tristan mutant ninja turtle

I have long suspected Tristan corresponds with Arabs, Iowans, MommyBloggers and other unsavories, so in the interest of national security and other deadlier sakes, like curiosity and BOREDOM, I recently took to monitoring his email. My close friends counseled that I should not take to spying, but simply begin to teach him the forgiveness of Jesus, but it makes little sense. Jesus loves me, yes, I know, but it’s the other Gods who have me concerned.

The results of my world saving endeavors proved fruitful, if not entertaining; laughable, if not terrifying. I cannot tell whether or not he conspires with the enemy, or merely suffers from being sired by one of the original human test subjects for Preparations A through G, before the formula was perfected.

And truthfully, if we all talked like this, there would be no talk of anything but hope and humor:

* * *

Subject: To Tristan from Noah

Dear Tristan

Is it ok if I can go to your house in a couple of weeks to play and goof around? Please?

Noah

* * *

Subject: Re: To Tristan from Noah

Dear Noah, I would like it a lot if you came to play with me.We'll have lots of fun!!!!

Tristan

* * *

Subject: Re: To Tristan from Noah

I have a good idea. Why don't you come to my house. We'll have a lot of fun. I have some brand new video games, movies and toys. We could play with them all day if that is ok with your Mom. Let's do it next weekend when eveyone is home.

Maybe you could help me pull pranks on my dad. It will be really funny.

Noah

* * *

Subject: Re: To Tristan from Noah

Sure I'll come bro'....that sounds like a lot of fun; I can't wait for next weekend to come. Send me e-mails whenever you can, becouse I love getting messeges from you.

Your friend, Tristan

* * *

Subject: Re: To Tristan from Noah

Sure, I will email you every day if that's ok. I will see you next weekend.

Noah

* * *

Subject: Re: To Tristan from Noah

Of course, that's ok.I can't wait to play with you!

Tristan

* * *

Subject: Re: To Tristan from Noah

Come over on Sunday, buddy. Well, see you then. Have your mom call my mom when you are up.
We will decide what time you are coming over.

Noah

* * *

Subject: Re: To Tristan from Noah

Say, is that you my buddy, friend? Of course I'll come.Could I bring my favorite video game to your house?Tristan

* * *

Subject: Re: To Tristan from Noah

Tristan,

What game is it? You might want to not bring the game. My Playstation is not working. All of my games spin all of the time. Oaky, buddy.

See you next email.

Noah

* * *

Subject: Re: To Tristan from Noah

Hi, guys!

Noah, I was not sure what game but I guess it doesn't matter anymore since your playstation doesn't work. But that's OK we will find something else to do.Can't wait till tomorrow! Your buddy, Tristan.

* * *

Subject: Re: To Tristan from Noah

Thanks for coming over tonight. Hey, Tristan, why don't you have a play day next weekend again. We could have a sleepover. And, we could watch tv and play. It will be a lot of fun. We could play laser tag like we did a couple of minutes ago. Doing this sleepover is a good choice. I'm glad you're my friend.

Your friend,

Noah

* * *

Subject: Re: To Tristan from Noah

I had so much fun yesterday and I think a sleepover sounds great.I can't wait to play with you again because you're my best friend too.

Your friend, Tristan

* * *

Subject: Re: To Tristan from Noah

Can we do the sleepover next weekend, not this weekend? Bring over that video game you were planning to bring. My playstation is much better. This will be awesome. Well, see you next weekend.

Sincerely yours

Noah

* * *

Subject: Re: To Tristan from Noah

Ok I guess next weekend will be great.I'll bring a game over.I can't wait! Your friend, Tristan.

hatriotism

I’m yet unconvinced by replica potential, calling back days living in upstate New York, where I actually have friends, blacks, puerto ricans, asians and whites, all army brats, transplanted to this mountain tundra where we SUPPORT THE TROOPS by breaking light posts and steal traffic signs and smoking pot with the officers’ kids. You’re not here with me now, so I’ll remind you it’s 1987.

Here I learn to hate television. If we’re in the TV room when he gets home from a hard day defending freedom, we are allowed to change the channels for him during commercial breaks. Make the humiliating trek from couch to set, pushing black buttons like push-ups. The kids at school ask me if I like The Cosby Show. I have no idea what the hell they’re talking about.

I get a few dollars every now and then. I like the word allowance. It means someone has had to sacrifice for the very air I breathe. I’m grateful. I spend it because with no TV I need a HOBBY. I buy model airplanes, while my sister screams, ‘I didn’t ASK to be born!,’ which for all you parents/non-parents is the PERFECT argument, against which there is NO defense, not even unplanned pregnancy.

The F-4 Phantom fighters are my favorite, Vietnam-era jets that remind me my REAL father went AWOL in 1972. Legacies rule.

Little jars of paint and corresponding brushes. Exacto knives. Glue, most of all. Epoxy and paper bags. No hobby should be without a brown paper bag.

I spend the days putting models together, taking excruciating lengths and pains and other excruciating qualifiers to make them perfect. I add my own details, scratching tiny holes into fuselages, then flecking the scars with bits of chrome. Perfect anti-aircraft holes.

