrote this executive action, who helped write this policy, said on Fox News yesterday that this was a ban on Muslims".
Middle moderator-head popped in, "Brad, Brad, Brad... I have read it, I have read it, and I would be delighted in you circling and faxing me the part that shows where the president did that. You also said that the president does not have it in his authority...."
Brad tried to jump in.
"Hold on a sec," said middle moderator-head, waving his finger. "You also said that the president doesn't have it in his authority, and yet the constitution is very clear that the constitution states the president can do whatever it takes to keep Americans safe, right? Dallas?"
"That's right," said Dallas. "And I think it's very disturbing that my brother, the Blame America First crowd, does not recognize America's right to decide who comes here and who doesn't."
Dallas continued, outstretching both arms, and cupping both hands. The camera temporarily zoomed out to accommodate this Moses-like gesture, although no heroic music rose in the background. "Is it in the best interest of the American citizen to let somebody in here first--whatever their situation is back home--and, of course, we will continue to welcome immigrants, welcome refuges--"
Brad tried to cut in.
Dallas became angry and yelled, "Brad, why don't you want to put Americans first?"
Brad screamed back, "I am putting Americans first!"
Moderator middle-head jumped in, "One at a time, one at a time."
* * * * *
19 miles away, at an elevation of 10,900 feet above sea level, the morning sunlight warmed the wide, gnarled trunk of a 4000 year-old snow-clad bristlecone pine, the towering limestone cliff of Wheeler Peak glowing in the background with snow strung every which way in the cracks and crannies of a masonry wall millions of years old reaching to a height of 13,064 feet above sea level.
The air was still. The sun intense. The cold pronounced.
Silence surrounded.
If one were to look east, one would witness the mountain drop down to the desert floor. Out beyond where the pinion and juniper end, an ever-so-thin line of road would cut strait across a desert valley, and there would be a little white speck, the Border Inn, where inside, one man in a Stetson hat observed America raging.
Outside, it's America. Outside, it's America.*
Many miles away there's a shadow on the door
Of a cottage on the shore
Of a dark Scottish lake
Many miles away.**
* U2 & Bono, "Bullet the Blue Sky," The Joshua Tree, 1987.
** Sting, "Synchronicity II," Synchronicity by the Police, 1983.
The dialog from the Fox & Friends is real, and I tried to describe what is happening on the screen as objectively as possible given the limitations of print when describing video. I only used loaded words when I felt the show was using loaded images to influence perception. I chose January 31, 2017 not because of the show's content that day but as a beginning book-end to a s series that of news clips that will be placed throughout the novel, ending December 31, 2017. I want these clips to represent typical news days of 2017 rather than exceptional news days. There will also be news clips from MSNBC, which I will handle in the same manner.
Below, is the actual video used as the source for this segment:
Friday, March 30, 2018
2017: A Mind-Droplet, the Confessions of a Priest, and a Novelist Is Born
In the year 2017, science had not yet detected mind-droplets. Oddly, that would happen in the midst of Armageddon some years later. Even then, science would only glimpse the phenomenon. A few scholarly articles would be written, but overall, the discovery would be overlooked as humanity grappled with bigger issues, such as California sliding off into the ocean.
Still, mind-droplets had always existed. Sometimes a person would walk through one and experience what humanity then called deja vu.
At 4:02 a.m., Saturday, January 28, 2017 a mind-droplet of the soon-to-be novelist Steve Brown floated about four feet above the balcony of his former fifth-floor apartment in El Paso, Texas.
It was a cool, clear night, 34 degrees Fahrenheit. A slight wind blew from the north. If one could observe a mind-droplet with the naked eye, then a silvery bean-shaped object about the size of a speck of dust floated (as noted before) about four feet above the writer's former balcony.
Mind-droplets are bits of the subconscious that won't let go when the host-person has moved on in life. There are millions of mind droplets, but few minds ever connect back with them.
Sometimes a mind will reconnect with a droplet during the dream cycle. At 4:02 a.m., Saturday, January 28, 2017, during rapid eye movement, the soon-to-be novelist Steve Brown saw a transient man in a fishing hat and trench coat push a shopping cart with all his earthly positions up Mesa Street, north, into the slight but biting wind. A couple of transvestite prostitutes stood on the corner of Oregon, just outside the Budget Motel, talking, obviously trying to distract themselves from the cold.
