/ Minor Feats

I fear I may have recently shot myself in the foot, as the saying goes, and it was bad timing all around as I had only just inserted my foot into my mouth. FAIL. I think it’s because I grew up being asked what I wanted to be when I grew up instead of the far more important HOW DO YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GROW UP? Consequently, I have a fear of ubiquitous questions, and have learned to answer A DOCTOR every time the real answer might erase the hopeful look off of the inquisitive face.

Once I said, ‘I don’t know. I just want to be happy.’

“HAPPY WON’T BUY A HOME”

“AN ASTRONAUT! NO, NO, I MEAN A DOCTOR!”

Talk is cheap, apparently, but bluster pays the mortgage.

Totally unrelated, there are three cans of diet coke on my desk, and each one is about ¼ full.

I have begun to walk lately as though my steps are a cascade of imminent falling, and I always seem to need something to lean on when I stop, a fence post or a tree, and in the open field I have no choice but to crouch low to the ground and am subsequently intimate with all the nameless knees in my neck of the woods. It is easy on my feet, but an invitation to unwanted questions. Some people don't get any attention as children and need it desperately as adults. Some get the wrong kind when younger and want nothing to do with it when older. It has taken me awhile to learn these are not the same things. But I resist standing up simply to make a point.

But the next thing you know, I am on the opposite end of the questioning, the end that supposedly has all the answers.

“What do you want me to be when I grow up?” he asks me.

“I just want you to be happy.”

“Well, I want to be a scientist.”

Maybe these sorts of things skip a generation.

/ deadly kindness

I have so much in my head and so little to say these days, and it makes for uncomfortable company, I fear, as I am unable to rely upon years of rote conversation to get me through the empty air. Instead of saying something like, 'How's that job of yours?' I am tempted to ask, 'Is it wrong to make out with your cousin's wife, as long as it's not a blood relative?'

They keep trying to trick me into political arguments by mentioning the latest gaffe of so-and-so, knowing that I am quick to a joke, but good luck. I am smart enough to know I cannot possibly be right because no one I ever believe in ever goes on to great things. And I couldn't be happier. Let the suckers take the blame. Besides, who am I to talk, fantasizing about my cousin's wife? You shouldn't be in charge of the machinery when you're intoxicated.

Over the weekend, we drove down to Clark County and wore camouflage and loaded up our paintball guns and ran through the frozen woods like one great long primal scream. At one point I ran too close to the creek, breaking through the ice, losing both of my shoes as my men left me behind. They had no choice, I would only slow them down, or give away our position because I wouldn't stop whistling Dueling Banjos. I crawled back through the slush and the mud, dug out my shoes and prayed to my toes to wake up, wake up, piggies! I searched my pockets for my old zippo lighter, because if I was going to die for my country, by god, I was gonna die warm and with a full set of limbs for my momma to cry over. Two scouts come nearby and I laid into them with what I had left, hitting the first square in the back, who yelled, 'I'm hit! I'm hit!' It was the 11-year old, and I was like, good christ, I just bagged my first child of war. Why is hell so awfully goddamned cold?

There were moments when the shots were tearing up the space around me that I had no choice but to run blindly into the underbrush, and I dove over fallen cedars, and tore through blackberry brambles and the snowberries grabbed my ankles and my shins bore into forgotten barbed wire, and I found myself lying on my back, in a patch of ferns. As the footsteps closed in, I tried to think thoughts of my true love, but my head was then filled with numerous voices asking, 'Who's this, then?' I stood straight up and took two shots to the chest before things got dicey.

I had hidden a twelve pack of Molson in with my gear, which made the long, cold walk back to van somewhat less painful, because by god, if I was gonna die for a mistake, I was at least gonna die with a half-drunk grin on my face for my momma to cry over.

My biggest fear upon getting home was bolting awake in the middle of the night and holding a knife to the darkness in a full bore sweat, but fortunately, all I had at my disposal to defend me from the nightmares was my PDA, and fortunately fortunately, I had some emails which forced me from my delirium because, wow, people!