And then I look at the work, the craft, the time spent not turning channels and decide this replica wants to fly. So I throw it through the air, give it its freedom, for a brief moment before it crashes against the drywall separating brother from sister and shatters, to, disappointingly, only 5 or 6 pieces. The glue is remarkably strong. I string what’s left from the ceiling by fishing wire. Heroes of war.

When we moved into our house in 2000, I received a box of my old toys, and found a dozen or so model airplanes. All broken and busted, perfectly painted and detailed.

What happened?

Nothing happened. That’s how fighters look in real life.

l'eg(g)o

I long for the anonymity I suffered as a child, moving from town to town, across state lines; through to college and a year abroad, where even my language sounds unfamiliar, to them and me alike. It's anonymity from self that I find so attractive now. Friends would wonder in fear and angst and nauseating uncertainty, 'who am I?', 'what will I be?', and I shudder. I'm not ready to know, and the fear for me would lie in finding out. I enjoy my ego-mystique, having learned long ago that I prefer the company of strangers over kin. I like sharing this skin with someone who hasn't shared all his thoughts. To share my face and name does not, for me, betray that anonymity. I still don't know who I am. The photo's moot. Well, maybe not legally so. The post office has galleries upon galleries to the contrary.

Never truer than shopping for groceries. I never run into acquaintances in Aisle 5, I run. In Aisle 2, I browse seasonal ales, wondering if this one really tastes like winter wheat, or that one like polar bear milk. I ignore the ones that promise flavors of drool and mistletoe, both potentially poisonous, depending on the dose. And Cindy peruses wine, not a man's breadth from where I stand, cooled by the freezer and cooler in cognito. I feel her eyes lift towards my profile and I clutch the bottles close to my chest; my shopping done; my selection made by my desire to flee this erstwhile acquaintance. I pray that those words ringing in my head, 'Hi Brandon!' are reminiscences of strangers happy to see me, correctly guessing my name, or perhaps reading a conference name tag, still glued to my lapel. And not real words, real wonderment in having, how you humans say, 'run into an old acquaintance in Aisle 2.'

I think she's following me now, to be sure. I'm faster than Cindy, my years as a former ex-volunteer Firefighter/EMT, or FEVFFEMT for shor(r)t, paying off now, and I'm not against breaking my hand through the glass and setting off the sprinkler system to complete my escape and moisten the produce, Aisle 12. She'll ask me, perhaps even sincerely, how I'm doing and who am I and WHAT WILL I BE, and I'll tell her she doesn't know me, though she might recognize the face. And maybe even the faded name badge, hanging from the sleeve of my jacket.

1994

They used to sell tickets at the station, thick cardboard stubs the size of half-sticks of gum. One for the fare and one for the transfer.

Talk to me about letting go and I will tell you about a steam line between two medieval villages that will roll over your cares. For the loose change in your pocket you can ride through fields of ox pulled plows. At the stations in between you can step into the air, tumble the ticket stubs in your palm like worry stones, one for the transfer and one for the fare.

Buy a tiny bottle of vodka from a kiosk with Ceausescu’s youthful image on its face. Back into your cabin as the whistle blows. Write one last letter that will make no more sense in these new times than engines run on steam between farmland strung taught and together by oxen. No more sense than cardboard ticket stubs, punched neat and clean and returned with tightness of smile; stiffness of step. Paid.

At Medias, you finish your letter in the park. Throw it on the street. You can’t send it to her anymore, that past passed into a time when fire moved steel along iron lines before curious oxen. Stumble now, by now the vodka bottle light in your pocket, back to the station. Buy your tickets home. One for the transfer, one for the fare.

smell the pretty flowers

Worse
Wasn’t there a whole roll of toilet paper here a minute ago?

Worser
Why won’t the toilet flush?

Worsest
What’s all this then? Why is there raw sewage floating in the yard?

Worstliest
Who should I call?

The POLICE.

The police will fix our septic tank?

The POLICE will keep me from killing our child.

So who’s gonna fix the septic tank?

I am.

You?!? VLAHAHAHAHAHAHA-

…

Wait, are you serious?

When you own your own home, it’s you who fixes it. That’s the rules.

Do you hear yourself talking?

I’m gonna need a shovel. And a case of Coors Light. No, scratch that. Better make it regular Coors. I’m gonna need all the energy I can get.

* * *
1 hour later

Tristan wants to know if he can help you. He thinks you’re digging for buried treasure.

Fine. Just be sure and explain the risk he’s taking by approaching me while I’m holding a shovel.

* * *
2 hours later

I think I found it.

That’s the septic tank? What do you do now?

Well, it’s easy. You just remove the inspection cover over the baffle and remove the trapped debris.

Are you sure?

Well, that’s what this user’s manual says.

You’re reading the back of the beer can.

Could you hand me a couple more inspection manuals, please?

* * *
All CLEAR.

You FIXED it?

Yep. And I didn’t even have to stick my hand in there.

YAYYY…

Much.

yyy-ohh. Speaking of, you think you could go tell Tristan you’re not mad at him anymore? I think he’s real sorry for what happened.

Yeah, no problem. Just as soon as I clean up. Um, hey, wasn’t there a whole roll of toilet paper here a minute ago?

Horrid, By Request

Claypot requested I post something horrid, and even though she has BROKEN MY HEART, I will oblige.

Fucking with my Inner Critic

You're worthless.

