tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-76279634231645496192024-03-05T04:39:17.606-08:00Till Human Voices Wake Us, And We DrownRogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.comBlogger14125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-60964666286157346102011-03-13T22:11:00.001-07:002011-03-14T01:35:13.889-07:00Doughnut Touch<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmEZAwzvKP9F4_Whw5zVEzFnR_0tpELcyI55NmPrxMHpKRANGeRuDsfYW8QFm_O0Qt3E9pVrw1yRz55evEPDEtgzB2HZ5XpauVgOyt-gGNIcZ9IJHWOUMGiXfwFyKRbHpMO6UtBm0C5Y/s1600/assorted_doughnuts_by_fARTygraphy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRmEZAwzvKP9F4_Whw5zVEzFnR_0tpELcyI55NmPrxMHpKRANGeRuDsfYW8QFm_O0Qt3E9pVrw1yRz55evEPDEtgzB2HZ5XpauVgOyt-gGNIcZ9IJHWOUMGiXfwFyKRbHpMO6UtBm0C5Y/s320/assorted_doughnuts_by_fARTygraphy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583798938135504962" /></a><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""><o:p><span style="text-decoration:none"> </span></o:p></span></u></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""><o:p><span style="text-decoration:none"> </span></o:p></span></u></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""><o:p><span style="text-decoration:none"> </span></o:p></span></u></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="font-size:18.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"">DOUGHNUT TOUCH</span></u></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"">A One-Act Play<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"">By<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"">Roger Gonzalez<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""><o:p> </o:p></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Courier New'; font-size: 12px; line-height: 13px; "> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">Copyright © [2011]<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>9415 Olympic Blvd<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">By Roger Gonzalez<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Pico Rivera, California, 90660<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New""><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>(562) 639-7264<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""><o:p><span style="text-decoration:none"> </span></o:p></span></u></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"">DOUGHNUT TOUCH<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"">CAST OF CHARACTERS<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"">Ward.</span></u></b><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""> 31. A strict manager at a common place office.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"; color:#333333">Francesca.</span></u></b></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333"> 21. A Lazy worker at a common place office.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333"><o:p><span style="text-decoration:none"> </span></o:p></span></u></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">The Time<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">The present. Spring.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">The Place<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%; font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">A common bland office anywhere there are bland common offices.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%; font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%; font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">DOUGHNUT TOUCH<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">ACT ONE<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">SCENE ONE<o:p></o:p></span></u></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333"><o:p><span style="text-decoration:none"> </span></o:p></span></u></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">SETTING: </span></u></b></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">There are several workers working hastily, except for Francesca, in their cubicles. Francesca’s desk is the most adorned and cluttered with papers. Ward’s desk is clean and streamline and far from the rest of the desks.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%; font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"; color:#333333">AT RISE: </span></u></b></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">all the workers, except Francesca, are huddled around Ward’s desk. One by one they all go back to their own desks with a smile and a doughnut in hand. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Does anyone want another doughnut? We have got plenty left!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>(</span></b></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%; font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Francesca <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal">hastily raises her hand)<o:p></o:p></b></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Anyone?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">(Francesca raises her hand higher)<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Well, good job team. I thought we weren’t going to make the quota this time around, but we ended up pulling through! Enjoy, you have earned those doughnuts.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">(Francesca marches towards his desk)<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">What’s the big deal? Why did everyone else get a doughnut and not me?! It’s like my existence in this office wasn’t even acknowledged!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Quite frankly, Francesca, you practically don’t exist in this office. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">(offended)<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">What-What do you mean? <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">What I mean is; you don’t contribute anything to this office. Your sales this quarter were almost nonexistent. Your desk is always a mess; you are usually late, under slept, and lazy. Not to mention you dress like a slob. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">You certainly are a nicer boss when you are just giving me orders. I am glad I didn’t ever try to have a conversation with you; I didn’t think you were such a fake person Ward.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I do what I have to; unlike you… You catch more busy bees with honey, but since I found out you are a fly I have decided to lay out the vinegar. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Jeez! I didn’t know you disliked me so much. If you hate me so, how come I haven’t been fired?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">If I could fire you I would, but since we have that contract with students my hands are tied while your buzzing annoys me. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">I am not a fly! <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"; color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">You take from this world and give nothing just like one. You, Francesca, embody everything I loathe.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">That’s a bit harsh… I may not be the best worker here, but that’s because I am studying and I am always under a lot of stress. Can I just get a doughnu-<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">-I see you come in here with club bracelets, hung over; you don’t even bother to get rid of the smell of alcohol from your breath. What stress could you possibly have?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">School mostly, I have also got rent and tuition to pay you know. If I didn’t have to be in this god forsaken place I wouldn’t, but it barely pays for rent.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">You’re an art major from what I read in your resume, how hard could that be? I bet you aren’t getting good grades and have received scores of warnings from your college. I also bet that’s the reason you are paying so much for tuition.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">My dreams and aspirations are of no concern to you! I am going to get out of here one day and- and, I am going to give this world a lot more than what this company gives it. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">The world doesn’t need your shitty art; it’s fine with you just being a fly. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Fine, whatever you say… I am just fly. Can I just get a freaking doughnut?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">You WOULD give up so easily. No, you cannot have a doughnut. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">It’s just a doughnut<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">These belong to hard workers, and I don’t see any.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">I haven’t eaten anything all day. To be honest I haven’t eaten in four days because I ran out of money. I am just waiting on my financial aid check to clear an-<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">No<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">I am starving!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">So is half the world, and most of them deserve to eat.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">This is stupid Ward, just give me a doughnut.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">No!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Pretty please?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">If you want a doughnut you are going to have to work for it like everyone else. Here, shine my shoes.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">What?! That’s degrading! No.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Sometimes you need to humble yourself and do things you don’t want to in order to get what you want Francesca; but I know you are too proud to do so.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">But…that’s borderline abuse. Just because you make more money than me doesn’t mean you get to treat me this way.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"; color:#333333">(Begins to eat a doughnut)<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Mmmmm this is so good, it’s a bit crunchy on the outside…but the inside is so fluffy and soft…<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"; color:#333333">(takes another bite)<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">So sweet and tasty, it’s like an orgasm in my mout-<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Stop it! <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops:210.75pt"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height: 115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">(Ward takes another bite)<span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">If I had to eat only one thing for the rest of my life it would be this doughnut.