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.
Friday, March 30, 2018
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.
Monday, March 12, 2018
2017: Small-framed Kim Walks down Okpik Street Looking for the Sun
Barrow, Alaska, January 23, 2017: Small-framed Kim walked down Okpik Street half past noon swaddled in her thick blue down coat, peering east though a tunnel of fur on the inside of her hood. She anxiously moved towards where she might witness the sun for the first time in three months. Drunken electrical poles and a crisscross of wires in the foreground broke up the frosty, tangerine sky above the lavender tundra beyond Isatkoak Lagoon. Famous, Barrow was. Pretty, it was not. A collection of corrugated metal and prefabs sitting on pillions formed the edges of the snow-packed road. Everything here seemed so temporary, so disconnected to the tundra on which it sat. The tundra was clean, white, minimal; Barrow was a heap of metal clutter spilled over it, like dumping a bag of garbage on a marble museum floor. Yet, Kim loved her life here at the top of the world tracking climate change data for the NOAA. Everything in this one square mile cut off from the rest of world took on significance. At 12:55 p.m. she might actually see the sun. Never in her life had a sunrise seemed so vital. And that was the beauty of this place. The brutality of raw nature made life real. She no longer drifted through her days; she lived each one fully--even the hours and hours she spent graphing and interpreting data--because outside her frosty office window was a constant impending reminder of deep, saturating cold and darkness. And the skies on those rare nights when cloud cover didn't creep along that final curve of the continent as the north slope of Alaska slowly slid off into the Arctic ocean--on those rare clear nights (whether at midnight or 4 p.m.), it seemed the entire universe opened before her and some god somewhere declared, Hear me, see me, this is my work; this is my glory.
Kim also worried a lot--not for herself, not for the people around her. She worried for humanity. She was pretty sure we were a lot closer to extinction than most were aware of, so she desperately desired that the god she felt declare himself on those rare oh-so-clear nights at the top of the world was indeed real and not just a creation of her terrified mind trying to hold onto existence. Somehow all these lives in these temporary tin cans mattered; somehow she mattered; she did not want the lights to ever go out--not for herself personally, and certainly not for humanity as a whole. All she could do was hope that the little bit of knowledge she added to that great picture called climate change would do its part in waking up the world to the impending calamity.
But anticipating the first sunrise of the year, none of that was on Kim's mind. Nothing was on her mind other than anticipation. She was a transparent eyeball taking it all in. The frosty, tangerine sky. Those wacky, drunk electrical poles. Corrugated metal buildings slightly lit up along the eastern edges from the approaching sun and in deep blue shadow everywhere else. A dog across the street yapped at her, great clouds of steam pouring out with every angry outcry. A big white truck with Potable Water Only in big black letters on the side of the tank rolled slowly by, making a crunching sound on the frozen road. Finally, she came to the open spot where D-street took a hard left north. There she stood, waiting for the sun. It was cloudy, so chances were not good that she would actually see it. But the marmalade sky was enough. This was it. This was life. As she looked across the frozen flat of Isatkoak Lagoon from this town where not even the buildings had foundations, where wires dangled precariously overhead or ran through large metal tubes suspended above the frozen ground, she felt grounded as she never had before.
This was life. The frost forming at the end of the furry tunnel of her hood said, you exist--even if it is only for now. That's all she had ever really wanted--to know life wasn't just a dream, to feel reality penetrate deep within her bones.
Kim also worried a lot--not for herself, not for the people around her. She worried for humanity. She was pretty sure we were a lot closer to extinction than most were aware of, so she desperately desired that the god she felt declare himself on those rare oh-so-clear nights at the top of the world was indeed real and not just a creation of her terrified mind trying to hold onto existence. Somehow all these lives in these temporary tin cans mattered; somehow she mattered; she did not want the lights to ever go out--not for herself personally, and certainly not for humanity as a whole. All she could do was hope that the little bit of knowledge she added to that great picture called climate change would do its part in waking up the world to the impending calamity.