I got an email saying I could get $20,000 for my body parts! You know, for science. The human body is like a gold mine of parts and services that can be tapped time and time again!

You can't sell your body for science.

I got $25 in college for semen donation!

That’s because no girl wanted you.

It felt good!

You're ugly.

I got $20 auctioning my hair! I think they used it to make rope ; (

You're fat.

WTF?

Er, you're skinny?

Sweet.

You're stupid.

I am, too!

What?

What?

You're a failure.

33 years and no prison time yet!

Your blog sucks.

How would you know unless you read it?

I heard.

You let other people determine your opinions?

Well, this entry sucks.

That's by intention.

Nobody likes you.

I like you.

No, I'm talking about you, not me.

It's not your fault.

Stop it. I know it's not my fault.

It's not your fault.

If you hug me, I’ll give you migraines.

Mmmm…demerol…

You’re worthless.

Wait, I think you said that one, already.

Oh. Uh, you’re, uh, really…uh…

You wanna grab a Lowenbrau?

That’s what I’m talkin’ about!

You are so bizarre.

Mille Stones

It can frustrate me to no end when I point out small animals and large monuments from the car window driving through remote bad lands of Wyoming (I KNOW) when you don’t look, cause I know we ain’t turning around. I’ll stop 10 times an hour for boy/girl break, wineSIP, picture clicks and new air, but turning around and going BACK physically hurts. So when you mumble ‘mm-hmm’ without so much as looking at the deer and the antelope plain, I feel the minutes making me older.

* * *
I didn’t know how important presentation was in food until I fell in love. Food with good presentation is like making love to someone you love, versus groping towards completion with some strange person-like creature in a basement at a party to which you weren’t invited. Oh, the difference, pretty princess. Yesterday, I ate a tuna fish on white with a plastic cup full o’boxed wine. I closed my eyes and prayed for it to be over quickly.

I can afford better. Money’s not the issue. So much as nostalgia. Addiction.

* * *
I’m older. Yesterday, Tristan pushed his bowl of soup towards you and said, ‘I need more details, please.’

‘What the hell is he talking about?’

‘I think he wants more carrots.’

‘What are details?’

Tristan says, ‘Details are extras, Dad.’

‘Give the man more details,’ I says.

* * *
I came across a web directory that described HERE as a ‘Diary from a father not interested in fatherhood.’ I mentioned this to her, and that I was in uttercomplete agreement. Sometimes I hate being a father. Tormented by girls out there who describe happy times and daddy-daughter dates and being made to feel special, and the measures don’t measure up. Sorry for the sobs,* but no man has ever put his arms around me and said ‘love ya, kid, let’s go build a tree fort,’ and all that. So my affection feels like groping.

‘Dad, will you sleep with me tonight?’

‘Go ahead, he’s scared. The power went out.’

‘Sure, buddy. But if you roundhouse kick me to the face, I’m throwing you from the bunk, punk.’

He laughs, ‘HAHAHAHAHAHA!’

; )

I’m not interested in Fatherhood.

* for example of proper parenting, please visit Jessica.

* * *
I called him today because he fell ill.

‘Dad, I got the pink-eye.’

HAHAHAHA!

‘It’s not nice to laugh.’

‘One day you’ll understand, Tristan. I’m not really laughing. You just make me smile, that’s all.’

‘Mom says I have to get eye drops. Will they hurt?’

‘Yeah, sorry. Those pink-eye-drops are like rage-cream. Not even terrorists will touch the stuff.’

‘DAAAAD!’

* * *
Dear Future Partner Of My Daughter,

Naya loses allsenseE whenever she finds ink dispenserage. Usually lying around, or digging through my pockets.

‘I want paPER,’ she yells.

I carry a little notepad, my Marble Memo. But I am on the last sheet. The wine prohibits my movements.

‘Here,’ I hand her my arm.

Dear Future Partner,

When you find yourself fortunate enough to lie as her canvas, please lie still. She loves you, but will not tolerate movement, and you have become depersonified momentarily, but you’ll find the effort worth every second. Take quick breaths when she lifts her pen to complete new circles. Don’t talk to her until she’s done, and you’ll know she’s done when she stops grunting and puts down the pen and walks away, no longer interested in the myriad lines and shapes. Don’t wash them off. It’s part of the deal.

Don’t try to tell me that you’ve given a little, so she should, too.

With these kinds of friendships, the last thing you want to do is settle accounts.

* * *
I tell him, ‘There are ten body parts of only three letters.’

He thinks for a bit, and giggles.

‘None of the words ends with the letter S.’

/still giggling

‘Nor T!’

He leaves, suddenly bored with the game.

* * *
I’m not interested in Fatherhood.

One day you ask him if he wants to bunk, and he says, ‘No.’

A week goes by, and you ask again.

‘No. I’m too big for that, now.’

And then you realize you celebrated a final day (milestone) a few weeks back without even knowing it. That's how I celebrate milestones, now, naively, in oblivion. For granted.

* * *
‘What was it?’

‘If you had looked, you’d KNOW!’

‘Well, just turn around.’

‘There ain’t no turnin’ back, princess. Next time, look, okay? Please?’

/smiles

‘Oh, don’t smile.’

/laughs

‘Fine, we’ll turn around. Just this once.’