Simultaneously, another mind-droplet of the novelist hung above the moonlit mouth of Santa Elena Canyon of Big Bend National Park, 292 miles away, observing the silvery Rio Grande slip into shadows of the rock walls and vanish into the overwhelming silence of stone. But as the novelist's mind never connected with that droplet, no dream occurred.
For whatever reason, that was not the case with Mesa Street. As the dreamer's mind was reaching out unseen tentacles, searching for mind-droplets, it "noticed" the kidney-shaped droplet at his former residence detect a priest walking in the opposite direction of the vagabond, down towards St. Patrick's Cathedral. Besides the odd hour, there was just something about the priest that needed noticing.
Although mind-droplets remain in proximity to where they were left behind, they do pulsate, move, and even roam to some extent. In his sleep, the novelist floated above Mesa Street, an occasional car passing below him, until the priest passed under a street light, his strawberry hair glistening. At that moment, for whatever reason, the novelist's eye dropped quickly to where it was almost like walking beside this unknown man of the cloth, who seemed to be in a hurry. In his hand, the priest carried what was obviously a bottle of liquor in a brown, paper bag.
The dreamer didn't think much of this. Catholics, after all, unlike Mormons, are allowed to consume alcohol. The only thing odd was the time of night, or rather morning.
Mind-droplets produce a clarity like nothing experienced through ordinary consciousness. The closest thing to it is the way shadows look right before a solar eclipse. Mind-droplets pick up so much detail it sometimes becomes confusing to the observer--rich detail, full of vibrant colors, layered up. It's almost as if the mind droplet can see external and internal structures simultaneously.
The shadows of the swaying palm trees on the sidewalk outside St. Patrick's Cathedral cast by the street lights were spectacular to say the least, as was the red brick wall and candy colored stained glass windows of the cathedral's west wall.
As the priest passed the wall and headed towards the front of the building, the mind-droplet passed through the wall and into a small office with mahogany bookshelves and a big, ornate wood desk with a simple green banker's lamp on it, already turned on. On the desk, a journal was open. The mind-droplet hovered above it, noticing the following text:
Friday a man came into confession and said, "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned". He then related the following story, which I recorded on my I-phone, because when it comes to the sanctity of confession, it seems that I have no morals.
As the mind droplet was observing the text, the door opened and the priest entered with his brown bag. The interior light picked up strands of gray in the man's strawberry blond hair in a way the street lamps had not. He his face was lightly freckled and somewhat blotched and wrinkled. He didn't look haggardly, just overly weary and naturally sliding past middle age.
He removed a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon from the bag and threw the paper in a small silver trash can beside the desk. The mind-droplet observed that the bourbon was the same color as the aged lacquer finish on the door. The priest sat down, removed a heavy crystal whisky glass from the drawer and filled it up. He took a small sip, licked his lips, set it down and grabbed the marble-textured pen sitting next to the journal. He sighed like a housewife before a sink of dirty dishes and continued where he had left off:
I'm obsessed with people's stories, especially the ones of strangers, like the one below. I don't mean to, I don't want to, but I can't help it. When I'm listening to a good confession, I find myself reaching for my I-phone, opening up Voice Memo, and hitting record. Let's be honest here, these days I hit record the minute my soul-scorched confessor opens his mouth. I quietly place my I-phone on that little dusty dark lacquered mahogany shelf in the confessional; it's ready, tucked back where it can't be seen; all I have to do is hit record. That is why I'm leaving the priesthood. I'm not sure what I'll do instead. I'm 47 years old.
Although the mind-droplet was observing the text over the man's shoulder, somehow it could also see a tear for from the corner of the priest's pale blue eye. The sap followed a crease away from the eyes a ways and then dropped down the blotchy stubbled skin. The man took another gulp of bourbon and continued to write:
But now is not the time to worry about that. I need to get down this story before I accidentally erase it. That's happened a couple times. I was able to remember the gist of it, but that's not what makes a good story. A real story isn't built around a strong plot, like most people think. It's built around those ridiculous little details that unfold in the confessor's mind as he recounts where the great universal antagonist Yearning devoured his sanity and destroyed his life. If you boiled the story down to the exposition, rising action, climax, and resolution--which is always one of confusion and despair, at least in the stories I hear--it would lose all its impact, no matter how devastating the lesson learned was. No, the real magic lies not in the suspense of seeing just how-off track people's lives get--although that's pretty powerful in itself, heartbreaking really--but rather in the strange little details people choose to include as they relate how desire has shredded their lives until they are at a point where they have nothing left to give this world except a good story.