But anticipating the first sunrise of the year, none of that was on Kim's mind. Nothing was on her mind other than anticipation. She was a transparent eyeball taking it all in. The frosty, tangerine sky. Those wacky, drunk electrical poles. Corrugated metal buildings slightly lit up along the eastern edges from the approaching sun and in deep blue shadow everywhere else. A dog across the street yapped at her, great clouds of steam pouring out with every angry outcry. A big white truck with Potable Water Only in big black letters on the side of the tank rolled slowly by, making a crunching sound on the frozen road. Finally, she came to the open spot where D-street took a hard left north. There she stood, waiting for the sun. It was cloudy, so chances were not good that she would actually see it. But the marmalade sky was enough. This was it. This was life. As she looked across the frozen flat of Isatkoak Lagoon from this town where not even the buildings had foundations, where wires dangled precariously overhead or ran through large metal tubes suspended above the frozen ground, she felt grounded as she never had before.
This was life. The frost forming at the end of the furry tunnel of her hood said, you exist--even if it is only for now. That's all she had ever really wanted--to know life wasn't just a dream, to feel reality penetrate deep within her bones.
Wednesday, March 7, 2018
2017: Ed Owens Watches the 2017 Presidential Inaugeration
Ely, Nevada; January 20th, 2017: Ed Owens sat with a couple of friends at the long, slick bar in the Jailhouse Lounge ready to watch the inauguration on the flat screen TV mounted on the wall above the rack of wine glasses. All the festivities were across the street at the Hotel Nevada, but he liked it here better. Ever since Mildred died he hadn't been much up to socializing. Not that he was a recluse or anything. He still was an active member of the Elk's Lodge and everyone in town knew him. He just didn't like large gatherings anymore. This quiet back corner of the Jailhouse Casino was perfect. This cozy hideaway had become his home in a way that his house could no longer be. It didn't feel that much larger than a living room. It had three sets of round rattan tables each with four round swivel rockers grouped around them--casual seating arrangements, like you'd find out on your back porch--and then there was this long bar with seven leather stools lined up in front of it spaced at a good good distance. There were also two murals. One on a white wall painted into a Spanish-styled arch edged with brick. That was of an old steam locomotive--the Ghost Train. The other mural was behind the bar and set inside an arch of what looked like a great red brick firebrick hearth--only it was just for decor. It was of Ely nestled in the canyon below snow-clad peaks. The room was simple, but warm, like home used to be.
Behind the counter stood Eudora, a thin lady in her late sixties with a creased leather face and deep set bright blue eyes. Happening upon her face was like happening upon twin natural springs out in the desert. Follow the rutted alluvial fans of the time-ravaged landscape down from the ridges and there nestled in the gouged chaos were two blue reflecting pools warm as an August midday sky. With time, Ed had grown to love them, and if truth be told, Eudora was as much a reason to be tucked back into this quiet lounge as any. He loved sitting on this stool, listening to the mingling of sounds--the television just barely audible, the sound of muffled talk radiating out from the Cell Block Steak House across the hall, and the random sounds of slots in the casino--while he watched her stiff, bony figure move about the bar, as she dusted off what didn't need dusting and polished off what didn't need polishing, making small talk as she went. Sitting here in the eternal darkness of a casino wasn't much of a life, he guessed, but anymore, it's all he wanted.
Now was different though. The moment for him was filled with electricity. Finally, the Obama years were over and sanity would return to the country. Finally, there'd be someone who understood the economy and heard the common people. What good is a nation without industry? Coal, copper and steel built this country. It was time to get back to basic American values. He was so sick of city slickers slowly turning the country into a golf club for the rich and a ghetto for the rest.
"It's on now Dora, crank up that volume. Let's see what our boy Trump says."
Beside Ed sat Jack Peters and Bill Mitchell. All three had worked at Kennecott before the mine closed in 1982. Jack had been gone for over two decades, having relocated in Draper, Utah to work for Kennecott there. He moved back in 2004 when he retired. Bill opened a service and fuel delivery station on the north side of town, as you head north towards Wells. Ed opened a small machine shop in his garage and worked on lawn mowers and chain saws. It didn't bring in much, but it was enough to cover the difference between the early retirement package he was offered when the mine closed and the cost of living until he was eligible for Social Security in 2012.
Since 2012, he had only kept the shop open a couple of hours each Saturday morning 10:00 to 12:00. He didn't need the money, but he still liked to tinker, and if he closed down altogether, people would have to drive all the way to Eureka, 77 miles away, just to get a chainsaw fixed--and they'd have to make an appointment because unlike Ed, Butch didn't know how to keep regular hours at his place. Ed believed in regular hours--for his shop, for his meals, for his naps, his walks, and especially for his drinking. Eudora always knew exactly when old Ed would pull up to her bar counter. It was clockwork.