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Just give me one, you have so many <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"; color:#333333">I think </span></b></span><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">I am going to eat all of these, they are so delicious!<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><o:p></o:p></b></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Fine! Only because I am starving…<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">(gets down on her knees to clean his shoes)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Where is the stuff to clean them?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">(Laughs with a mouthful of doughnuts)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Stuff? Do you mean shoe polish? Is that what you are trying to say? I don’t have any.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">How am I supposed to clean them?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Use your spit.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">Are you serious? Forget this!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">(Francesca gets up suddenly, hitting Ward in the chin. Ward begins to gag and signals towards his throat)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"; color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">What’s wrong? Chocking on your own pride?<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD <o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">(Gurgles unintelligible words)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">I am sorry, I only speak fly; buzzzz buzzzz<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">WARD<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">(stiffens and stays motionless)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">FRANCESCA<o:p></o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">(She grabs a doughnut and spits on Ward’s shoe.)<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333">My art isn’t shitty.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><span style="font-size:9.0pt; line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New";color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="apple-style-span"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New"; color:#333333"><o:p> </o:p></span></b></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal"><u><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family:"Courier New""><o:p><span style="text-decoration:none"> </span></o:p></span></u></b></p>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-72470069281189444952011-02-14T18:22:00.000-08:002011-02-14T18:24:27.788-08:00<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-0uKbTES-15F1WWPaIZpouXojfiyboasaDSuj3OZ0ketha5ZvRRX5HEVP-ycZcc2jVlzVj636X30iYZlLB9mxEmg-OTMhETziCA4rL2EujOUS46uirtOpSpTjrysP8EDkcPWtwINI5g/s1600/ZombieArt1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia-0uKbTES-15F1WWPaIZpouXojfiyboasaDSuj3OZ0ketha5ZvRRX5HEVP-ycZcc2jVlzVj636X30iYZlLB9mxEmg-OTMhETziCA4rL2EujOUS46uirtOpSpTjrysP8EDkcPWtwINI5g/s320/ZombieArt1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5573736509084767266" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center;line-height:200%"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal"><span style="font-size:14.0pt;line-height: 200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">Dead, Inside<o:p></o:p></span></b></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">I guess I’ll start like this, I’ll start the way I start most of my recent stories, with a broken hearted and despondent character. Now, this character is especially broken hearted on this day known as <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal">Z-day</b>. Why is it called <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight:normal">Z-day</b>? Because it’s the day the dead rise from their graves and eat the living as zombies. This day is much like every other day in southern California, nothing but clear skies; but history has taught us that it is indeed the dull and mundane days that we should beware: 9-11, the attack on Pearl Harbor, the day your dog died, the last time you were broken up with, all regular days, no storm clouds forebodingly pouring rain, no terrors coming out of a heavy fog. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">This concept did not seem fair at all to our protagonist, which we will name Marcel. (After Marcel Proust, in due part because he is also a hopeless romantic, but I’ll get to the importance of this in a bit.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">)</i> Marcel, being a romantic, envisioned this day to be foreshadowed by a crash of thunder, an odd storm, a long drought, or at least a loud crack in the earth; the sound of it coming apart as the dead claw their way out all at once. Instead, he found himself sitting alone in a book store reading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Pride and Prejudice</i> (a book he wasn’t enjoying) and mostly thought about his unrequited love. This unrequited love had briefly been requited and Marcel could not stop thinking about it. Marcel had wanted this to happen for years. It happened after he invited her to his place (like usual) to watch a zombie movie he had been raving about to her. He had always been a zombie aficionado, much like she was. They were both so much alike (This is perhaps the reason why he firmly believed they were made for each other). Regardless of the situation of their romantic relationship, they were the best of friends. She was the first person he invited anywhere and the only person he would be willing to spend what little money he had on him, without hesitation.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>On his birthday she baked him a heart shaped cake and sang him songs on guitar about love. She handed him his gift which was a gesture of her feelings towards him. It was a beautiful golden paged bible that glistened gold and red in its reflection and she said,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">“I found this and rescued it off the highway, where they intersect and depart.” (which made him wonder what her truest feelings really were). He looked up at her stunning red and gold tinged hair and thanked her.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif""><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He always wondered why she never felt the same way about him. He had made his intentions clear early on, but she only wanted him as a friend. Marcel was perplexed as to why. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I mean he wasn’t a hideous <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>guy, maybe a perfect six-pack was missing and he sometimes had bad posture, but overall at least a five or a six out of the scale. Hell, maybe even a seven or eight if his skin was clear on that day and he was wearing the right thing; but she was a ten. She had always been beautiful. Classically beautiful is what she could be referred to as, one of those faces that in 50 years could still be on the cover of a magazine. In fact, there was nothing she could do to herself that could make her ugly. No matter what she ate, she stayed thin. She once shaved a part of her hair, but she still turned heads because her face would have been easily considered a work of art. (Before modernism) Marcel wanted to believe that it was the physical aspect of him that kept her in the arms of other men. He didn’t want to imagine that she refused him because she found too many flaws in his personality, that she found him boring or thought that he was a pretentious douche. No, he focused on his own <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">physical</i> flaws. (Why? Because it was the only thing Marcel could change about himself) Marcel would work out to the point of exhaustion for the sole purpose of eventually wooing her over. He would run eight to ten miles or until his body shut down every day. (This would come in handy when running away from Zombies) He would collapse on the ground with his runners high and stare at the golden red hued California sun that reminded him of her in every way. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">No; this isn’t right I am droning on, let me start over.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>It’s always easier to start over on paper than it is in real life anyways. On paper I could make <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Ulysses</i> an easy read or horses sing, but in the real world I can’t even hold a steady job or relationship, let alone get over a past one. Or tie knots and work a fax machine… I am droning on again, let me just collect my thoughts.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif""><span style="mso-tab-count:1"> </span>All right, I’ll try it this way. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt; line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">ARRGHHRH!<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">Marcel looked up from his book and awoke from his thoughts to see a grown man staggering in loudly, crying like a child as a pasty looking child with blonde pig-tails gnawed on his neck, spitting out gristle and going back for the tender meat. Marcel was not alone in staring at this scene, the whole library had its eyes fixed on the young girl finishing the remainder of the man’s neck. The head rolled out towards the door that the man came from; and a horde of hungry zombies came in. Instinctively, Marcel hurled behind a large pile of stacked books (Instinctively for Marcel because his whole life had been spent hiding behind books to shield himself from all of life’s contentions) and thanked every tween in the world for keeping Stephanie Mayer so high in demand. Marcel peeked out from a crevice in the high stacks of popular books and saw a teenage girl with her bowels hanging out. Marcel was unsure if she was already a zombie or in her last stretch of life trying to make sense of why she looked like a soldier from the opening scene from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Saving Private Ryan</i> and regretting spending most of her teenage life on a strict diet. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">Marcel dove back towards the ground, and developed an escape plan. He knew this bookstore intimately and identified the safest place would be in the basement along with all the science fiction books. (The idea of locking himself in with the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Star Wars</i> expanded universe wasn’t a bad way to spend the apocalypse for Marcel). Marcel waited for the choice opportunity to make a clear dash, and took it, along the way seeing one of the librarians pounding her small fists hopelessly onto the back of an undead man’s head. Marcel had always liked her because she recommended him <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">The Wind-Up Bird Chronicles</i>. She seemed kind and had soft features<a name="_GoBack"></a>. (No, those features had been destroyed along with most of her shoulder as the thing bit through the crunchy bones with a frenzy he had only seen at hotdog eating contests) Marcel made it in and closed the door behind him and waited.