I woke up to the sound of birds hitting my window. I know it means something. I just don't want to say it out loud.

/ Place, and Time

I absolutely cannot tolerate spending time with someone when they treat you unnaturally nice without telling you they snuck a peak at your medical records and misunderstood lying for dying. The dénouement is hopelessly comical as you are trying to enjoy your red curry 4 out of 5 when you thought 5 meant NOT HOT AT ALL, which is why you should always say 3 when in a foreign land, and in the sincerest of eyes, she asks, 'What is wrong?'

'Oh, it's just that I get so bored fighting crime indirectly through my college and financial aid books that will hopefully lead future criminals to go into something more meaningful like political science or pharmaceuticals. I want to tackle our threats head on, like fighting zombies and illegal aliens. I want people to remember me for lines like, 'The only good zombie is a dead zombie' or 'Sir, unless one of the people hiding underneath the panels of your van is Lou Gramm, you're not understanding me.'

'I don't always understand what you say, and somehow I always liked hearing you say it.'

'Why would you say that? Now, of all times? Don't you dare be nice to me.'

'What were you looking at, out the window?'

It was a black squirrel. We had some in my grandfather's yard. They're not that uncommon, you know, but it's just one of those things you notice and then remember and then feel like it was supposed to be some meaningful part of why you grew up the way you grew up.

'I don't know. I don't remember.'

'You were staring for such a long time. I had to tap you on the shoulder so we could go on with the tour.'

It's just that he never worked my dad too hard, even though hard is how he was brought up. He tried, but maybe he thought that ugly men had no right to question the adoration of a pretty girl for her boy. He was pretty and singular, and she doted on him like he doted on those squirrels. He didn't care for his own son, that's what I was looking at.

'I was thinking about that old printing press. The way they used to bind books in those days.'

"You're not touching your food."

"You are getting so pretty."

"Stop. Give me your camera."

"Why?"

"I want to see what you kept taking pictures of."







"Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to live inside your head."

Sometimes he would get real quiet, like I do when you get worried. He'd have a paper opened up in front of him, but you could tell he wasn't reading anything. Weekends. They had us on weekends, that's why I can never associate him with school work and baseball games. Once, though, it was different. I think mom was sick and there wasn't any choice. We had one of those wooden model car races. They gave us little blocks of pine, and he showed me how to carve it down into something that looked like a real car. And he drilled six holes in the back, filled them with solder. Melted it right into the holes and winked at me. Painted the whole thing yellow and said, 'Tell them your dad helped you.'

"Oh, I don't know. I think the view's so much nicer outside."

/ Notes from a Trip

"To make you laugh," that is what I want, I think, in answer to the question, "Then what do you want?" and what comes out instead is, "Oh, nothing, you know me." It is always such a short pause between that moment when you coyly feign indifference and when your hopes are shattered by the other person saying exactly what it is they think you want them to say.

But, but, I thought...

Don't worry. It doesn't really matter.

The audacity of a species with a life span of some 70 years eternally harping about happily ever after is what I love about people. 'Always,' he says, and she answers, 'Forever.' (INFINITY + INFINITY = FTW) And it is bought, swallowed and marketed en masse. There are individuals who have made their entire livings painting portraits of actors portraying fictional characters from books representing eternal love for posters hung in Eastern European alleyways advertising films produced a half a world away in a country where the divorce rate would result in a pre-school phonics grade of High Potential for Improvement.

But what she says, instead, is, "I know what you want. You can have it."

Older women are so wise in their understanding. You can almost feel the strings, you are tempted to yell, 'Easy on the elbows! I'm a real boy!' Their laughter is like a bellows, stoking a coal fueled fire. She laughs, like the melted ice challenging the nerve of these temperate winters.

On the 23rd floor, you realize that everyone is naked on their balconies at this height, because why wouldn't they be? We are all doing this together.