The Gig is Up

Not long after we met, you took my hand and traced ink flowers into my palm, sending too many waves through my senses, filling me with overwhelming affection; to drown in my own desire, as if from water intoxication. From the first moment, you overran my banks, levee bursting, a storm. I remember those first stories of your life, with heart-rending detail…

Heart rending? Maybe you mean heart wrenching.

Uh, I’m sort of in the middle of something.

Sorry.

With heart-rending…

Or maybe you mean heart rendering?

What? Heart rendering? What, are we turning her history into Puppy Chow?

Ha! That’s funny.

Fine. With details as sweet as…

Splenda?

Uh. Hmm. Look, I don’t know how to say this, but I think it’s time we saw other people.

You’re breaking up with your Muse?

Emotionally, I left long ago.

But I’m only trying to help. You can’t just make up your own rules for spelling and grammar. Lately, nothing you’ve written makes any sense at all. It reflects poorly upon me, too, you know. Remember, it’s a public blog.

I wanted to fill you with the warmth and beauty of…

New windows?

I wanted to treat you as though my conscience depended upon my every misdeed, because in the end, I have to lie in the bed I make; I have to sleep with myself at night…

What is that? A euphemism for diddling?

That’s it. Please leave.

You cannot write without a muse.

I’ll post an opening on Craig’s List.

* * *

/10 minutes later

Seattle
Gigs
Creative
Tue Jan 17
Experienced Muse Needed
Reply to: brandon@onechildleftbehind.com
Date: 2006-01-16, 11:43PM PST

Mediocre blogger seeking occasional, but ongoing Muse.

Qualified candidate must:
* Inspire, without correcting grammar or spelling (I occasionally misuse your for you’re, all right?)
* Be a smoker, or have similar bad habit
* Meet deadlines, typically 11 pm on weeknights, Monday through Thursday
* Have working knowledge of standard 80s arena rock lyrics

Additional pluses:
* Live in the South Puget Sound
* Know a terrific drink recipe that combines dry vermouth, Worcestershire sauce, Jose Cuervo and sour apple brandy

# this is in or around Seattle
# no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
# Compensation: based on experience

Soft Focus

Not until you live on the other side of those eyes do you know how she feels when she looks at him, catch her or not, until the naïve innocent deception, like vise-grips of the trade, do you realize. How soft her focus is on the outline of his cheeks, the room so dark that the eyes hidden by silhouette, more so. Flush of skin when she sees you looking. Celebration.

* * *

Talking about 1940

Alex and her sister argue over details.

No, she was the only one marched through the streets.
Not her husband?
No, just her, completely naked.
She wasn’t naked!
Yes, she was! Grandmother told me!
Oh, my god, no wonder she was so scary!

* * *

On the beach we find the near skeletal remains of a shrub, though a few green leaves hold on, and a tuft of white flowers that make me think it might be Oceanspray, but the flowers turn out to be sea foam, and he tells me it’s Kinnikinnick.

Some of the leaves, still vibrant. Wonder if it had survived the wind and waves, the uprooting. Wonder if it might make a home here along the beach, learn to drink salt; feed like crabs off the waste that settles to the sand.

* * *

Her great-grandmother found herself in a wealthy life between the wars.

She had time to learn the art of folding envelopes.

One of those envelopes remained in a box of photos she left behind. At first, it seemed old, like perhaps how envelopes were made 80 years ago, the adhesive deteriorating, the corners folded from the contractions of humidity and pressure. Not a gift. One corner breaks off, brittle. The envelope no longer works.

I remove the photo inside and throw the envelope in the trash. A few pieces of it may still lie encrusted in dried strawberry preserves mixed among a landfill up the road, 4,000 miles from where it was delicately folded and sent to the man in the photo, before he died on the frontlines days before his country switched sides and marched with the enemy against the former allies.

But by this time, she had been marched naked through the streets, and was now rooted in a village a hundred miles away.

* * *

1940, Cont.

Where was her husband?
In jail…he was turned in for making jokes against the Nazis.
Is that where he died?
She sold everything to get a lawyer, and freed him. But they conscripted him to fight the Russians. That’s where he died. Right before we changed sides.

I interrupt with a story about finding a WWII-era bullet casing in Rasinari, hiking with Dorin.

Probably. There are bullets all over that land.

Odd. The use of 1st person plural to assume ownership of a decision made long before we were born, even while many stood in protest. History lumps us all together. We'll take responsibility in the eyes of our descendants for the decisions of others.

* * *

You invest your hope into this castaway, and smile, because, after all, its leaves still green; the way creatures cross the ocean. Why not survive along the beach. Why not make a home here a hundred miles away. But there are fewer leaves today than yesterday. And not a single thing lives this close to the shore.

Instead, I walk along a bone-field of weathered driftwood.

* * *

It frightens me to catch her watching him. Like switching sides amidst the conflict. Like punishment for a poorly timed joke. Like inadequacy, and driftwood. I imagine myself as all of these, a loose shrub along the beach; a displaced refugee, marched naked for the indiscretion of others; a sheet of paper, carefully folded and pressed, but discarded nonetheless. A footnote, to be mentioned 80 years from now among friends along a beach, regardless of the accuracy of detail.