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">After the third day the sounds of the city died down completely and Marcel figured it safe to exit his panic-room. By now the zombies would have surely left in search of prey after they finished the left-overs in the fantasy and romance section. He opened the door slightly and peeked out, he saw that the zombies were gone and had only left trails of blood and bones. He locked all the doors; he summed up that he was now either safe inside or he had trapped himself in with a lucky brain eater. He moved towards the glass windows and saw that the horde had died down; there were only three zombies in sight. Marcel fed up with being trapped in a dark room for three days decided to try his luck with the outside world. He grabbed a copy of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">The Random House Unabridged Dictionary</i>. (A dictionary with a whopping count of 2,487 pages and unlocked the door.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">He moved slowly with the book in front of him, as a priest would approach a demon with a bible. Looking in every direction at once, he noticed a staggering armless zombie begin to head towards him. They made what seemed to be eye contact and the zombie studied him, he made a low grunt of what sounded like disinterest and shuffled in the opposite direction. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Marcel couldn’t help but feel rejected. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">“Hey Sonny! Over here!” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">Marcel turned to look up at an apartment building where he heard the shout and saw an older man of about 60 with a hunting rifle. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">“Hey!”, Marcel shouted, “ Are there any more survivors?” The old man began to laugh hysterically for what seemed like a good minute. Marcel saw that Z-Day had clearly taken a toll on him.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">“Just me, and that’s how I plan to keep it boy!” The old man gave another deranged laugh and took a shot at Marcel. The shot missed entirely, but Marcel retreated behind a van regardless.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">“You’re going blind old man!” Marcel yelled.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">“I didn’t miss, these fiends respond to sound and they are going to come here in a jiffy and tear you apart!”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">Marcel knew he had no time to reason with this lunatic and dashed back to the book store, dropping the dictionary in the process. As he drew close to the library he saw the horde coming over the golden red sunlit horizon, he had been seen.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He made it inside and locked the doors again and ran to the safe-room. For the first time he noticed that the door had been painted with the words: Dead, Inside. He could hear the zombies breaking through the book store glass doors over his heavy breath. Marcel pulled out the bible she had given him an-<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left:.5in;text-indent:.5in;line-height:200%"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif"">I always write to put things in perspective for myself. This story isn’t helping. I can’t find any serendipity in this. The same way people try to make sense of why floods or tornados happen to innocent people. Disasters are disasters, natural or undead. There is no sense to the living either. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don’t know why she gave me this bible or what her truest feelings about me were. We slept together after the movie and she was never the same. Over six months ago she sent me an E-mail telling me we couldn’t be friends anymore and I haven’t seen her since. I have spent 231 days buried underground with the dead who will not let me have peace. When she left she took everything from me. The dead pound at my door, every night. What we had, I will never find again. The dead have come for me, and I don’t care.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-73503292785634185292010-11-18T05:04:00.000-08:002010-11-18T05:08:12.367-08:00Thursday's: I Wish I Wrote This<span class="Apple-style-span"><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; "><br /></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">The Rumor</span></b></span></p><p style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" ><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;"> by John Updike</span></span></span></p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">Frank and Sharon Whittier had come from the Cincinnati area and, with an inheritance of hers and a sum borrowed from his father, had opened a small art gallery on the fourth floor of a narrow building on West Fifty-seventh Street. They had known each other as children; their families had been in the same country-club set. They had married in 1971, when Frank was freshly graduated from Oberlin and Vietnam-vulnerable and Sharon was only nineteen, a sophomore at Antioch majoring in dance. By the time, six years later, they arrived in New York, they had two small children; the birth of a third led them to give up their apartment and the city struggle and move to a house in Hastings, a low stucco house with a wide-eaved Wright-style roof and view, through massive beeches at the bottom of the yard, of the leaden, ongliding Hudson. They were happy, surely. They had dry midwestern taste, and by sticking to representational painters and abstract sculptors they managed to survive the uglier Eighties styles — faux graffiti, neo — German expressionism cathode-ray prole play, ecological-protest trash art — and bring their quiet, chaste string of fourth-floor rooms into the calm lagoon of Nineties eclectic revivalism and subdued recession chic. They prospered; their youngest child turned twelve, their oldest was filling out college applications.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">When Sharon first heard the rumor that Frank had left her for a young homosexual with whom he was having an affair, she had to laugh, for, far from having left her, there he was, right in the lamplit study with her, ripping pages out of <i>ARTnews</i>.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"I don't think so, Avis," she said to the graphic artist on the other end of the line. "He's right here with me. Would you like to say hello?" The easy refutation was made additionally sweet by the fact that, some years before, there had been a brief (Sharon thought) romantic flare-up between her husband and this caller, an overanimated redhead with protuberant cheeks and chin. Avis was a second-wave appropriationist who made color Xeroxes of masterpieces out of art books and then signed them in an ink mixed of her own blood and urine. How could she, who had actually slept with Frank, be imagining this grotesque thing?</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">The voice on the phone gushed as if relieved and pleased. "I know, it's wildly absurd, but I heard it from two sources, with absolutely solemn assurances."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Who were these sources?"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"I'm not sure they'd like you to know. But it was Ed Jaffrey and then that boy who's been living with Walton Forney, what does he call himself, one of those single names like Madonna — Jojo!"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Well, then," Sharon began.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"But I've heard it from still others," Avis insisted. "All over town — it's in the air. Couldn't you and Frank <i>do</i> something about it, if it's not true?"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"'If,'" Sharon protested, and her thrust of impatience carried, when she put down the receiver, into her conversation with Frank. "Avis says you're supposed to have run off with your homosexual lover."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"I don't have a homosexual lover," Frank said, too calmly, ripping an auction ad out of the magazine.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"She says all New York says you do."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Well, what are you going to believe, all New York or your own experience? Here I sit, faithful to a fault, straight as a die, whatever that means. We made love just two nights ago."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">It seemed possibly revealing to her that he so distinctly remembered, as if heterosexual performance were a duty he checked off. He was — had always been, for over twenty years — a slim blond man several inches under six feet tall, with a narrow head he liked to keep trim, even during those years when long hair was in fashion, milky-blue eyes set at a slight tilt, such as you see on certain taut Slavic or Norwegian faces, and a small, precise mouth he kept pursed over teeth a shade too prominent and yellow. He was reluctant to smile, as if giving something away, and was vain of his flat belly and lithe collegiate condition. He weighed himself every morning on the bathroom scale, and if he weighed a pound more than yesterday, he skipped lunch. In this, and in his general attention to his own person, he was as quietly fanatic as — it for the first time occurred to her — a woman.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"You know I've never liked the queer side of this business," he went on. "I've just gotten used to it. I don't even think anymore, who's gay and who isn't."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Avis was <i>ju</i>bilant," Sharon said. "How could she think it?"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">It took him a moment to focus on the question and realize that his answer was important to her. He became nettled. "Ask <i>her</i> how," he said. "Our brief and regrettable relationship, if that's what interests you, seemed satisfactory to me at least. What troubles and amazes me, if I may say so, is how <i>you</i> can be taking this ridiculous rumor so seriously."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"I'm <i>not</i>, Frank," she insisted, then backtracked. "But why would such a rumor come out of thin air? Doesn't there have to be <i>something?</i> Since we moved up here, we're not together so much, naturally, some days when I can't come into town you're gone sixteen hours..."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"But <i>Shar</i>on," he said, like a teacher restoring discipline, removing his reading glasses from his almond-shaped eyes, with their stubby fair lashes. "Don't you <i>know</i> me? Ever since after that dance when you were sixteen, that time by the lake?..."