The mind-droplet could detect a change in the man's countenance. As he wrote his demeanor was shifting from dread to joy:
Why do they include all those great little details? Who cares now that you're desperate enough to tell a stranger behind a screen the deepest contents of your soul? That life is gone. Over. You can't get it back. Choice has forever cut you off from that narrative. Consequence has kicked your butt out of the garden. The fact that you take the time to describe the apple in great detail when it's all thorns and thistles from her on out amazes me.
By now the priest's movements were sprite, and a thin smile sat Mono Lisa like on his lips. There was a gleam in his eyes.
That's why I record. Where does that impulse come from? I've got to know. So anyway, here is a story I heard Friday, January 22, 2017 at 3:47 in the afternoon, on this, my last day as a priest at St. Patrick's Cathedral in El Paso, Texas:
He paused in his writing, turned on his I-phone, went to voice memo, paused for a good while. He took a big gulp from his glass. Finally, aloud, he said, "No, it's the right thing to do" and hit play. As he did, he wrote down the auditory message:
One day back in early September of the year 2001, I was at a school cafeteria in Niles, Nebraska, where both my wife and I taught school at a small high school there. We were lucky enough to have the same lunch hour, and so we always ate together. I had noticed she had not gotten her drink. This was before Michelle Obama, of course. The school had a self-serve fountain machine. I saw her at one of the two round tables beyond the dark wood lattice screen that separated the "teacher's lounge" from the rest of the cafeteria.
The priest paused the phone to catch up. He actually had to take his fat finger and slide it left across the slick screen and go back a bit as he'd missed some:
I saw her at one of the two round tables beyond the dark wood lattice screen that separated the "teacher's lounge" from the rest of the cafeteria.
He paused again. He licked his lips. "Nice" he said aloud. And then asked in his head, Why include dark wood? Aloud he said, "Amazing, simply amazing". He hit play again:
Niles High is a small school of about 400 students, and so the teachers don't have a conventional faculty lounge. Anyway, I saw her through that screen, which was quite nice, designed by our custodian Ray Thomas, and decorated by his wife, Millie, who worked in the cafeteria.
He quickly hit pause. Clapped his hands. "Wonderful! Who gives a crap? You're about to tell me about the disintegration of your marriage. And yet do. Those details still delight you!" He hit play:
On top were three planters in which Millie had planted tropical vines that trailed gracefully down over the lattice divider. Then, she'd purchased silk flowers and placed them randomly in the slots. Pastel pinks and baby blues. I'm not gay, as my narrative will prove, but I do like a good decor. It looked like something that you'd find in a high-end Chinese buffet in Garden City or Omaha.
Pause again. "I'm not gay either, and I'm a priest. You though are a wonderful, wonderful man. I almost wish I was." He pushed play:
Anyway, I was looking through that screen at my beautiful wife. She was wearing a bright turquoise blouse. I loved the way she looked in that color. I noticed she'd forgotten to get her soda. She never did that. She wouldn't admit to it, but she was addicted to Diet Dr. Pepper. So, I yelled over and asked if she wanted me to get her one.
She yelled back, "They're all out."
At that moment, for whatever reason, the mind of Steve Brown disconnected with the droplet and he awoke, feeling great joy.
He had always wanted to write a novel but just never seemed to have it in him, and so he stuck to poems. They had worked better for him. He saw in little broken bits of film strip. Nothing connected long enough to get up a good narrative. Poems could leap between images in ways novels cold not. He had always failed to find larger stories worthy to tell.
Now, all of the sudden he realized, all stories are worth telling. It's not in what they say, but in how they unfold. It's in all those little ridiculous details. If he worked hard enough at getting the details right, the stories would tell themselves. All he had to do, in a sense, is hit record as they flowered forth in his mind.
Steve walked out into the living room, turned on the light, grabbed his lap top, and sat down in his blue chair to write. His golden retriever ambled sleepily over from the dining room and hopped up on the couch beside him and went back to sleep.
If there were a mind-droplet in the room, it would have observed a literal, discernible glow radiating from the novelist as he was typing. He now realized there were more stories than he could possibly ever tell. All he had to do is write them down.
Still, mind-droplets had always existed. Sometimes a person would walk through one and experience what humanity then called deja vu.
At 4:02 a.m., Saturday, January 28, 2017 a mind-droplet of the soon-to-be novelist Steve Brown floated about four feet above the balcony of his former fifth-floor apartment in El Paso, Texas.