Signs of Life

For Alex's birthday I rented out a suite on the Ocean for us and 4 of our friends, so you may have noticed I haven't posted much in awhile. I've been busy, and by busy, I mean I've been drunk and without a reliable wi-fi connection, and by without a reliable wi-fi connection, i mean, thankthesweetlordsheonlyhas1birthdayperyear.

But for the most part, it was a great trip and a gorgeous view from the balcony and a radio station that played all 80s all the time. And only once did we fight hard enough to break hotel belongings, and that's when Journey's Open Arms came on, and SHE WOULDN'T SHOW STEVE PERRY THE PROPER RESPECT BY NOT BREATHING THROUGH HER MOUTH. And to rub it in, she said, 'Who eez deez? Rod Stewart?'

And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that you shouldn't post blog entries when you are 1. drunk, 2. out-of-town, 3.homicidal.

You know, because of the evidence.

My Proud and Diverse Heritage

The impossibly lovely Lisa Whiteman ran her face through the celebrity face comparison engine at myheritage.com and got an unexpected result. I thought, I’ve beaten myself up enough this past year with narcissistic deprecation (alleviated only when jessica cutler added me to her sidebar), so in solidarity, I ran a few photos through myself.

By the way, Lisa: Natalie Portman. And that’s all I’m gonna say about that (and why it is I have such a huge crush on you).

Like Lisa, I have heard a baffling array of who looks like me (David Duchovny, Zach Braff, Harold Ramis), but none of those people are experts. The only expert, as you know, is the Internets. So here is the Internets' judgments (yes, you may 'click' on photo for larger image):


Alanis Morissette. Yes, I think it’s ironic. Well, as ironic as rain on your wedding day. So, I guess, not ironic at all. Just depressing, really.


Al Pacino. Well, the OLD Al Pacino, anyway. I don’t watch movies, so I was a little disconcerted by this choice. I thought the guy was dead.


John Williams. I love John Willams! He’s the guy who did all the music to Star Wars, right? It is an honor to be compared to him, and by ‘honor’ I mean OMFG, WTF?


Tupac. I wonder if I’ll get my own cult?


Elvis Costello. I always thought he was, you know, different looking. In any case, I just fed-exed 25 copies of this photo to Diana Krall. /crosses fingers


Still Alive Al Pacino. This looks like a public service announcement titled, “I thought I couldn’t get herpes from Al Pacino. I thought wrong.”

BREAKTHROUGH

The Old Me
Reads the entire book even if the first 150 dreadful pages* feels like that time I rubbed turpentine into my eyes

*synecdoche

Hopes for happy ending.

The New Me
1979
-Edge!
My little sister stomps her feet,
-You had the edge coming here!
-EDGE!
-That’s the rule, sweetie. Whoever calls the edge first gets to sit in front.
-You always liked him more!
-I love you both the same.
/smiles while sister cries in the back seat.
/feels horribly guilty 27 years later.

The New Me
Gives muted* feedback in order to spare feelings.

*dishonest

Happy ending assured.

The Old Me
January 9, 2006
-So how would you describe my personality.
-Well, I guess you’re fairly pessimistic. You go through long stretches of moodiness. I mean, it’s not your fault, or anything.
/she cries at foot of bed
/feels horribly guilty 27 hours later

The Old Me
1992
I am like her favorite pair of poorly fitting shoes. I make her look good*, but leave her unable to bear any weight on her feet at the end of the day. She still can’t bring herself to throw me out.

*really good

The New Me
I am my own worst pair of shoes.

TequilaCon, Politics and Comment Orgies, But Not in That Order

Sorry for all of you whom I’m about to offend, but I need to talk politics here for just a sec, in order to introduce the latest installment of TequilaCon06 update. Those of you who know of my politics know that I’m very much so, even though I can walk a mean fence post, meaning, I fall down regularly on both sides, even though I mean to fall down on one particular side usually, I just drink too much and typically fall towards whichever hand is holding the bottle. Whew!

But this is about Europe. Look, I know when each of us is out there boarding plywood over cave entrances, holding our pitchforks and lit torches, we’re united. But that don’t mean we should be picking on Europe. I think we can all agree that Europe has given this land of ours many, many servings of shiny/new. Above all else, many of us who grew up in the 80s owe an extreme debt of gratitude to Europe for this 1986 classic:

"The Final Countdown"
We're leaving together
But still it's farewell
And maybe we'll come back
To earth, who can tell
I guess there is no one to blame
We're leaving ground (leaving ground)
Will things ever be the same again
It's the final countdown...
The final countdown
Ooh oh

HOPEFULLY YOU CAN HEAR ME OVER THE MAD SYNTH INTERLUDE! I JUST WANTED TO SAY /interrupted by girlish screams AHEM, I JUST WANTED TO SAY THANKS FOR ALL THE GREAT EMAILS LATELY, SORRY ABOUT KEEPING COMMENTS CLOSED /interrupted by fireworks display shooting in general direction OUCH! HEY! ANYWAY, WE’VE GOT A GREAT SHOW TODAY, AND COMMENTS ARE BACK ONLINE! TEQUILACON DATES HAVE BEEN SET! APRIL 21-23, 2006! THANKS, JEN! /Interrupted by Jen screaming from burning herself with cigarette lighter swaying to the music AND PEEFER IS HOSTING THE LATEST INSTALLMENT OF ‘COMMENT ORGY MEME’!