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">She didn't want to reminisce. Their early sex had been difficult for her; she had submitted to his advances out of a larger, more social, rather idealistic attraction. She knew that together they would have the strength to get out of Cincinnati and, singly or married to others, they would stay. "Well," she said, enjoying this sensation, despite the chill the rumor had awakened in her, of descending to a deeper level of intimacy than usual, "how well do you know even your own spouse? People are fooled all the time. Peggy Jacobson, for instance, when Henry ran off with that physical therapist, couldn't believe, even when the evidence was right there in front of her —"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"I'm <i>deeply</i> insulted," Frank interrupted, his mouth tense in that way he had when making a joke but not wanting to show his teeth. "My masculinity is insulted." But he couldn't deny himself a downward glance into his magazine; his tidy white hand jerked, as if wanting to tear out yet another item that might be useful to their business. Intimacy had always made him nervous. She kept at it, rather hopelessly. "Avis said two separate people had solemnly assured her."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Who, exactly?"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">When she told him, he said, exactly as she had done, "Well, then." He added, "You know how gays are. Malicious. Mischievous. They have all that time and money on their hands."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"You sound jealous." Something about the way he was arguing with her strengthened Sharon's suspicion that, outrageous as the rumor was — indeed, <i>because</i> it was outrageous — it was true.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">In the days that followed<b>,</b> now that she was alert to the rumor's vaporous presence, she imagined it everywhere — on the poised faces of their staff, in the delicate negotiatory accents of their artists' agents, in the heartier tones of their repeat customers, even in the gruff, self-occupied ramblings of the artists themselves. People seemed startled when she and Frank entered a room together: The desk receptionist and the security guard in their gallery halted their daily morning banter, and the waiters in their pet restaurant, over on Fifty-ninth, appeared especially effusive and attentive. Handshakes lasted a second too long, women embraced her with an extra squeeze, she felt herself ensnared in a soft net of unspoken pity.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">Frank sensed her discomfort and took a certain malicious pleasure in it, enacting all the while his perfect innocence. He composed himself to appear, from her angle, aloof above the rumor. Dealing professionally in so much absurdity — the art world's frantic attention-getting, studied grotesqueries — he merely intensified the fastidious dryness that had sustained their gallery through wave after wave of changing fashion, and that had, like a rocket's heat-resistant skin, insulated their launch, their escape from the comfortable riverine smugness of semisouthern, puritanical Cincinnati to this metropolis of dreadful freedom. The rumor amused him, and it amused him, too, to notice how she helplessly watched to see if in the metropolitan throngs his eyes now followed young men as once they had noticed and followed young women. She observed his gestures — always a bit excessively graceful and precise — distrustfully, and listened for the buttery, reedy tone of voice that might signal an invisible sex change.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">That even in some small fraction of her she was willing to believe the rumor justified a certain maliciousness on his part. He couldn't help teasing her — glancing over at her, say, when an especially magnetic young waiter served them, or at home, in their bedroom, pushing more brusquely than was his style at her increasing sexual unwillingness. More than once, at last away from the countless knowing eyes of their New York milieu, in the privacy of their Hastings upstairs, beneath the wide midwestern eaves, she burst into tears and struck out at him, his infuriating, impervious apparent blamelessness. He was just like one of those photo-realist nudes, merciless in every detail and yet subtly, defiantly not there, not human. "You're distant," she accused him. "You've always been."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"I don't mean to be. You didn't used to mind my manner. You thought it was quietly masterful."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"I was a teenage girl. I deferred to you."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"It worked out," he pointed out, lifting his hands in an effete, disclaiming way from his sides, to take in their room, their expensive house, their joint career. "What is it that bothers you, Sharon? The idea of losing me? Or the insult to your female pride? The people who started this ridiculous rumor don't even <i>see</i> women. Women to them are just background noise."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"It's <i>not</i> ridiculous — if it were, why does it keep on and on, even though we're seen together all the time?"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">For, ostensibly to quiet her and to quench the rumor, he had all but ceased to go to the city alone, and took her with him even though it meant some neglect of the house and their sons.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">Frank asked, "Who <i>says</i> it keeps on all the time? I've <i>never</i> heard it, never once, except from you. Who's mentioned it lately?"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Nobody."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Well, then." He smiled, his lips not quite parting on his curved teeth, tawny like a beaver's.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"You bastard!" Sharon burst out. "You have some stinking little secret!"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"I don't," he serenely half-lied.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; "></p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">The rumor had no factual basis<b>.</b> But was there, Frank asked himself, some truth to it after all? Not circumstantial truth, but some higher, inner truth? As a young man, slight of build, with artistic interests, had he not been fearful of being mistaken for a homosexual? Had he not responded to homosexual overtures as they arose, in bars and locker rooms, with a disproportionate terror and repugnance? Had not his early marriage, and then, ten years later, his flurry of adulterous womanizing, been an escape of sorts, into safe, socially approved terrain? When he fantasized, or saw a pornographic movie, was not the male organ the hero of the occasion for him, at the center of every scene? Were not those slavish, lapping starlets his robotlike delegates, with glazed eyes and undisturbed coiffures venturing where he did not dare? Did he not, perhaps, envy women their privilege of worshiping the phallus? But, Frank asked himself, in fairness, arguing both sides of the case, can homosexual strands be entirely disentangled from heterosexual in that pink muck of carnal excitement, of dream made flesh, of return to the presexual womb?</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">More broadly, had he not felt more comfortable with his father than with his mother? Was not this in itself a sinister reversal of the usual biology? His father had been a genteel Fourth Street lawyer, of no particular effectuality save that most of his clients were from the same social class, with the same accents and comfortably narrowed aspirations, here on this plateau by the swelling Ohio. Darker and taller than Frank, with the same long teeth and primly set mouth, his father had had the lawyer's gift of silence, of judicious withholding, and in his son's scattered memories of times together — a trip downtown on the trolley to buy Frank his first suit, each summer's one or two excursions to see the Reds play at old Crosley Field — the man said little. This prim reserve, letting so much go unstated and unacknowledged, was a relief after the daily shower of words and affection and advice Frank received from his mother. As an adult he was attracted, he had noticed, to stoical men, taller than he and nursing an unexpressed sadness; his favorite college roommate had been of this saturnine type, and his pet tennis partner in Hastings, and artists he especially favored and encouraged — dour, weathered landscapists and virtually illiterate sculptors, welded solid into their crafts and stubborn obsessions. With these men he became a catering, wifely, subtly agitated presence that Sharon would scarcely recognize.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">Frank's mother, once a fluffy belle from Louisville, had been gaudy, strident, sardonic, volatile, needy, demanding, loving; from her he had inherited his "artistic" side, as well as his pretty blondness, but he was not especially grateful. Less — as was proposed by a famous formula he didn't know as a boy — would have been more. His mother had given him an impression of women as complex, brightly-colored traps, attractive but treacherous, their petals apt to harden in an instant into knives. A certain wistful pallor, indeed, a limp helplessness, had drawn him to Sharon and, after the initial dazzlement of the Avises of the world faded and fizzled, always drew him back. Other women asked more than he could provide; he was aware of other, bigger, warmer men they had had. But with Sharon he had been a rescuing knight, slaying the dragon of the winding Ohio. Yet what more devastatingly, and less forgivably, confirmed the rumor's essential truth than her willingness, she who knew him best and owed him most, to entertain it? Her instinct had been to believe Avis even though, far from run off, he was sitting right there in front of her eyes.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">He was unreal to her, he could not help but conclude; all those years of uxorious cohabitation, those nights of lovemaking and days of homemaking ungratefully absorbed and now suddenly dismissed because of an apparition, a shadow of gossip. On the other hand, now that the rumor existed, Frank had become more real in the eyes of José, the younger, daintier of the two security guards, whose daily greetings had edged beyond the perfunctory; a certain mischievous dance in the boy's sable eyes animated their employer-employee courtesies. And Jennifer, too, the severely beautiful receptionist, with her rather Sixties-reminiscent bangs and shawls and serapes, now treated him more relaxedly, even offhandedly, as if he had somehow dropped out of her calculations. She assumed with him a comradely slanginess — "The boss was in earlier but she went out to exchange something at Bergdorf's" — as if both he and she were in roughly parallel ironic bondage to "the boss." Frank's heart felt a reflex loyalty to Sharon, a single sharp beat, but then he too relaxed, as if his phantom male lover and the weightless, scandal-veiled life that lived with him in some glowing apartment had bestowed at last what the city had withheld from the overworked, child-burdened married couple who had arrived fourteen years ago — a halo of glamour, of debonair uncaring.