It is all changing, all of this, changing how we used to feel normal. We try to see what's behind the glass in the aquarium, but are blocked by a group of people, each taking picture upon picture, not actually seeing what they've paid to see, but photographing it, taking these memories with them to look at in the confines of their homes. Snap, snap, snap. I wonder, will they put photo albums together, dozens upon dozens of blurry jellyfish pictures? Or will they get home and after deleting 78 jellyfish photos think, "I don't even remember seeing any jellyfish"? Oh, I get it.

I'm on the inside looking out.

/ god, happy birthday, alex

justice is shouting until someone gets tired of the noise, and affection notices it coming down the street, forgets her name, thinks, damn, and turns in the opposite direction, puts the navel oranges back onto the streetside stand and silently walks away, so that you should worry when it gets too quiet. when favorite shapes are the lines on your back after awkward sleep there is something like shouting in your head, like, 'OH YES, THIS IS IT,' but in reality, you are very quiet, as the light filters through the buildings on the east side streets, and this light is very quiet, but still somehow hits your eyes like shouting. it is glorious to wake to such apparent contradiction. silence and shouting, touch and confusion.

sea and sky, however, are not opposites, as we might believe, both blue and the cause of it, neither impermanent nor pertinent, both solid when very cold. we turn the heat down and open the windows, wake freezing, but covered in sweat. this is contradiction, the two opposite ends of the magnet overcoming what's left of reasonable force with fingertips and abandoned determination.

"What if you meet him here?" he asks. "Right here on the street, right here where no one is expecting you?"

"I will keep walking."

"What if he calls out to you?"

"I won't hear it," she says. "And it won't be a lie. I don't hear anything when we do this."

Even the movie tickets are wasted, she explains. Faces and lights, breathing, mostly. If anything, the darkness of the theater. The loudness of their breathing is the only contradiction acknowledged.

You sleep so loudly, she thinks.

That's not possible, he says. My dreams begin before I even close my eyes. I can hear the sound of my own sleep, and it is like shouting into the steady breeze of your contradictions. What can you mean when you say this, she asks, and how can you not know, he counters, and, oh, it's just that I cannot stand it when the world doesn't shrink away, I keep thinking I won't hear the traffic, or the loud conversations at the next table or the screaming of these doubts when I'm trying to enjoy these few moments, and he says, I know, and now it's over. Again, she says.

When will I hear you again? she asks.

There is shouting in my head at this very moment. Can you not hear it?

I can't. i want to, i want to, i want to.

then i will be very quiet. can you hear that?

i can, i can.

then now. you will hear me now, and it will be like it never ended, not when the traffic dies and you remember to draw the shades and the shouting of the daylight, cruel, cruel, won't interrupt the sleeping of whomever breathes into the lines along your back because you want someone to sing this to you.

it has to be very quiet so that no one could hear. and loud enough so that you could not.

i could, i could.

i could.

/ rainier

if you back up far enough, you can see the mountain, and if you back up even further you can see the moon, and i wonder just how far back i would have to step in order to see what the hell you are trying to say.

these are not the words i mouth on my way to work when passing through the tiny hamlet of Rainier, a tiny hamlet being smaller than a regular hamlet, which is itself smaller than a town, making it smaller still than a city, a state, and the great, unincorporated void between us, but still, you know, larger than a settlement. but even large settlements can be dangerous when you are hit with them. it is why they say to never doubt a small group of people can fuck up your entire world, indeed it is the only thing that ever did. in fact, it's usually just one individual, which is why people themselves are sometimes called hamlet. it's a tragedy.

i don't mouth the words in my head when driving through rainier, which might be more aptly called rainiest of late, because there is a man who doesn't speak who is always waving at the passing cars, usually in front of the steakhouse saloon, and at first i never waved back, but this did not deter him, and i went through the various stages of loss before finally giving in to his charms.

at first, i denied he even existed, knowing full well that i am wont to invent persons simply in order to pass the time. i started, of course, with imaginary friends, who much like real friends would eventually misunderstand something i had said, and they became imaginary enemies, going so far as to turn my other imaginary friends against me, though they would never say this outright. i confess i said mean, hateful things about their imaginary babies. nothing untrue, mind you, but when it comes to other people's babies, i have learned that if you cannot say something nice YOU STILL HAVE TO, ANYWAY. swallow that shit and compliment their eyes. something. anything.