It was a cool, clear night, 34 degrees Fahrenheit. A slight wind blew from the north. If one could observe a mind-droplet with the naked eye, then a silvery bean-shaped object about the size of a speck of dust floated (as noted before) about four feet above the writer's former balcony.
Mind-droplets are bits of the subconscious that won't let go when the host-person has moved on in life. There are millions of mind droplets, but few minds ever connect back with them.
Sometimes a mind will reconnect with a droplet during the dream cycle. At 4:02 a.m., Saturday, January 28, 2017, during rapid eye movement, the soon-to-be novelist Steve Brown saw a transient man in a fishing hat and trench coat push a shopping cart with all his earthly positions up Mesa Street, north, into the slight but biting wind. A couple of transvestite prostitutes stood on the corner of Oregon, just outside the Budget Motel, talking, obviously trying to distract themselves from the cold.
Simultaneously, another mind-droplet of the novelist hung above the moonlit mouth of Santa Elena Canyon of Big Bend National Park, 292 miles away, observing the silvery Rio Grande slip into shadows of the rock walls and vanish into the overwhelming silence of stone. But as the novelist's mind never connected with that droplet, no dream occurred.
For whatever reason, that was not the case with Mesa Street. As the dreamer's mind was reaching out unseen tentacles, searching for mind-droplets, it "noticed" the kidney-shaped droplet at his former residence detect a priest walking in the opposite direction of the vagabond, down towards St. Patrick's Cathedral. Besides the odd hour, there was just something about the priest that needed noticing.
Although mind-droplets remain in proximity to where they were left behind, they do pulsate, move, and even roam to some extent. In his sleep, the novelist floated above Mesa Street, an occasional car passing below him, until the priest passed under a street light, his strawberry hair glistening. At that moment, for whatever reason, the novelist's eye dropped quickly to where it was almost like walking beside this unknown man of the cloth, who seemed to be in a hurry. In his hand, the priest carried what was obviously a bottle of liquor in a brown, paper bag.
The dreamer didn't think much of this. Catholics, after all, unlike Mormons, are allowed to consume alcohol. The only thing odd was the time of night, or rather morning.
Mind-droplets produce a clarity like nothing experienced through ordinary consciousness. The closest thing to it is the way shadows look right before a solar eclipse. Mind-droplets pick up so much detail it sometimes becomes confusing to the observer--rich detail, full of vibrant colors, layered up. It's almost as if the mind droplet can see external and internal structures simultaneously.
The shadows of the swaying palm trees on the sidewalk outside St. Patrick's Cathedral cast by the street lights were spectacular to say the least, as was the red brick wall and candy colored stained glass windows of the cathedral's west wall.
As the priest passed the wall and headed towards the front of the building, the mind-droplet passed through the wall and into a small office with mahogany bookshelves and a big, ornate wood desk with a simple green banker's lamp on it, already turned on. On the desk, a journal was open. The mind-droplet hovered above it, noticing the following text:
Friday a man came into confession and said, "Forgive me Father, for I have sinned". He then related the following story, which I recorded on my I-phone, because when it comes to the sanctity of confession, it seems that I have no morals.
As the mind droplet was observing the text, the door opened and the priest entered with his brown bag. The interior light picked up strands of gray in the man's strawberry blond hair in a way the street lamps had not. He his face was lightly freckled and somewhat blotched and wrinkled. He didn't look haggardly, just overly weary and naturally sliding past middle age.
He removed a bottle of Jim Beam bourbon from the bag and threw the paper in a small silver trash can beside the desk. The mind-droplet observed that the bourbon was the same color as the aged lacquer finish on the door. The priest sat down, removed a heavy crystal whisky glass from the drawer and filled it up. He took a small sip, licked his lips, set it down and grabbed the marble-textured pen sitting next to the journal. He sighed like a housewife before a sink of dirty dishes and continued where he had left off:
I'm obsessed with people's stories, especially the ones of strangers, like the one below. I don't mean to, I don't want to, but I can't help it. When I'm listening to a good confession, I find myself reaching for my I-phone, opening up Voice Memo, and hitting record. Let's be honest here, these days I hit record the minute my soul-scorched confessor opens his mouth. I quietly place my I-phone on that little dusty dark lacquered mahogany shelf in the confessional; it's ready, tucked back where it can't be seen; all I have to do is hit record. That is why I'm leaving the priesthood. I'm not sure what I'll do instead. I'm 47 years old.