Except today. Today was different. Today revolved around the inauguration of a great man.
He watched, mesmerized, as the president spoke:
For too long, a small group in our nation's Capital has reaped the rewards of government while the people have borne the cost.
Washington flourished--but the people did not share in its wealth.
The establishment protected itself, but not the citizens of our country.
"Ain't that calling it like it is?" Ed said.
Everyone in that little group of four in the back corner of a small Casino in that ex-mining town in Nevada agreed. Washington flourished--but the people did not share in its its wealth. Now all that was going to change. Groups like this, small and large, all across the nation, watched, riveted with anticipation. Now was a new beginning. Here was a spokesperson for the little people. Someone with the guts to take on the liberal media, the educated establishment, and give voice to the common man. No more bullshitting. The tide had turned.
"Together, we'll make America great again," Ed said beaming. "Dora, why don't you set everyone up with another round? Then have one yourself."
"Ed, you know I can't drink on the job."
"Oh come on, just this once. This ain't just any damn occasion. We're making history here."
Behind the counter stood Eudora, a thin lady in her late sixties with a creased leather face and deep set bright blue eyes. Happening upon her face was like happening upon twin natural springs out in the desert. Follow the rutted alluvial fans of the time-ravaged landscape down from the ridges and there nestled in the gouged chaos were two blue reflecting pools warm as an August midday sky. With time, Ed had grown to love them, and if truth be told, Eudora was as much a reason to be tucked back into this quiet lounge as any. He loved sitting on this stool, listening to the mingling of sounds--the television just barely audible, the sound of muffled talk radiating out from the Cell Block Steak House across the hall, and the random sounds of slots in the casino--while he watched her stiff, bony figure move about the bar, as she dusted off what didn't need dusting and polished off what didn't need polishing, making small talk as she went. Sitting here in the eternal darkness of a casino wasn't much of a life, he guessed, but anymore, it's all he wanted.
Now was different though. The moment for him was filled with electricity. Finally, the Obama years were over and sanity would return to the country. Finally, there'd be someone who understood the economy and heard the common people. What good is a nation without industry? Coal, copper and steel built this country. It was time to get back to basic American values. He was so sick of city slickers slowly turning the country into a golf club for the rich and a ghetto for the rest.
"It's on now Dora, crank up that volume. Let's see what our boy Trump says."
Beside Ed sat Jack Peters and Bill Mitchell. All three had worked at Kennecott before the mine closed in 1982. Jack had been gone for over two decades, having relocated in Draper, Utah to work for Kennecott there. He moved back in 2004 when he retired. Bill opened a service and fuel delivery station on the north side of town, as you head north towards Wells. Ed opened a small machine shop in his garage and worked on lawn mowers and chain saws. It didn't bring in much, but it was enough to cover the difference between the early retirement package he was offered when the mine closed and the cost of living until he was eligible for Social Security in 2012.
Since 2012, he had only kept the shop open a couple of hours each Saturday morning 10:00 to 12:00. He didn't need the money, but he still liked to tinker, and if he closed down altogether, people would have to drive all the way to Eureka, 77 miles away, just to get a chainsaw fixed--and they'd have to make an appointment because unlike Ed, Butch didn't know how to keep regular hours at his place. Ed believed in regular hours--for his shop, for his meals, for his naps, his walks, and especially for his drinking. Eudora always knew exactly when old Ed would pull up to her bar counter. It was clockwork.
Except today. Today was different. Today revolved around the inauguration of a great man.
He watched, mesmerized, as the president spoke:
For too long, a small group in our nation's Capital has reaped the rewards of government while the people have borne the cost.
Washington flourished--but the people did not share in its wealth.
The establishment protected itself, but not the citizens of our country.
"Ain't that calling it like it is?" Ed said.
Everyone in that little group of four in the back corner of a small Casino in that ex-mining town in Nevada agreed. Washington flourished--but the people did not share in its its wealth. Now all that was going to change. Groups like this, small and large, all across the nation, watched, riveted with anticipation. Now was a new beginning. Here was a spokesperson for the little people. Someone with the guts to take on the liberal media, the educated establishment, and give voice to the common man. No more bullshitting. The tide had turned.
"Together, we'll make America great again," Ed said beaming. "Dora, why don't you set everyone up with another round? Then have one yourself."
"Ed, you know I can't drink on the job."
"Oh come on, just this once. This ain't just any damn occasion. We're making history here."
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