then i was angry with him, for offering me kindness when i had offered him nothing in return, a twist of logic incomprehensible to those of us who were always taught 'tis better to give than to receive, which as many of you now know is hooey. it is never better to give than receive, because when people give you something out of the blue and you have nothing to give back, it makes you feel awkward and resentful. i am not referring to any of you who have ever given me something, of course. i mean, otherwise.

i finally accepted this silent gift-giver into my life one morning when the town should very well have been called snowier, and it was probably the ice crystals caught in his eyebrows that melted my resolve, but i waved back, ever so meekly, and thought, well now here it comes.

the next day, the motherfucker didn't wave at me. agh. i waved anyway, but not without mouthing the words, WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?

when i step back and think on it, though, i realize i should feel badly for people like him, so utterly and obviously manipulated by karma. tools.

/ hold it in

hold it in

and practice a goodbye you pray gets lost in
the mail since there are so many other prepositions to
run than away like through my thoughts and across
the narrow space underneath
the sideways glances in the presence of
friends, avoiding these uneven surfaces, asphalt covered in
ginkgo seeds, the air above by roots, rooted to the air itself, or into
my plans for a small, quiet life of planting lavender beds, blowing catsear into
the wind, running on unreplenishable memories, or myself ragged with just enough left over
to fall asleep atop
the dime taut bedspread, another night of successfully giving out
every one else's secrets but my own, running my hands through
my hair, my palm across
my forehead in welcome, exaggerated relief, how much easier it is to
control what you reveal the older you get the more often you've run around
these poorly lit halls, though admittedly illumination can by its very nature only take place in
the dark, and this one forgone wish, to scrape up
enough pesos for an escape, a second chance at
what every girl deserves at least once, a pharos in
this fog this revelation, but not the light i was hoping for
the kind instead that warns you of
coral reefs just beneath
the waves, exhorting you to sail away or dive below, whatever

/ promises of sleep

and he stood up then and said, no, 'i will not trust you, sleep, if you insist on putting me in beds i've let lie.'
and she turned away onto her side, and said, 'come now, tell me.'
and he said, 'no, it was a dream where i crashed and i burned,'
and she said, 'but did you soar? it is the soaring before that matters,'
and she said, 'and was it sunny in your head? were there tantaras?'
and he sat, he relented, 'there were.'
and she asked, 'what were the words? can i guess?'
and he put his hand on the curve of her persuasions, 'no, i have let them go.'
and she guessed, 'bobsleds, i bet. and captured parakeets that bit into your thumb.'
and he lay beside her, 'shh. shh. let them lie.'
and she whispered, 'aspen groves, quaking in a wind you couldn't feel.'
and he whispered, 'shh. shh.'

/ Sheep Dip

My intention is not to…wait, I mean, I do not intend…no, no, uh, ahem…

It is not my intent to add to the growing body of facebook diss chorus (get it? DISS CHORUS? LIKE DISCOURSE? DO YOU SEE WHAT I DID THERE? THAT’S WHAT WE IN THE COMEDY BUSINESS CALL GO-WHULD), but I have several of these facebook friend requests and am having a pickle of a time knowing how to react. Not for the reasons you probably expect, mind you, and please do not expect to get some clever POKE ME joke, because that ship has sailed.

Um, god, how do I describe it? Maybe I should just pull out the hand puppets and have a dialogue. That usually works, and that way I don’t have to actually utter the pointy words in my brain, but the funny lady with the pills will still know what I mean and will send me an email with a link where I can download my diagnosis and maybe do some shopping in the meantime at GAP.COM.

Scene – Two hand puppets in a restaurant or bar. The Right Hand is studying the Left Hand intently while taking microscopic sips of a tiny glass of wine. In fact, with each sip, the glass seemingly becomes more saturated with wine. In front of the Left Hand are three empty martini glasses and a broken beer bottle.