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">In Hastings, when he and his wife attended a suburban party, the effect was less flattering. The other couples, he imagined, were slightly unsettled by the Whittiers' stubbornly appearing together and became disjointed in their presence, the men drifting off in distaste, the women turning supernormal and laying up a chinkless wall of conversation about children's college applications, local zoning, and Wall Streeet layoffs. The women, it seemed to Frank, edged, with an instinctive animal movement, a few inches closer to Sharon and touched her with a deft, protective flickering on the shoulder or forearm, to express solidarity and sympathy.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">Wes Robertson, Frank's favorite tennis partner, came over to him and grunted, "How's it going?"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; "><i>"Fine,"</i> Frank said, staring up at Wes with what he hoped weren't unduly starry eyes. Wes, who had recently turned fifty, had an old motorcycle-accident scar on one side of his chin, a small pale rose of discoloration that seemed to concentrate the man's self-careless manliness. Frank gave him more of an answer than he might have wanted: "In the art game we're feeling the slowdown like everybody else, but the Japanese are keeping the roof from caving in. The trouble with the Japanese, though, is, from the standpoint of a marginal gallery like ours, they aren't adventurous — they want blue chips, they want guaranteed value, they can't grasp that in art, value has to be subjective to an extent. Look at their own stuff — it's all standardized. Who the hell can tell a Hiroshige from a Hokusai? When you think about it, their whole society, their whole success, really, is based on everybody being alike, everybody agreeing. The notion of art as a struggle, a gamble, as a dynamic embodiment of an existential problem, they just don't get it." He was talking too much, he knew, but he couldn't help it; Wes's scowling presence, his melancholy scarred face, and his stringy alcoholic body, which nevertheless could still whip a backhand right across the forecourt, perversely excited Frank, made him want to flirt.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">Wes grimaced and contemplated Frank glumly. "Be around for a game Sunday?" Meaning, had he really run off?</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Of course. Why wouldn't I be?" This was teasing the issue, and Frank tried to sober up, to rein in. He felt a flush on his face and a stammer coming on. He asked, "The usual time? Ten forty-five, more or less?"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">Wes nodded. "Sure."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">Frank chattered on: "Let's try to get court 5 this time. Those brats having their lessons on court 2 drove me crazy last time. We spent all our time retrieving their damn balls. And listening to their moronic chatter."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">Wes didn't grant this attempt at evocation of past liaisons even a word, just continued his melancholy, stoical nodding. This was one of the things, it occurred to Frank, that he liked about men: their relational minimalism, their gender-based realization that the cupboard of life, emotionally speaking, was pretty near bare. There wasn't that tireless, irksome, bright-eyed <i>hope</i> women kept fluttering at you.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">Once years ago, on a stag golfing trip to Bermuda, he and Wes had shared a room with two single beds, and Wes had fallen asleep within a minute and started snoring, keeping Frank awake for much of the night. Contemplating the unconscious male body on its moonlit bed, Frank had been struck by the tragic dignity of this supine form, like a stone knight eroding on a tomb — the snoring profile in motionless gray silhouette, the massive, scarred warrior weight helpless as Wes's breathing struggled from phase to phase of the sleep cycle, from deep to REM to near-wakefulness that brought a few merciful minutes of silence. The next morning, Wes said Frank should have reached over and poked him in the side; that's what his wife did. But he wasn't his wife, Frank thought, though in the course of that night's ordeal, he had felt his heart make many curious motions, among them the heaving, all-but-impossible effort women's hearts make in overcoming men's heavy grayness and achieving — a rainbow born of drizzle — love.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">At the opening of Ned Forschheimer's show — Forschheimer, a shy, rude, stubborn, and now elderly painter of tea-colored, wintry Connecticut landscapes, was one of Frank's pets, unfashionable yet sneakily salable — none other than Walton Forney came up to Frank, his round face lit by white wine and odd, unquenchable self-delight, and said, "Say, Frank, old boy. Methinks I owe you an apology. It was Charlie Whit<i>field</i>, who used to run that framing shop down on Eighth Street, who left his wife suddenly with some little Guatemalan boy he was putting through CCNY on the side. They took off for Mexico and left the missus sitting with the shop mortgaged up to its attic and about a hundred prints of wild ducks left unframed. The thing that must have confused me, Charlie came from Ohio, too — Columbus or Cleveland, one of those. It was — what do they call it — a Freudian slip, an understandable confusion. Avis Wasserman told me Sharon wasn't all that thrilled to get the word a while ago, and you must have wondered yourself what the hell was up."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"We ignored it," Frank said, in a voice firmer and less catering than his usual one. "We rose above it." Walton was number of inches shorter than Frank, with yet a bigger head; his gleaming, thin-skinned face, bearing smooth jowls that had climbed into his sideburns, was shadowed blue here and there, like the moon. His bruised and powdered look somehow went with his small, spaced teeth and the horizontal red tracks his glasses had left in the fat in front of his ears.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">The man gazed at Frank with a gleaming, sagging lower lip, his nearsighted little eyes trying to assess the damage, the depth of the grudge. "Well, mea culpa, mea culpa, I guess, though I <i>didn't</i> tell Jojo and that <i>poisonous</i> Ed Jaffrey to go blabbing it all over town."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Well, thanks for telling me, Wally, I guess." Depending on which man he was standing with, Frank felt large and straight and sonorous or, as with Wes, gracile and flighty. Sharon, scenting blood amid the vacuous burble of the party, pushed herself through the crowd and joined the two men. To deny Walton the pleasure, Frank quickly told her, "Wally just confessed to me he started the rumor because Charlie Whitfield downtown, who did run off with somebody, came from Ohio, too. Toledo, as I remember."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Oh, that rumor," Sharon said, blinking once, as if her party mascara were sticking. "I'd forgotten it. Who could believe it, of Frank?"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Everybody, evidently," Frank said. It was possible, given the strange, willful ways of women, that she had forgotten it, even while Frank had been brooding over its possible justice. If the rumor were truly dispersed — and Walton would undoubtedly tell the story of his Freudian slip around town as a self-promoting joke on himself — Frank would feel diminished. He would lose that small sadistic power to make her watch him watching waiters in restaurants, and to bring her into town as his chaperon. He would feel emasculated if she no longer thought he had a secret. Yet that night, at the party, Walton Forney's Jojo had come up to him. He seemed, despite an earring the size of a faucet washer and a stripe of bleach in the center of his hair, unexpectedly intelligent and low-key, offering, not in so many words, a kind of apology, and praising the tea-colored landscapes being offered for sale. "I've been thinking, in my own work, of going, you know, more traditional. You get this feeling of, like, a dead end with abstraction." The boy had a bony, rueful face, with a silvery line of a scar under one eye, and seemed uncertain in manner, hesitantly murmurous, as if at a point in life where he needed direction. That fat fool Forney could certainly not provide that, and it pleased Frank to imagine that Jojo was beginning to realize it.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">The car as he and Sharon drove home together along the Hudson felt close; the heater fan blew oppressively, parchingly. "<i>You</i> were willing to believe it at first," he reminded her.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Well, Avis seemed so definite. But you convinced me."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"How?"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">She placed her hand high on his thigh and dug her fingers in, annoyingly, infuriatingly. "You know," she said, in a lower register, meant to be sexy, but almost inaudible with the noise of the heater fan.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"That could be mere performance," he warned her. "Women are fooled that way all the time."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Who says?"</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"Everybody. Books. Proust. People aren't that simple."</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"They're simple enough," Sharon said, in a neutral, defensive tone, removing her presumptuous hand.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; ">"If you say so," he said, somewhat stoically, his mind drifting. That silvery line of a scar under Jojo's left eye...lean long muscles snugly wrapped in white skin...lofts...Hellenic fellowship, exercise machines...direct negotiations, a simple transaction among equals. The rumor might be dead in the world, but in him it had come alive.