Although the mind-droplet was observing the text over the man's shoulder, somehow it could also see a tear for from the corner of the priest's pale blue eye. The sap followed a crease away from the eyes a ways and then dropped down the blotchy stubbled skin. The man took another gulp of bourbon and continued to write:
But now is not the time to worry about that. I need to get down this story before I accidentally erase it. That's happened a couple times. I was able to remember the gist of it, but that's not what makes a good story. A real story isn't built around a strong plot, like most people think. It's built around those ridiculous little details that unfold in the confessor's mind as he recounts where the great universal antagonist Yearning devoured his sanity and destroyed his life. If you boiled the story down to the exposition, rising action, climax, and resolution--which is always one of confusion and despair, at least in the stories I hear--it would lose all its impact, no matter how devastating the lesson learned was. No, the real magic lies not in the suspense of seeing just how-off track people's lives get--although that's pretty powerful in itself, heartbreaking really--but rather in the strange little details people choose to include as they relate how desire has shredded their lives until they are at a point where they have nothing left to give this world except a good story.
The mind-droplet could detect a change in the man's countenance. As he wrote his demeanor was shifting from dread to joy:
Why do they include all those great little details? Who cares now that you're desperate enough to tell a stranger behind a screen the deepest contents of your soul? That life is gone. Over. You can't get it back. Choice has forever cut you off from that narrative. Consequence has kicked your butt out of the garden. The fact that you take the time to describe the apple in great detail when it's all thorns and thistles from her on out amazes me.
By now the priest's movements were sprite, and a thin smile sat Mono Lisa like on his lips. There was a gleam in his eyes.
That's why I record. Where does that impulse come from? I've got to know. So anyway, here is a story I heard Friday, January 22, 2017 at 3:47 in the afternoon, on this, my last day as a priest at St. Patrick's Cathedral in El Paso, Texas:
He paused in his writing, turned on his I-phone, went to voice memo, paused for a good while. He took a big gulp from his glass. Finally, aloud, he said, "No, it's the right thing to do" and hit play. As he did, he wrote down the auditory message:
One day back in early September of the year 2001, I was at a school cafeteria in Niles, Nebraska, where both my wife and I taught school at a small high school there. We were lucky enough to have the same lunch hour, and so we always ate together. I had noticed she had not gotten her drink. This was before Michelle Obama, of course. The school had a self-serve fountain machine. I saw her at one of the two round tables beyond the dark wood lattice screen that separated the "teacher's lounge" from the rest of the cafeteria.
The priest paused the phone to catch up. He actually had to take his fat finger and slide it left across the slick screen and go back a bit as he'd missed some:
I saw her at one of the two round tables beyond the dark wood lattice screen that separated the "teacher's lounge" from the rest of the cafeteria.
He paused again. He licked his lips. "Nice" he said aloud. And then asked in his head, Why include dark wood? Aloud he said, "Amazing, simply amazing". He hit play again:
Niles High is a small school of about 400 students, and so the teachers don't have a conventional faculty lounge. Anyway, I saw her through that screen, which was quite nice, designed by our custodian Ray Thomas, and decorated by his wife, Millie, who worked in the cafeteria.
He quickly hit pause. Clapped his hands. "Wonderful! Who gives a crap? You're about to tell me about the disintegration of your marriage. And yet do. Those details still delight you!" He hit play:
On top were three planters in which Millie had planted tropical vines that trailed gracefully down over the lattice divider. Then, she'd purchased silk flowers and placed them randomly in the slots. Pastel pinks and baby blues. I'm not gay, as my narrative will prove, but I do like a good decor. It looked like something that you'd find in a high-end Chinese buffet in Garden City or Omaha.
Pause again. "I'm not gay either, and I'm a priest. You though are a wonderful, wonderful man. I almost wish I was." He pushed play:
Anyway, I was looking through that screen at my beautiful wife. She was wearing a bright turquoise blouse. I loved the way she looked in that color. I noticed she'd forgotten to get her soda. She never did that. She wouldn't admit to it, but she was addicted to Diet Dr. Pepper. So, I yelled over and asked if she wanted me to get her one.
She yelled back, "They're all out."
At that moment, for whatever reason, the mind of Steve Brown disconnected with the droplet and he awoke, feeling great joy.
He had always wanted to write a novel but just never seemed to have it in him, and so he stuck to poems. They had worked better for him. He saw in little broken bits of film strip. Nothing connected long enough to get up a good narrative. Poems could leap between images in ways novels cold not. He had always failed to find larger stories worthy to tell.