Right Hand - Could you maybe not look at every girl in here?

Left Hand - How else am I going to find THE ONE?

Right Hand - You've already found THE ONE.

Left Hand – How else am I going to find ALL THE OTHER ONES?

Hmm. No, that’s not it at all. Damn.

Being as how I am no closer to a resolution let me just come out and say what the issue is. Facebook wants me to be serious about Facebook, and it’s hard to be serious about it because it’s like I’ve been down this road before. So when it asks me how I know Greg, OF COURSE I am going to say that we ‘HOOKED UP,’ because how else do you respond to that sort of question?

But then the next 5 people on the list are women that I actually do want to sleep with, and so when I respond that we ‘HOOKED UP,’ it’s funny, but also a bit uncomfortable because, well, because…

Scene – Two hand puppets in a restaurant or bar. The Right Hand is studying the Left Hand intently while nibbling at a plate of garden greens. In fact, the plate now has more food on it than when it arrived. In front of the Left Hand are three empty martini glasses and a broken beer bottle.

Right Hand – My son wants one of those roller-skate birthday parties.

Left Hand – Can he skate backwards?

Right Hand – I don’t think so.

Left Hand – Bad idea, then.

Right Hand – Why?

Left Hand – Because girls only skate with boys who can skate backwards. Everyone knows that.

Right Hand – Hee. Oh, I forgot about that.

Left Hand – You’ll just be setting him up for a lifetime of compensating for low self-esteem by turning to alcohol and womanizing and self-portraits and social networking and, well, so I’ve heard.

Right Hand - Shee-yit.*

(*It is like I am in an alternative universe, because for some reason every time Microsoft Word thinks that when I type shee-yit, what I mean to type is SHEEP-DIP, and believe me, WORD, if I wanted to type out SHEEP-DIP I WOULD TYPE OUT SHEEP-DIP, REGARDLESS OF THE FACT I HAVE NO POOPING IDEA WHAT SHEEP-DIP ACTUALLY MEANS. MAYBE YOU MEAN SHEEP-DP, YOU WANKER.)

I remember back in the olden days, if someone were to say, ‘DO YOU MEAN SHEEP DIP?’ you would have to go to the library, check out several different books in the reference section and thumb through countless pages before finding out what SHEEP DIP is. So back in those days, you would in fact hear a lot of things that you would never bother to look up, and you would be happy and gas was only 88 cents per gallon. Nowadays, of course, if someone so much as insinuates SHEEP DIP, you have three separate browsers open learning all about the history of SHEEP DIP, and you are NOT happy, no you are not.

I guess what I am trying to say is that if you have recently requested my friendship on Facebook, I am going to say that we slept together. I hope you are okay with that.

/ Sky's Coming Down Again

I have spent the last few months trying to create sketches to remind me that I don't hate my characters, and that they are not trying to bore me or act in ways I never would, or worse always would, but I am a cruel mommy to my babies, and when he walked away from fear, I used the FIND AND REPLACE function to give him an ambiguously feminine name, and not one that's even close, but one like Leslie or Gayle or Elizabeth.

And when she got a little too confident in her abilities, I wrote a single line at the beginning giving her the gift of a shorter right leg, and now she has to get by with a little limp. Not only that, but as a corollary, I gave him a litany of unintentionally hurtful lines, such as, "I think we're gonna come up a little short," and, "We don't really have the right to be here," and, "If you're so awesome, how come you run with that freaky limp like thing?"

I trapped three inside a burning truck because I was in a bad mood, totally unrelated to anything they did, but while you can change the names, you can't bring the dead back to life. Dust to dust, my friends. Sorry, train gone.

I turned the old guy into a hopeless alcoholic, and although I haven't put to paper the scene where he soils himself, it is in my mental notes, so he'd better just watch it.

The old woman used to be a wholly likable character. It is awful hard to actually like people who are impossible not to like. So I would be afraid if I were her.