</p><p style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; "></p><span style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 11px; "><br /><br /></span></span>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-26908733163626945032010-11-18T04:53:00.000-08:002010-11-18T04:56:24.884-08:00Sins Of<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLylhTA005ZXCHPl-T-x9ols9xrlOsNsqh9iuMfKc4l0S0tmiHq3GhD-HiT8J29FbL4GfIfpbtHlUUr2Z3-VtYfDqew-iedqpCuAZhY5-IAToM3Zd5lIQTOxqFsbUqu_bGBnGtDikzmH0/s1600/He__s_not_a_mandolin_by_ForeverKnight.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLylhTA005ZXCHPl-T-x9ols9xrlOsNsqh9iuMfKc4l0S0tmiHq3GhD-HiT8J29FbL4GfIfpbtHlUUr2Z3-VtYfDqew-iedqpCuAZhY5-IAToM3Zd5lIQTOxqFsbUqu_bGBnGtDikzmH0/s320/He__s_not_a_mandolin_by_ForeverKnight.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540872790427826450" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >My father grew up like my grandfather<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >and his father before him<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >hard life and labor<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >they believed in laws and order<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >and that, things had to be done the hard way<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >a little beating built character<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >a man must work and have responsibilities<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >a man must be stern with his children and own lawn.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >they were all bitter drunkards and <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I believed I would never understand why<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I vowed to never be like them<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >to swim in the waters of Acapulco<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >to run with the bulls<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >to learn to play the mandolin<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I pledged to love my wife and never kick my dog.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I grew up<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >and understood<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >that time wrinkles you into a paper ball<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >a hard life of labor<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >and my character took a beating<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >I now have a lawn I must keep tidy<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" >and I have never played the mandolin.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" ><o:p></o:p></span></p>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-64475481181434631082010-11-18T04:46:00.000-08:002010-11-18T04:52:52.867-08:00A Mark<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVvC-wMevKJM3oK1SaT3tOIdBie6N06viVg97LaTgFqNF5XoF_Vhrm8A3WheHANh3GW22SmBWdf9_pzqrS0A_Q13q64zVrmEzfjbgC6jnXqA7BhFl_EdgJjO6TNbZPuukooDNooGNm90g/s1600/birth_mark_marks_me_by_gesticulate.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 213px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVvC-wMevKJM3oK1SaT3tOIdBie6N06viVg97LaTgFqNF5XoF_Vhrm8A3WheHANh3GW22SmBWdf9_pzqrS0A_Q13q64zVrmEzfjbgC6jnXqA7BhFl_EdgJjO6TNbZPuukooDNooGNm90g/s320/birth_mark_marks_me_by_gesticulate.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540871440148286898" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">when I was younger<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">there was a girl who lived a block <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">down<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">and every day we would fool around<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">once a day I would see her birthmark<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">etched on her upper thigh<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">she would say<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">“how you love that thing”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">and I would kiss it every day. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New""><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">several<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>years later she found me<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">and came by with her boyfriend<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">some guy who smoked and played guitar<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">and was a fan of all the bands I liked<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">she crossed her beautiful thighs as we talked<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">high<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">but not high enough for me to see that birthmark.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New""><br /></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New""><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">when they were both ready to leave <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">I gave her a hug and<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">I shook hands with her boyfriend<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">and I never saw him or her<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">birthmark<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:10.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">ever again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-7939027863184994542010-11-18T04:41:00.000-08:002010-11-18T04:46:04.875-08:00Marbles<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Ab3bn7IV7siNcY3eJeGAEZMmFEWz0WldleN3qgeHx3D7jHlSKvjSQnoYuOncZ12-ZoJQP7dDYGuVSUpUTJRZnv-jxhf1-cTp-VIZ5U618Di7VA1pMEMD4k7TWhjRYs1BDcY5LIPLQHw/s1600/Marbles_by_TheEmerald.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 233px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1Ab3bn7IV7siNcY3eJeGAEZMmFEWz0WldleN3qgeHx3D7jHlSKvjSQnoYuOncZ12-ZoJQP7dDYGuVSUpUTJRZnv-jxhf1-cTp-VIZ5U618Di7VA1pMEMD4k7TWhjRYs1BDcY5LIPLQHw/s320/Marbles_by_TheEmerald.png" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5540869659413283810" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" align="center" style="text-align:center"><span class="Apple-style-span"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 13px;"><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">the parrots were there, and the avocado tree<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">and the old ladies who washed clothes on rocks<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">and I was there; a child<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">I would play with marbles<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">but I kept quiet<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">because they all talked- <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">the three of them<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">and I watched the old women throw seed by the tree<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">“so they can sing for us”<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">in the evening the wind blew the tree leaves against the roof, lightly<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">cascading sounds like waterfalls<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">complimenting the parrot’s chorus<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">and the women hummed along and knitted<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">I shot a marble and hit another<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">each shot reflecting off <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">each other like a <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">Concise <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">promised world<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">And we sat there <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">the three of us<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">in a warm night’s semi circle<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">and now they’re gone, the three of them<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">I believed in a story without an ending <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">and it left me a<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">bitter man<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">I have known the cold floors of the world<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:9.0pt;line-height:115%;font-family: "Courier New"">and the parrots sing, no more.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-90919729799972755722010-11-11T14:54:00.000-08:002010-11-11T15:09:02.987-08:00Thursday's: I Wish I Wrote This<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHLeK2dVZbyAMdFpNZjd767f1q4T7U7gfInKDNJ0oe_nzpzNI-7ydOHZ3Y43lJ0LRgXsyAgAOGMqqlQkRd_YPavOHO7tbCZaNdFEHhzbcCKyi7uB-ksmpyJlyKG6Fnwivi4mnsG43Dtlc/s1600/The_Beauty_In_the_Ocean_by_tvlookplay.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHLeK2dVZbyAMdFpNZjd767f1q4T7U7gfInKDNJ0oe_nzpzNI-7ydOHZ3Y43lJ0LRgXsyAgAOGMqqlQkRd_YPavOHO7tbCZaNdFEHhzbcCKyi7uB-ksmpyJlyKG6Fnwivi4mnsG43Dtlc/s320/The_Beauty_In_the_Ocean_by_tvlookplay.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5538432910632507586" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><p style="text-align: center; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien</span></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" > </span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carried letters from a girl named Martha, a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey. They were not love letters, but Lieutenant Cross was hoping, so he kept them folded in plastic at the bottom of his rucksack. In the late afternoon, after a day's march, he would dig his foxhole, wash his hands under a canteen, unwrap the letters, hold them with the tips of his fingers, and spend the last hour of fight pretending. He would imagine romantic camping trips into the White Mountains in New Hampshire. He would sometimes taste the envelope flaps, knowing her tongue had been there. More than anything, he wanted Martha to love him as he loved her, but the letters were mostly chatty, elusive on the matter of love. She was a virgin, he was almost sure. She was an English major at Mount Sebastian, and she wrote beautifully about her professors and roommates and midterm exams, about her respect for Chaucer and her great affection for Virginia Woolf. She often quoted lines .of poetry; she never mentioned the war, except to say, Jimmy, take care of yourself. The letters weighed ten ounces. They were signed "Love, Martha," but Lieutenant Cross understood that Love was only a way of signing and did not mean what he sometimes pretended it meant. At dusk, he would carefully return the letters to his rucksack. Slowly, a bit distracted, he would get up and move among his men, checking the perimeter, then at full dark he would return to his hole and watch the night and wonder if Martha was a virgin.