Now, all of the sudden he realized, all stories are worth telling. It's not in what they say, but in how they unfold. It's in all those little ridiculous details. If he worked hard enough at getting the details right, the stories would tell themselves. All he had to do, in a sense, is hit record as they flowered forth in his mind.
Steve walked out into the living room, turned on the light, grabbed his lap top, and sat down in his blue chair to write. His golden retriever ambled sleepily over from the dining room and hopped up on the couch beside him and went back to sleep.
If there were a mind-droplet in the room, it would have observed a literal, discernible glow radiating from the novelist as he was typing. He now realized there were more stories than he could possibly ever tell. All he had to do is write them down.
Wednesday, March 21, 2018
Laura Sanchez Turns Off the Radio in Richardson, Texas
It was 52 degrees in Richardson, Texas when Laura Sanchez walked out to her car early Monday morning, January 25, 2017. The sun wasn't up yet; the street lights were still on; the ground smelled rich, the dew-damp fallen leaves sticking to the edges of the walkway. Not much could be heard other than the beep of her car when she clicked her key to unlock it. A distant dog barked and there was the muffled sound of traffic on the corner of Coit and Arapaho beyond brick walls surrounding the secluded subdivision that turned in on itself, away from the noise and commerce, away from the hectic life out there. Under these trees, the hushed morning seemed to breathe. The damp air spoke to her. She felt alive. She was ready for the 34 mile commute to Arlington, where she was a first-year architecture major at UTA.
She got into her little white Ford Fiesta and turned the key. NPR's Morning Edition was on the radio. There was a story by Amy Sisk about the continued protests over the Dakota pipeline. She pulled out into Comanche Lane and drove down the narrow suburban street lined with cars on both sides and made her way towards Mimosa, ready for this gray-dawn day. Her posture showed it. She leaned slightly forward in her seat, both hands gripping the steering wheel. She looked in the rear-view mirror. Though it was still relatively dark, she saw her long, black, slightly crimped hair, and bright red LOVE ear rings dangling from each ear. She liked them. They were modeled after Robert Indiana's famous sculpture, and she'd purchased them at the DMA, her home away from home. She slowed to a stop at Mimosa and took a right. As she turned the corner, she could see the traffic on Arapaho ahead. Most people her age made fun of the suburbs and wanted to move towards downtown. But she understood them. Yes, the brick walls that lined the main roads--Campbell, Arapaho, Beltline--were ugly (especially when they started to lean with time), as were the shopping centers at each major intersection. But, the quiet, narrow, curving tree-lined streets in the subdivisions themselves offered a reprieve from all the noise. They're almost like little Japanese botanical gardens, she thought.
And then Arapaho was there. She took a right to Coit, which she would follow down to Central Expressway.
Morning Edition continued:
This pipeline has really become ground zero for the environmental movement. Big environmental groups like 350.org have gotten involved and they hope to interrupt the transportation of fossil fuels. The hope is that if fuel can't get to market, it won't be extracted anymore. Many environmentalists are vowing to fight in the streets and the courts, and essentially take the level of this protest to new heights.
"That's not it!" she said, as she slammed the steering wheel. "We're not so stupid as to think we don't need oil." She moved over to the left lane. It's the balance, she thought. There's no freaking balance. Laura Sanchez believed in balance. That's why she'd become an architecture major. Cities were an ugly, necessary evil, but it was possible to balance that evil with good architecture and good city planning--to bring the serenity of nature in through pleasing forms and greenery. The nation was out of whack. Big business and right wing lunatics were in control of everything. She wasn't anti-business; she wasn't anti-religion. Neither were most of those protesters. The hope was not to cripple the oil industry. The hope was to stop a pipeline. The hope was to help a tribe. The hope was to protect a river. Then perhaps another. But when the media reported things that way, it made it seem the protesters were seeking something unreasonable. Why is a clean river something unreasonable? Why is it unreasonable to have some say as to whether or not a pipeline goes across ground sacred to your people? And even though they weren't her people, she got that. Why couldn't others? Every argument was framed as if there were no middle ground, or with the status-quo being framed as the middle ground, no matter how awful it was. So, if you wanted to stop something ugly or do something good, you were a radical no matter how reasonable your request was. And I'm listening to NPR, she thought. What if I were watching Fox?