SO STICK AROUND! IT’S TUESDAY! IF YOU LEAVE ME A COMMENT, MAKE SURE IT’S MEAN CAUSE I NEED MORE BLURBS FOR MY SIDEBAR! WHOOOO!

/Fade to credits
/Cue the ducks

3…
2…
1…

On Writing and the New Sock Drawer Rule, and Uh, Suicide Bombers, Sort of

The sock drawer rule is how I judge my writing. My writing instructor in college (who would probably laugh if I told her I was still writing, and then snort coke out her nose if I subsequently cried 'blog') didn't like my writing, and it was the one thing we had in common. Except for that we both wear glasses and probably suffer through bouts of alcohol fueled depression, followed by alcohol fueled recovery, and topped off with alcoholic alcohol nightcaps/dayquils. Quill means writer, right? If you're reading this, Teacher, please know that I hate my writing far worse than you ever could. You lose. I hope you can deal with not measuring up to me in this one regard. The student has now become the mastah! KaPOW, cheers.

But my writing instructor passed muster as a teacher, if not a friend, because I still remember all those things she said. She said that you should take whatever you write and put it in your sock drawer, and then later, much later, read it again. If you can stomach it, then start editing, cause you got it to good. I even bought a sock drawer, forsaking the space underneath my futon as a clothes organizer henceforth and forever.

She didn't say what to do if the writing merely smelled of fabric softener after its month-long exile.

I'm guessing you should just throw it away and hope you don't remember. The nice thing about writing on napkins is that the story still has some use as a coaster long after you've realized the words act like jagged rocks bearing the weight of the rope you're using to scale Mt. Esteem. Paper just gets tossed. As Rosie Thomas says in her song Farewell, farewell.

I was writing to a friend about this, a friend whom I'll call 'Gadzooks.' Gadzooks, I worked on that birthday piece for two weeks, and no matter how many socks I piled on top of that helluvabitch, I couldn't get it to good. Gatt dmnit . If I could just commit to sentimentality and go with it, instead of flirting around the edges and turning away right when the hot cowboy stares back at me, I'd be fine. Gadzooks tried to tell me this on Saturday night, and even though I tried to take notes on my iPaq and MARBLE MEMO, I couldn't follow through. But by this time it was Sunday morning, and all I could think about was how every bull elk has 20 cows all to his own. I told Gadzooks that it could be that these were most likely suicide bomber reincarnates. Or do they get 99 virgins? Maybe it's measured in weight. 20 elk heifers must be about the same as 99 al-concubines.

The new sock drawer rule is how I judge my weblog posts. I develop lines. Single lines, sometimes even just simple phrases. I save them in OpenOffice documents in an electronic file called Sock Drawer. I revisit these pages and try to make sense of it all. I suppose I should probably type those sentences in bold, to remind myself of where all this jagged writing got its primordial spark. I hate wanting to write. Words are deflator mice.

Happy Birthday, Alex

You have an irrational fear of bears.

* * *
When you were only 22, I took you for a walk in Cedar Bluff State Park in Kansas. You asked,

- Are there bears?

- There’s corn.

- Don’t bears eat corn?

- As long as we outrun the corn, we’ll be fine.

* * *
I have an irrational fear of missing fine details. I piece together images taken from the stories you’ve told me, running scenes through my head until it’s enough. 30 years. Today it’s enough.

* * *
You know I’ve always held too little regard for order. I ask you to tell me, but jump from year to decade, and back, asking unfocused questions that must frustrate you to no end. It’s how I need to know you.

* * *
I would forsake grace to see these moments.

* * *
August 1994. I’m walking along Str. Nicolae Balcescu, by myself for the first time. But I stop before reaching Piata Mare, drawn through a passage that ends in a deep blue wall. Past this point I descend the outer wall of the Old City. Across the street from where I now stand is a hospital.

I would forsake grace to stand here on January 9, 1976, the day you were born, to be in the presence of the world at that moment, to notice the change in colors in sky, fine details I would dedicate to memory. I would feel the day grow warmer at your arrival, watch icicles begin to melt with your presence. I would stay on this side of the street and watch your father greet you from the sidewalk.

* * *
I cross the street, busier now with newer cars, German BMWs and Opels, signs of the new freedoms. No one stands outside the hospital now, no ghosts of future husbands giving up their place in heaven to watch the present birth of future wives. The next street, Str. Gimnasticii, draws me in further. I know one block over is Lucian Blaga, with its linden trees shading the houses of former Party members, communist bears; lush, guarded homes with wide sidewalks in front. But I’m distracted by a terra cotta building flying a Romanian flag. Distracted not by the flag, which may have once had its center torn out, but by nicks in the paint. Walking closer to the walls, I see that the nicks are bullet holes.

* * *
I would forsake grace to stand in front of you in December 1989, even knowing full well that you made it home safely. Just two weeks from your 14th birthday, watching your mother disintegrate along with the rest of her country, coming out of hiding to scream for the fall of a dictator, ducking back behind terra cotta and linden, coming out again in rage and panic, running home, where for weeks you boiled the water, rumors of poison and retribution. I would forsake grace to drink that first cup.