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >The things they carried were largely determined by necessity. Among the necessities or near-necessities were P-38 can openers, pocket knives, heat tabs, wrist watches, dog tags, mosquito repellent, chewing gum, candy, cigarettes, salt tablets, packets of Kool-Aid, lighters, matches, sewing kits, Military payment Certificates, C rations, and two or three canteens of water. Together, these items weighed between fifteen and twenty pounds, depending upon a man's habits or rate of metabolism. Henry Dobbins, who was a big man, carried extra rations; he was especially fond of canned peaches in heavy syrup over pound cake. Dave Jensen, who practiced field hygiene, carried a toothbrush, dental floss, and several hotel-size bars of soap he'd stolen on R&R in Sydney, Australia. Ted Lavender, who was scared, carried tranquilizers until he was shot in the head outside the village of Than Khe in mid-April. By necessity, and because it was SOP, they all carried steel helmets that weighed five pounds including the liner aid camouflage cover. They carried the standard fatigue jackets and trousers. Very few carried underwear. On their feet they carried jungle boots-2.1 pounds - and Dave Jensen carried three pairs of socks and a can of Dr. Scholl's foot powder as a precaution against trench foot. Until he was shot, Ted Lavender carried six or seven ounces of premium dope, which for him was 2 necessity. Mitchell Sanders, the RT0, carried condoms. Norman Bowker carried a diary. Rat Kiley carried comic books. Kiowa, a devout Baptist, Carried an illustrated New Testament that had been presented to him by his father, who taught Sunday school in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. As a hedge against bad times, however, Kiowa also carried his grandmother's distrust of the white man, his grandfather's old hunting hatchet. Necessity dictated. Because the land was mined and booby-trapped, it was SOP for each man to carry a steel-centered, nylon-covered flak jacket, which weighed 6.7 pounds, but which on hot days seemed much heavier. Because you could die so quickly, each man carried at least one large compress bandage, usually in the helmet band for easy access. Because the nights were cold, and because the monsoons were wet, each carried a green plastic poncho that could be used as a raincoat or groundsheet or makeshift tent. With its quilted liner, the poncho weighed almost two pounds, but it was worth every ounce. In April, for instance, when Ted Lavender was shot, they used his poncho to wrap him up, then to carry him across the paddy, then to lift him into the chopper that took him away.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >They were called legs or grunts.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >To carry something was to "hump" it, as when Lieutenant Jimmy Cross humped his love for Martha up the hills and through the swamps. In its intransitive form, "to hump," meant "to walk," or "to march," but it implied burdens far beyond the intransitive.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Almost everyone humped photographs. In his wallet, Lieutenant Cross carried two photographs of Martha. The first was a Kodachrome snapshot signed "Love," though he knew better. She stood against a brick wall. Her eyes were gray and neutral, her lips slightly open as she stared straight-on at the camera. At night, sometimes, Lieutenant Cross wondered who had taken the picture, because he knew she had boyfriends, because he loved her so much, and because he could see the shadow of the picture taker spreading out against the brick wall. The second photograph had been clipped from the 1968 Mount Sebastian yearbook. It was an action shot-women's volleyball-and Martha was bent horizontal to the floor, reaching, the palms of her hands in sharp focus, the tongue taut, the expression frank and competitive. There was no visible sweat. She wore white gym shorts. Her legs, he thought, were almost certainly the legs of a virgin, dry and without hair, the left knee cocked and carrying her entire weight, which was just over one hundred pounds. Lieutenant Cross remembered touching that left knee. A dark theater, he remembered, and the movie was<i>Bonnie and Clyde</i>, and Martha wore a tweed skirt, and during the final scene, when he touched her knee, she turned and looked at him in a sad, sober way that made him pull his hand back, but he would always remember the feel of the tweed skirt and the knee beneath it and the sound of the gunfire that killed Bonnie and Clyde, how embarrassing it was, how slow and oppressive. He remembered kissing her goodnight at the dorm door. Right then, he thought, he should've done something brave. He should've carried her up the stairs to her room and tied her to the bed and touched that left knee all night long. He should've risked it. Whenever he looked at the photographs, he thought of new things he should've done.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >What they carried was partly a function of rank, partly of field specialty.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >As a first lieutenant and platoon leader, Jimmy Cross carried a compass, maps, code books, binoculars, and a .45-caliber pistol that weighed 2.9 pounds fully loaded. He carried a strobe fight and the responsibility for the lives of his men.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >As an RTO, Mitchell Sanders carried the PRC-25 radio, a killer, twenty-six pounds with its battery.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >As a medic, Rat Kiley carried a canvas satchel filled with morphine and plasma and malaria tablets and surgical tape and comic books and all the things a medic must carry, including M&M's for especially bad wounds, for a total weight of nearly twenty pounds.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >As a big man, therefore a machine gunner, Henry Dobbins carried the M-60, which weighed twenty-three pounds unloaded, but which was almost always loaded. In addition, Dobbins carried between ten and fifteen pounds of ammunition draped in belts across his chest and shoulders.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >As PFCs or Spec 4s, most of them were common grunts and carried the standard M-16 gas-operated assault rifle. The weapon weighed 75 pounds unloaded, 8.2 pounds with its full twenty-round magazine. Depending on numerous factors, such as topography and psychology, the riflemen carried anywhere from twelve to twenty magazines, usually in cloth bandoliers, adding on another 8.4 pounds at minimum, fourteen pounds at maximum. When it was available, they also carried M-16 maintenance gear - rods and steel brushes and swabs and tubes of LSA oil - all of which weighed about 2 pound. Among the grunts, some carried the M-79 grenade launcher, 5.9 pounds unloaded, a reasonably fight weapon except for the ammunition, which was heavy. A single round weighed ten ounces. The typical load was twenty-five rounds. But Ted Lavender, who was scared, carried thirty-four rounds when he was shot and killed outside Than Khe, and he went down under an exceptional burden, more than twenty pounds of ammunition, plus the flak jacket and helmet and rations and water and toilet paper and tranquilizers and all the rest, plus the unweighed fear. He was dead weight. There was no twitching or flopping. Kiowa, who saw it happen, said it was like watching a rock fall, or a big sandbag or something -just boom, then down - not like the movies where the dead guy rolls around and does fancy spins and goes ass over teakettle -not like that, Kiowa said, the poor bastard just flat-fuck fell. Boom. Down. Nothing else. It was a bright morning in mid-April. Lieutenant Cross felt the pain. He blamed himself. They stripped off Lavender's canteens and ammo, all the heavy things, and Rat Kiley said the obvious, the guy's dead, and Mitchell Sanders used his radio to report one U.S. KIA and to request a chopper. Then they wrapped Lavender in his poncho. They carried him out to a dry paddy, established security, and sat smoking the dead man's dope until the chopper came. Lieutenant Cross kept to himself. He pictured Martha's smooth young face, thinking he loved her more than anything, more than his men, and now Ted Lavender was dead because he loved her so much and could not stop thinking about her. When the dust-off arrived, they carried Lavender aboard. Afterward they burned Than Khe. They marched until dusk, then dug their holes, and that night Kiowa kept explaining how you had to be them how fast it was, how the poor guy just dropped like so much concrete, Boom-down, he said. Like cement.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >In addition to the three standard weapons-the M-60, M-16, and M-79-they carried whatever presented itself, or whatever seemed appropriate as a means of killing or staying alive. They carried catch-as-catch can. At various times, in various situations, they carried M-14's and CAR-15's and Swedish K's and grease guns and captured AK-47s and ChiCom's and RPG's and Simonov carbines and black-market Uzi's and .38-caliber Smith & Wesson handguns and 66 mm LAW's and shotguns and silencers and blackjacks and bayonets and C-4 plastic explosives. Lee Strunk carried a slingshot; a weapon of last resort, he called it. Mitchell Sanders carried brass knuckles. Kiowa carried his grandfather's feathered hatchet. Every third or fourth man carried a Claymore antipersonnel mine-3.5 pounds with its firing device. They all carried fragmentation grenades-fourteen ounces each. They all carried at least one M-18 colored smoke grenade- twenty-four ounces. Some carried CS or tear-gas grenades. Sonic carried white-phosphorus grenades. They carried all they could bear, and then some, including a silent awe for the terrible power of the things they carried.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >In the first week of April, before Lavender died, Lieutenant Jimmy Cross received a good-luck charm from Martha. It was a simple pebble. An ounce at most. Smooth to the touch, it was a milky-white color with flecks of orange and violet, oval-shaped, like a miniature egg. In the accompanying letter, Martha wrote that she had found the pebble on the Jersey shoreline, precisely where the land touched water at high tide, where things came together but also separated. It was this separate-but-together quality, she wrote, that had inspired her to pick up the pebble and to carry it in her breast pocket for several days, where it seemed weightless, and then to send it through the mail, by air, as a token of her truest feelings for him. Lieutenant Cross found this romantic. But he wondered what 'her truest feelings were, exactly, and what she meant by separate-but-together. He wondered how the tides and waves had come into play on that afternoon along the Jersey shoreline when Martha saw the pebble and, bent down to rescue it from geology. He imagined bare feet. Martha was a poet, with the poet's sensibilities, and her feet would be brown and bare the toenails unpainted, the eyes chilly and somber like the ocean in March, and though it was painful, he wondered who had been with her that afternoon. He imagined a pair of shadows moving along the strip of sand where things came together but also separated. It was phantom jealousy, he knew, but he couldn't help himself. He loved her so much. On the march, through the hot days of early April, he carried the pebble in his mouth, turning it with his tongue, tasting sea salts and moisture. His mind wandered. He had difficulty keeping his attention on the war. On occasion he would yell at his men to spread out the column, to keep their eyes open, but then he would slip away into daydreams, just pretending, walking barefoot along the Jersey shore, with Martha, carrying nothing. He would feel himself rising. Sun and waves and gentle winds, all love and lightness.