* * *

It's funny, whenever you sit and think too long about something, but then let it go and forget it, come back later after thinking on something else, it's almost like hearing an old song done acoustic or maybe covered by someone with a better voice, and you are torn. Which was the better version, you wonder, knowing full well that the original is always better, but my god isn't it nice to see a different angle of someone you have loved so hard, so long. She wasn't always that pretty, was she? And then you hear someone say, 'My god, she's pretty,' and you think, 'Yes. Thank you.'

You can't take back some things, but you can look at them different, and the toughest kid I ever knew had a girl's name and wore pink t-shirts. And the valedictorian of my high school didn't care about her shortcomings, and I saw her run down the hallways one time, do backflips all the way past homeroom. And everyone else I've known til this point, I can't help but see them differently, except those that I have loved so much, and they shine enigmatically, like a comet captured in a photograph between fireworks on one side and lightning on the other.

Oh, I am all over you, indecision, don't get careless. Because the keys to your lockbox work however I type them out, and it's not a matter of whether or not I can open you, it's just a matter of what I will find when I do. I am interested in surprises far more than jewels, so watch yourself. There's no telling what you may have to surrender. There is no telling.

/ Exes and Oh My Gods

When you have spent too much time in a third world country, you find yourself seeking relief in maps years later forgetting that the happiest day of your life was the day you left. But when you leave, you find that for whatever reason, you miss that third world country. You start to remember the few nice things about it, even though that is where you got dysentery and nearly died, nearly got yourself strangled by asshole police and incomprehensible currencies, it is where you never said anything right, and people either laughed at you or kissed you inappropriately, and somehow you miss it. Worse, you tell everyone else how wonderful and terrific and quaint your third world country was, and not only that, but you try to convince them that they should go, as well, and you pull your sleeves down to hide the scars as you're pointing out where exactly on the map you got lost and where they can see the castle, though, really, it's nothing more than ruins. It is rough and undeveloped and cruel and natural, oh, and it is cheap, as long as you don't count the times you are robbed or ripped off or the cost of the doctor's visit, or the entire time from March to July when you couldn't bear to be seen on the streets anymore and blew all your budget on taxi fares and expensive, unfinished meals. Do you know that in third world countries they don't generally put the leftovers in boxes? You lose whatever you leave behind.

Would you like to see my photos? you ask. You ignore the sighs, the rolls of the eyes, and you see nothing unusual in this picture album you have put together glorifying all that misery. They don't smile in their culture, you answer. No, all the clothes are dark. That is the fashion. Yes, the beret was a bad idea. Bad ideas are part of the experience. You emphasize experience. Experience as a euphemism surpasses even interesting in its effectiveness.

But really, it was a third world country, and you're better off having left, they say, right before you ask them to leave. And it's kind of nice to look at old photos, and it's kind of nice to remember the good things, and it's kind of nice that you simply survived, they say at the door. But my god, if you think about going back, you are just hopelessly lost and insane. Because it is a third world country, and it will gladly take you back and treat you the exact same way, they say, from the car.

It is awful hard to change an entire country, you mumble, because you have heard this so many times.

Yes, they say to themselves on their way home, that's what makes it so interesting.

/ Ice Dam

This one, he thinks, this will be his immovable object, and he will tie it on a string and brace himself against the wall opposed to it, a foot from his nose, an inch, even, and he will shake the frame and slam the door and look up to the icicles and taunt the gathering weight behind the ice dam. But that would be as close as he’d allow himself that day. There are limits to these things. Everything has its place, he thinks. That’s enough for now.

It was the bell that broke his resolve, sent him crashing into the immovable object. Bells on the door! he thought. Goddamned bells at the liquor store. Why would they do that? Every time I hear that goddamned bell. Surely, they know, he scolded himself. How could he be so naive?

Maybe he could tie up his hands tight with all that string left over, help keep it steady on the wheel. When the hardware clerk called after him, “Hey, forget something?” he thought, there are other stores in town, don’t go back now. My god, you’d be crazy to. At autumn’s end, he thought, there’s no point in harvesting the last few rows of barley, not just for appearance’s sake.