She was a couple blocks further down Coit when traffic came to a standstill at Roundrock. That was odd. Usually traffic didn't start backing up until Spring Valley. Still, she braked and waited patiently. She'd left twenty minutes early. Her one drawing professor was a punctuality fanatic, and he'd fail you if you were tardy more than three times, and 30 seconds late was considered tardy. The odd thing is, although he could draw with precision quality (which is why the school of architecture hired him), he was best known for abstract paintings not too unlike those of Jackson Pollock. She thought it odd that someone with such loose brush-strokes was such an uptight jackass.
As she waited, she looked at the ugly black block Congress Bank Tower on the left. A few office lights were on. Big, bright white bulbs followed the vertical concrete columns down, which would make it look less squaty if the idiotic architect had not run horizontal black panels between the windows which countered any height achieved by the vertical columns of concrete. So typical. She wondered what happened to most designers between school and their career. Her peers were good designers. That must have been true of the classes before her too. Yet, there was so much ugliness around her. At some point most everyone must simply sell out.
Slowly, as the traffic moved forward again, her thoughts subsided and NPR filtered in through the voice in her head like light penetrating the forest floor with the shifting of leaves. She realized it was no longer the same story. There was clapping and a man said something in Dutch. A female voice on NPR translated:
In the Netherlands, do you want more or fewer Moroccans?
The NPR reporter continued, "fewer," the crowd chanted.
As Laura listened, she slowly realized that the story was on a right-wing politician gathering momentum in the Netherlands.
A man was saying, "This reputation we always have of ourselves as a very moderate and tolerant and accepting country is only skin-deep. His rise shows that there are many people out there that have very different ideas about how the Netherlands should be."
Laura worried deeply. White nationalists seemed to be getting the upper-hand everywhere. She didn't know a terrible amount of history, but she knew enough to recognize patterns similar to the rise of World War II. Only this time, it seemed the United States was part of the insanity, if not the leader of it. How could she not worry? Her last name was Sanchez? Sure, she was a second generation American Citizen; her dad was an important small manufacture of product labels; but did things like that matter in Nazi Germany? Once intolerance was on the rise, laws were just changed so the evil people in the world could do their evil legally. The country just redefines what it means to be a citizen. It all goes back to balance, she thought. There is no freaking balance.
Sometimes she wondered if anything mattered anymore. She didn't like that thought. She hated it. Her parents had taught her to set goals, to follow her dreams, which is what she was doing. Yet, the thought would creep in every now and then: What for? There is no sensible way to gauge what tomorrow will bring. Why work? Why plan? Why dream?
She slammed the steering wheel again. "Because of balance," she said aloud. Some thoughts have to balance other thoughts. God needs energy on his side. "I will be part of that energy."
She turned off the radio. She'd had enough of the world for one day. She plugged in her I-phone and selected her favorite play list, World Beats II. This would be her stand at this moment for inclusiveness, no matter how inept it was. She scrolled down her playlist to the Moroccan artist Somadina, glancing up now and then to the brake lights in front of her. She was in her groove. Up yours, whatever fascist you are, she said in her head to an ethnocentric politician in the Netherlands now silenced by her choice not to listen to his bullshit.
She got into her little white Ford Fiesta and turned the key. NPR's Morning Edition was on the radio. There was a story by Amy Sisk about the continued protests over the Dakota pipeline. She pulled out into Comanche Lane and drove down the narrow suburban street lined with cars on both sides and made her way towards Mimosa, ready for this gray-dawn day. Her posture showed it. She leaned slightly forward in her seat, both hands gripping the steering wheel. She looked in the rear-view mirror. Though it was still relatively dark, she saw her long, black, slightly crimped hair, and bright red LOVE ear rings dangling from each ear. She liked them. They were modeled after Robert Indiana's famous sculpture, and she'd purchased them at the DMA, her home away from home. She slowed to a stop at Mimosa and took a right. As she turned the corner, she could see the traffic on Arapaho ahead. Most people her age made fun of the suburbs and wanted to move towards downtown. But she understood them. Yes, the brick walls that lined the main roads--Campbell, Arapaho, Beltline--were ugly (especially when they started to lean with time), as were the shopping centers at each major intersection. But, the quiet, narrow, curving tree-lined streets in the subdivisions themselves offered a reprieve from all the noise. They're almost like little Japanese botanical gardens, she thought.
And then Arapaho was there. She took a right to Coit, which she would follow down to Central Expressway.
Morning Edition continued:
This pipeline has really become ground zero for the environmental movement. Big environmental groups like 350.org have gotten involved and they hope to interrupt the transportation of fossil fuels. The hope is that if fuel can't get to market, it won't be extracted anymore. Many environmentalists are vowing to fight in the streets and the courts, and essentially take the level of this protest to new heights.