* * *
The bullet holes force me back towards the city center, in this memory that I now manipulate for my own benefit; to avoid that first failure of mine, not being here for you, spending my days more concerned with driving lessons and winter homecoming a world away.

* * *
Pride of your accomplishments must seem like those bears to you. When you look back at what you’ve overcome, you run away, fleeing through sunflower fields rather than facing the merits of what you’ve earned.

* * *
As a child, you stand outside at 2 in the morning, impossibly cold, and quite possibly bitter; You shouldn’t be here in this moment, shivering, waiting for a bit of food. I would have you accept the rewards of your sacrifice, and then wipe this wretched scene from your memory.

* * *
As a girl, you stand outside a bar mustering the courage to enter and drag your father home, his paycheck already spent, but you walk in anyway and navigate the darkened room no safer than among the flying bullets of a revolution. I think I understand your fear of bears. I would have you acknowledge the courage you show in this scene, and I would forsake grace if I could then wipe it from your memory.

* * *
You told me once that in the middle of a game, your coach hit you in the face for not following his instructions. I dare not think about this scene too often, or how desperately I want to catch his hand. But to do so would rob you of your moment. You stand up to him. For the first time, I’m sure he knows what it’s like to fear a woman. He never touched you again. I would let you keep this memory, Alex, though I would wipe it from my own mind.

* * *
I count the concrete steps of your flat, one for each loved one you’ve lost, one for each gained. I knock on the door, and present you with flowers. Your father pours me a drink. Your grandmother kisses me on the cheek and howls in laughter. Bianca sniffs my boots. Your mother takes my coat. Grace has brought me to this memory, 11 years ago, Alex. And grace has allowed me to wish you happy birthday every year since.

* * *
Before you go to sleep, you place a sprig of basil beneath your pillow. It’s a very old custom. The dreams you have on this night hold great importance, and clues to your future. I forsake what little grace I have left to make those happy dreams; full of hope and promise of what’s to come; and free of the bears that have haunted you all these years, in all their fleeting forms.

X Ties

Every January, the field underneath the abandoned Vail water tank fills with Roosevelt elk, come down from the Cascades, impelled by rising snows. - January 2000.

* * *
-

She rarely talks at the Cougar Mountain Store, though she must recognize our boy faces, our dirty hair, and loose fitting uniforms. The EMTs are here, honey, the storeowner tells her, stroking her head, over the thinning patch that the girl has scarred from scratching. Sometimes, the scalp is bleeding, and you always notice that she fiddles with her hands these days, clicking the right thumbnail underneath the left index.

I always forget their names, but I know the name of the man who lets her live at his house. C-----. I’ve written C----- into other reports, passive aggressive ‘he spanks her’, line marking out ‘spank’, scratched through the whole thing, re-written, '22 Year Old Female states C----- caused marks on upper thighs.' I’ve never seen C-----, but I know he’s 45, he’s slightly overweight and balding, roughly how tall he is, and I picture him driving up and down Lake Lawrence Road looking for runaways, even if they only ran down a little from the Cascades, impelled by rising snows. - January 2002.


* * *

The elk descend reluctantly. Fleeing the rising snows, falling into the hills for food like clothespin reindeer, getting no closer to human contact than mortally necessary. The rising snows cover their food. They must wake to dread as the nights pass, more drifts keeping them from sustenance, forcing them to climb even lower towards human contact. By December, they begin to cross the Weyerhaueser forest roads, sickened by the sound of their hooves on gravel, starving for food, sickened by the thought of human contact, starving for food. - January 2000.

* * *
-

I like this girl’s eyes, how they’re not vacant and distant, even though the rest of her fled years back, like the way her ribs look like cross ties on the bridge over the Lower Deschutes. You can go back to your momma, the storeowner tells her. Don’t you love your momma, girl?

If by love you mean we’re blood, then yeah, I love her. I finish taking her vitals, her history. An awful thought in my head, maybe I could look after her for awhile, she could stay with me, safely tucked between the rising snow and gravel roads. I finish the report and wait outside til the sheriff makes his long drive in from town. - January 2002.


* * *

I strike a flare 200 feet from the accident, and lay it on top of another flare, crossways in a V, so that when the one burns down to the end it will light the other. Take a look at the size of that thing, the driver says. I see the car, first, utterly caved in and useless. Across the road, the elk lies completely still, not a mark, save for a fist sized hole of blood in the snow beneath its mouth. - January 2000.

Mens Sana in Corpore Wino

But you're smart.

I'm really not.

Why do you always tell people you're dumb, when you know perfectly well that you're a genius?

Because I'm not.

How come people are always calling you asking questions?

Probably cause I wear glasses.

Weren't you in MENSA?

You don't have to be smart to be in MENSA. You just have to have $35.

You fixed our radiator with egg whites!

I got that from MacGyver, but fine, sure, whatever, I’m smart, so could you pick me up another box 'o wine?

I just bought you one yesterday.

Yeah, I know. That might explain why I can’t feel my lips. Hey, maybe you should pick up a beaker, too. That’s how Paddington Bear drank, you know.

God, you're so dumb.

Mapquest

1. Starting in 1986, take US-89, go 329 mi
The sign reads Grand Canyon 5 mi

Can we go?

No.