She loved the kitchen. She had painted it yellow, put up delicate, lace curtains that she would clean by hand once a month. Eyes are the windows to the soul, she said, sitting at the table looking up at those curtains, but the prettiest eyes can't overcome a bad window treatment, batting her lashes. Oh, there is something about the appearance of taste.

Yellow kitchen, white curtains. In spring, the sun would reflect off of every little last bit of chrome. It is in a shambles now.

Out loud, he says, "The state of the manor is the state of the man." Although he would never have tolerated dirty dishes, the hinges on the cabinets creak, the floor holds no shine, the space above the refrigerator is a mess of cobwebs.

There is a shard of broken glass on the counter that he cannot remember. He checks his hands for cuts and looks around the floor. In the trashcan, behind the cabinet drawer underneath the sink, he sees a stack of broken glass piled neatly in its center.

"Everything in its place."

He drops the shard on top, but the pile falls over, the pieces peal and knell. “Bells of all things. Goddamned bells on the door. Why would they do that?”

/ One Point for Me

"I really wish you hadn't called last night," she says, lacing up her shoes. "He already thinks I spend too much time with you."

"I am so sorry," he says, pulling up from his stretch and looking struck. "I was sure you said he was working. God, I mean the last thing I want to do is cause probl---"

"One point for me!" she squeals and darts off down the trail.

He catches up with her and says, "You know, I'm not sure if this game is doing my fragile mental state any good."

Over the puddle, right foot up onto the bank, underneath the low-hanging branches, she says, "Fine, but remember that you started it. I won't play it anymore. It was just a joke."

There are too many turns on this path for lines of sight or thought.

"Oh, wait, now I didn't mean to say ---"

"No, no. You said what you said. You always do. It's probably why you always lose at this game."

He slows, lets her separate by two strides.

She presses by running faster.

"In fact, it's probably why you always lose at everything. You don't act. You barely react. You never take what's right there for the taking. And..." Now she stops. "Maybe it's time we found different partners. Or maybe just different hobbies."

"Hey, I didn't mean it like that at all! I think the game is fine, it's just that some subjects probably just aren't cut out for---"

"Two points for me!" she says and skips, before darting off down the trail.

"Okay, I admit, you really had me on that one," he says breathlessly upon catching her. "That was just well-played. I am humbled."

"You should be."

The small cove known as Otter Beach harbors the seven canoes of seven neighbors who once made a curious pact that would always remind them of home. They painted each canoe in different pastels, and called the shore Rainbow Row. He mentions this to her as they pass, and then he tells her to run more slowly because at the end of the sheltered waters there is a fallen cedar that protects a small flock of mergansers and if they are close enough he will jump into the water and catch her a feather. They hear the splashing of the birds flying away before he even finishes his promise.

He stops her by the elbow. He presses a finger to his lips. He pulls her closer to the cedar. He points at its submerged tip. A moment later, the fan shaped head emerges and stares back with a solitary, red eye. There is a crimson sort of pause that reminds him of a drawing he once saw. It accompanied a poem he used to read as a child. It was about the final moments of a trout caught by an angler. He does what he always does. He tries to remember the verses. He is quiet for too long. He leaves her wondering. Eventually, he leaves her impatient.

"Can we..." she starts. But he is there and she is within arms reach and he takes what is right there for the taking.

"Oh." She puts her fingers to her lips. She is crimson like the pause between angler and prey. "Oh."

"One point for me," he says. He runs fast. Around the next bend is a small inlet that conceals a pair of kingfishers. They always dart off down the trail before he can get close enough. He dreams of one day coming close enough to jump, take a small feather for his own.

\ I think it was your mom

I often describe very real conversations from work by masking them as humorous episodes that make me look very much like a redeemable human being, such as the following:

Boss: We'll need to get that press release done by today for the President. He was adamant.
Me: DON'T DRINK DON'T SMOKE, WHAT DO YOU DO?! DON'T DRINK DON'T SMOKE, WHAT DO YOU DO?!
Coworkers: {silence}
Me: What? He was adamant...Adam Ant???
Coworkers: {silence}
Me: You know you want to get up in my girl.