"That's not it!" she said, as she slammed the steering wheel. "We're not so stupid as to think we don't need oil." She moved over to the left lane. It's the balance, she thought. There's no freaking balance. Laura Sanchez believed in balance. That's why she'd become an architecture major. Cities were an ugly, necessary evil, but it was possible to balance that evil with good architecture and good city planning--to bring the serenity of nature in through pleasing forms and greenery. The nation was out of whack. Big business and right wing lunatics were in control of everything. She wasn't anti-business; she wasn't anti-religion. Neither were most of those protesters. The hope was not to cripple the oil industry. The hope was to stop a pipeline. The hope was to help a tribe. The hope was to protect a river. Then perhaps another. But when the media reported things that way, it made it seem the protesters were seeking something unreasonable. Why is a clean river something unreasonable? Why is it unreasonable to have some say as to whether or not a pipeline goes across ground sacred to your people? And even though they weren't her people, she got that. Why couldn't others? Every argument was framed as if there were no middle ground, or with the status-quo being framed as the middle ground, no matter how awful it was. So, if you wanted to stop something ugly or do something good, you were a radical no matter how reasonable your request was. And I'm listening to NPR, she thought. What if I were watching Fox?
She was a couple blocks further down Coit when traffic came to a standstill at Roundrock. That was odd. Usually traffic didn't start backing up until Spring Valley. Still, she braked and waited patiently. She'd left twenty minutes early. Her one drawing professor was a punctuality fanatic, and he'd fail you if you were tardy more than three times, and 30 seconds late was considered tardy. The odd thing is, although he could draw with precision quality (which is why the school of architecture hired him), he was best known for abstract paintings not too unlike those of Jackson Pollock. She thought it odd that someone with such loose brush-strokes was such an uptight jackass.
As she waited, she looked at the ugly black block Congress Bank Tower on the left. A few office lights were on. Big, bright white bulbs followed the vertical concrete columns down, which would make it look less squaty if the idiotic architect had not run horizontal black panels between the windows which countered any height achieved by the vertical columns of concrete. So typical. She wondered what happened to most designers between school and their career. Her peers were good designers. That must have been true of the classes before her too. Yet, there was so much ugliness around her. At some point most everyone must simply sell out.
Slowly, as the traffic moved forward again, her thoughts subsided and NPR filtered in through the voice in her head like light penetrating the forest floor with the shifting of leaves. She realized it was no longer the same story. There was clapping and a man said something in Dutch. A female voice on NPR translated:
In the Netherlands, do you want more or fewer Moroccans?
The NPR reporter continued, "fewer," the crowd chanted.
As Laura listened, she slowly realized that the story was on a right-wing politician gathering momentum in the Netherlands.
A man was saying, "This reputation we always have of ourselves as a very moderate and tolerant and accepting country is only skin-deep. His rise shows that there are many people out there that have very different ideas about how the Netherlands should be."
Laura worried deeply. White nationalists seemed to be getting the upper-hand everywhere. She didn't know a terrible amount of history, but she knew enough to recognize patterns similar to the rise of World War II. Only this time, it seemed the United States was part of the insanity, if not the leader of it. How could she not worry? Her last name was Sanchez? Sure, she was a second generation American Citizen; her dad was an important small manufacture of product labels; but did things like that matter in Nazi Germany? Once intolerance was on the rise, laws were just changed so the evil people in the world could do their evil legally. The country just redefines what it means to be a citizen. It all goes back to balance, she thought. There is no freaking balance.
Sometimes she wondered if anything mattered anymore. She didn't like that thought. She hated it. Her parents had taught her to set goals, to follow her dreams, which is what she was doing. Yet, the thought would creep in every now and then: What for? There is no sensible way to gauge what tomorrow will bring. Why work? Why plan? Why dream?
She slammed the steering wheel again. "Because of balance," she said aloud. Some thoughts have to balance other thoughts. God needs energy on his side. "I will be part of that energy."
She turned off the radio. She'd had enough of the world for one day. She plugged in her I-phone and selected her favorite play list, World Beats II. This would be her stand at this moment for inclusiveness, no matter how inept it was. She scrolled down her playlist to the Moroccan artist Somadina, glancing up now and then to the brake lights in front of her. She was in her groove. Up yours, whatever fascist you are, she said in her head to an ethnocentric politician in the Netherlands now silenced by her choice not to listen to his bullshit.
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