She strokes his shoulder and looks back at us with a silent finger to her lips. We lay back down in the Arizona July, summer off/in-between.

2. 1986 becomes 2002, merge onto US-212, go 66.9 mi
Mass Wasting? The downward fall of matter due to gravitational stress. We manage the switchbacks along the Beartooth Highway with ease, Tristan sleeping through the alpine scenery; the hills will fall three years from now.

Somewhere along here is the Mae West curve.

Who's that?

An actress from a long time ago. Why don't you come up and see me some time? Very shapely. Like the curves and colors of this path along the top of the world.

3. Continue on FIREHOLE AVE, turn away from 1986. Be QUIET for 296.6 mi
Shapes and colors swirl; swirls and colors shape. The heat passes over the skin on my eyelids, and suddenly filled with glimpses of bare shoulder, like a flesh covered granite massif; downslope now, giving to gravity’s stress;

I’m dreaming this place.

The dream swirls in color and sound, glimpses of shoulder, breathing on warm skin. Building until no return; panic, switchback.

4. Wake UP, now
I wake up, lying on a mattress in a moving van. My sister next to me reading a magazine; Kirk Cameron smiles at me from the cover.

Even before the dream it was 4 corners hot.

I wonder if I made noises in my sleep; groaned, or moved. Oh, good fucking lord, not HERE. I shift under the mattress, cringing at the movement of the fruits of my midsummer’s labor; Mass Wasting.

Uh, when are we gonna stop?

We just got gas. Not for another 3 hours. Be quiet.

She looks back at us and places a silent finger to her lips.

You should have woken UP. We're not stopping.

5. Turn L on S PLATT AVE – go < 0.1 mi Arrive at RED LODGE, MT
Tristan wakes UP.

Can we stop?

Here?

I’m sorry.

She places a silent finger to his lips.

Don’t be.

Where are we?

The most beautiful highway in the world.

HORSE

H
Most of all, I fight with you over the least consequence. Boy-o, this is some kind of joke, I think, time speeding up so that the numbers jump in twos and threes. I turn the hotel alarm clock to the wall; thorny reminder.

You gonna come next to me?

I think I’ll stay here, I laugh.

I laugh and I go over anyway and lay down next to her, the familiar place; we lay like this long ago on the shores of a lake, whose name escapes me, devoured by mosquitoes. They’re so full the poor things can’t fly. Look, they’re walking home.

It was funny at the time, but the last things I needed were reminders. Nothing worked on those goddamned bites. I scratched for days until I decided to scratch them away, and scratched to no end and no good. The last things I needed, scars like reminders, scars for weeks, were reminders of not staying away.

Are you gonna come over? she asked, this time from Utah, I think.

No.

It’s your turn.

O
Scratches like reminders. I remember one time asking why he did it. Well, sugar, your mother hurt him, too. He showed me the scratches on his back. It was awful.

We have three firs in our yard, like Orion’s Belt, the first constellation I learned, while other children were converse in dippers and northern stars. Goddamned drunk of a fool; never explaining the lessons, not even expecting us to learn as we went. Just repeating whatever came to mind, and we were sometimes lucky enough to pick up the scraps. And sometimes not. Every now and again you read the news and hear a story about a child whose parents have died, taking care of his younger siblings under the radar of social services and off the grid; but you never heard about us. He was no different than that abandoned older brother to me and my sister. Yeah, older, sure. Well, there you have me.

What were you telling your grandma?

Scratches, like memories.

Goddamn it. Turn around.

R
We’re too ill adept at judging our own self-worth. We believe we deserve too little. And, rarely, too much. And still we take outside of our fair share, dipping into the community chest, replacing stolen whiskey with drops of tap water, even borrowing clothes.

Whose is this?

It’s mine.

I’ve never seen it before.

I just got it.

It looks worn.

Haven’t you heard? Everything old is new.

Don’t talk to me.

Watch the road. You’ll miss your turn.

S
I remember our science teacher, Mr. Sebaugh, teaching us about mixtures and combinations, how a little of something was fine, but too much led to fire. He squeezed two drops and nothing, pretty colors and calm waters. One more drop and a bang, smoke and flame. Formulas. We tried to get him to explain erasable ink pens, but he’d have none of it.

Those things don’t work. When you make an error, draw a single line through the word. Erasing it leaves a bigger mess than correcting the mistake.

It seemed to make so much sense, we repeated it when he got home, shooting baskets in the driveway.

I shoot. Brick. The ball bounces.

If you hit the car again, you're gonna eat that ball.

Your shot.

Nah. Come on, let's go play something else.

E
Words are borrowed, words are blue. She buys me a tiny journal and pays me a dollar for each poem. She noticed me scribbling rhymes, practicing really. My dog. The sunlight, and swimming.

I’ll give you a dollar for each one.

There are only so many dogs, no sunlight in the winter, and I had said everything I had ever wanted to say about swimming. I quit after the second one.

But tonight, words will be old, and words will be new. She spins the bottle and kisses me, because I’m the only boy around, but nonetheless, I’m the only boy around.

And years from now, I’ll step back and remember my place, dangerously close to pet names and improper endearments.

And years from then, it will all catch up, and maybe that’s when I’ll make my turn for the worse. I will have taken my fair share of shots; too little, and, rarely, too much.