Unfortunately, I realize that if you want people to think of you as worthy of not being shivved, you really need to rely on testimonials. Today, I got the evaluations from my last training session, and while I reject the term HERO, I must admit that it is apparent I have had a profound impact on the lives of others.

In all seriousness, I don't often promote my own qualities. I am fairly uncomfortable with praise, and this had a large part to do with why I used to have the somewhat bizarre habit of actually soliciting criticism, albeit with a tongue-in-cheek bent. But when it comes to issues about which I am passionate, I am not hesitant about throwing my heart and soul into my best effort, irrespective of how the results might be perceived. Needless to say, as with anyone who is ardent about his or her cause, those perceptions often reflect favorably upon the individual. Not to boast, but such is the case with me and my decade's long advocacy for national service and volunteer programs. Please indulge me a moment, then, as I share some snippets of feedback I received from my most recent event. While I am somewhat embarrassed by the magnanimity of the praise, I don't often share with the world what I am all about in real life, and my hope is that I can somehow inspire even one of you out there to find a cause, dedicate your life to it, and be passionate about the difference you are making.

Comment 1
"Brandon Rogers is the best ever!"

Although the feedback was anonymous, I am confident I know who this person is. What is telling about the statement is how the individual left the room 2 minutes after I started speaking and was still moved enough to offer praise.

Comment 2
"Brandon was funny, but to be honest, I would have rather he come with a presentation ready to give, then tell his personal stories afterwards. I got really impatient with all the random tangents."

This individual thought I was funny!

Comment 3
"Brandon was trying to be funny but he came off as boring and lame. His material was very dry and for the most part useless."

Someone else thought I was funny, too! It's unanimous. Being passionate and being funny are not mutually exclusive!

Comment 4
"Now, Mr. Rogers is dry-witted and funny, and he may of looked "hip" sitting on his desk, but I was really looking forward to learning something. Brandon just focused on telling jokes and teaching us how to cut corners- or to "kiss butt". He seemed like he really didn't care, and he answered important questions with answers like "I think it was your mom." I really wish this subject had an instructor that took this a bit more seriously."

It was totally his mom.

/ Inner Workings

"So what happened exactly?"

If only it was music or art that filled his head, he lamented, rather than just the rehashing of stories and conversations, because all that is missing from inner harmony surely comes down to the color and the sound. How is it, he marveled, that they haven't asked me to stop talking? That they never seem to get enough of all these details? And that is the moment, inevitably, when someone says, "How come you are so quiet? You haven't said a word all night."

He found himself at an impasse, uncertain over what they had shared with each other. He did this with relative strangers, he reminded himself. The path from inside his head to the larger world was paved with conversations lush and flowing and unending, and he constantly scolded himself for speaking so much, though he rarely, in fact, said anything aloud. Nevertheless, he often wondered if he was disorienting those around him with his conversing only to be teased for taking so long to answer the question. So that's why they stare. Oh, embarrassing.

If only he were a bit angrier in those old memories, he mused, or if only he had acted less irrationally, rather than just timidly reacting in ways that made no sense, because all that is missing from re-living a more fulfilling past surely comes down to the sound and the fury. He paired up well with the guy who never laughs but constantly remarks upon anything amusing. "That's funny," he says. "Yes, I've heard that one. It's great." He paired up well with the girl who hooked her own nightcrawlers but never got around to casting the line, far too distracted by skipping stones and salmonberries. "I love to go fishing," she says. "My father would only take my brothers."

This is what happened. I fell asleep in the wrong bed. We rearranged our clothes and voices and even adopted the other's bad habits and moods. I became very quiet and sullen and started at the least noise and even filled my head with songs and paintings. I stayed up all hours of the night and only napped when I was sure there would be no more cars driving up and down the street. But it didn't work out the way we had planned. It backfired.

She looks at him expectantly.

"Oh, sorry. If you don't stop me, I tend to rattle on and on."

"That's funny," she says, not betraying even the faintest of smiles.