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >What they carried varied by mission.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >When a mission took them to the mountains, they carried mosquito netting, machetes, canvas tarps, and extra bugjuice.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >If a mission seemed especially hazardous, or if it involved a place they knew to be bad, they carried everything they could. In certain heavily mined AO's, where the land was dense with Toe Poppers and Bouncing Betties, they took turns humping a twenty-eight-pound mine detector. With its headphones and big sensing plate, the equipment was a stress on the lower back and shoulders, awkward to handle, often useless because of the shrapnel in the earth, but they carried it anyway, partly for safety, partly for the illusion of safety.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >On ambush, or other night missions, they carried peculiar little odds and ends. Kiowa always took along his New Testament and a pair of moccasins for silence. Dave Jensen carried night-sight vitamins high in carotene. Lee Strunk carried his slingshot; ammo, he claimed, would never be a problem. Rat Kiley carried brandy and M&M's. Until he was shot, Ted Lavender carried the starlight scope, which weighed 63 pounds with its aluminum carrying case. Henry Dobbins carried his girlfriend's panty hose wrapped around his neck as a comforter. They all carried ghosts. When dark came, they would move out single file across the meadows and paddies to their ambush coordinates, where they would quietly set up the Claymores and lie down and spend the night waiting.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Other missions were more complicated and required special equipment. In mid-April, it was their mission to search out and destroy the elaborate tunnel complexes in the Than Khe area south of Chu Lai. To blow the tunnels, they carried one-pound blocks of pentrite high explosives; four blocks to a man, sixty-eight pounds in all. They carried wiring, detonators, and battery-powered clackers. Dave Jensen carried earplugs. Most often, before blowing the tunnels, they were ordered by higher command to search them, which was considered bad news, but by and large they just shrugged and carried out orders. Because he was a big man, Henry Dobbins was excused from tunnel duty. The others would draw numbers. Before Lavender died there were seventeen men in the platoon, and whoever drew the number seventeen would strip off his gear and crawl in headfirst with a flashlight and Lieutenant Cross's .45-caliber pistol. The rest of them would fan out as security. They would sit down or kneel, not facing the hole, listening to the ground beneath them, imagining cobwebs and ghosts, whatever was down there-the tunnel walls squeezing in-how the flashlight seemed impossibly heavy in the hand and how it was tunnel vision in the very strictest sense, compression in all ways, even time, and how you had to wiggle in-ass and elbows-a swallowed-up feeling-and how you found yourself worrying about odd things-will your flashlight go dead? Do rats carry rabies? If you screamed, how far would the sound carry? Would your buddies hear it? Would they have the courage to drag you out? In some respects, though not many, the waiting was worse than the tunnel itself. Imagination was a killer.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >On April 16, when Lee Strunk drew the number seventeen, he laughed and muttered something and went down quickly. The morning was hot and very still. Not good, Kiowa said. He looked at the tunnel opening, then out across a dry paddy toward the village of Than Khe. Nothing moved. No clouds or birds or people. As they waited, the men smoked and drank Kool-Aid, not talking much, feeling sympathy for Lee Strunk but also feeling the luck of the draw, You win some, you lose some, said Mitchell Sanders, and sometimes you settle for a rain check. It was a tired line and no one laughed.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Henry Dobbins ate a tropical chocolate bar. Ted Lavender popped a tranquilizer and went off to pee. After five minutes, Lieutenant Jimmy Cross moved to the tunnel, leaned down, and examined the darkness. Trouble, he thought-a cave-in maybe. And then suddenly, without willing it, lie was thinking about Martha. The stresses and fractures, the quick collapse, the two of them buried alive under all that weight. Dense, crushing love. Kneeling, watching the hole, he tried to concentrate on Lee Strunk and the war, all the dangers, but his love was too much for him, he felt paralyzed, he wanted to sleep inside her lungs and breathe- her blood and be smothered. He wanted her to be a virgin and not a virgin, all at once. He wanted to know her. Intimate secrets-why poetry? Why so sad? Why that grayness in her eyes? Why so alone? Not lonely, just alone -riding her bike across campus or sitting off by herself in the cafeteria. Even dancing, she danced alone - and it was the aloneness that filled him with love. He remembered telling her that one evening. How she nodded and looked away. And how, later, when he kissed her. She received the kiss without returning it, her eyes wide open, not afraid, not a virgin's eyes, just flat and uninvolved.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Lieutenant Cross gazed at the tunnel. But he was not there. He was buried with Martha under the white sand at the Jersey shore. They were pressed together, and the pebble in his mouth was her tongue. He was smiling. Vaguely, he was aware of how quiet the day was; the sullen paddies, yet he could not bring himself to worry about matters of security. He was beyond that. He was just a kid at war, in love. He was twenty two years old. He couldn't help it.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >A few moments later Lee Strunk crawled out of the tunnel. He came up grinning, filthy but alive. Lieutenant Cross nodded and closed his eyes while the others clapped Strunk on the back and made jokes about rising from the dead.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Worms, Rat Kiley said. Right out of the grave. Fuckin' zombie.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >The men laughed. They all felt great relief.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Spook City, said Mitchell Sanders.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Lee Strunk made a funny ghost sound, a kind of moaning, yet very happy, and fight then, when Strunk made that high happy moaning sound, when he went Ahhooooo, right then Ted Lavender was shot in the head on his way back from peeing. He lay with his mouth open. The teeth were broken. There was a swollen black bruise under his left eye. The cheekbone was gone. Oh shit, Rat Kiley said, the guy's dead. The guy's dead, he kept saying, which seemed profound -the guy's dead. I mean really.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >The things they carried were determined to some extent by superstition. Lieutenant Cross carried his good-luck pebble. Dave Jensen carried a rabbit's foot. Norman Bowker, other-wise a very gentle person, carried a thumb that had been presented to him as a gift by Mitchell Sanders. The thumb was dark brown, rubbery to the touch, and weighed four ounces at most. It had been cut from a VC corpse, a boy of fifteen or sixteen. They'd found him at the bottom of an irrigation ditch, badly burned, flies in his mouth and eyes. The boy wore black shorts and sandals. At the time of his death he had been carrying a pouch of rice, a rifle, and three magazines of ammunition.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >You want my opinion, Mitchell Sanders said, there's a definite moral here.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >He put his hand oil the dead boy's wrist. He was quiet for a time, as if counting a pulse, then he patted the stomach, almost affectionately, and used Kiowa's hunting hatchet to remove the thumb.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Henry Dobbins asked what the moral was.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Moral?</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >You know- <i>Moral.</i></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Sanders wrapped the thumb in toilet paper and handed it across to Norman Bowker. There was no blood. Smiling, he kicked the boy's head, watched the files scatter, and said, It's like with that old TV show - Paladin. Have gun, will travel.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Henry Dobbins thought about it.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Yeah, well, he finally said. I don't see no moral.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >There it is, man.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Fuck off.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >They carried USO stationery and pencils and pens. They carried Sterno, safety pins, trip flares, signal flares, spools of wire, razor blades, chewing tobacco, liberated joss sticks and statuettes of the sniffing Buddha, candles, grease pencils, The Stars and Stripes, fingernail clippers, Psy Ops leaflets, bush hats, bolos, and much more. Twice a week, when the resupply choppers came in, they carried hot chow in green Mermite cans and large canvas bags filled with iced beer and soda pop. They carried plastic water containers, each with a two gallon capacity. Mitchell Sanders carried a set of starched tiger fatigues for special occasions. Henry Dobbins carried Black Flag insecticide. Dave Jensen carried empty sandbags that could be filled at night for added protection. Lee Strunk carried tanning lotion. Some things they carried in common. Taking turns, they carried the big PRC-77 scrambler radio, which weighed thirty pounds with its battery. They shared the weight of memory. They took up what others could no longer bear, Often, they carried each other, the wounded or weak. They carried infections. They carried chess sets, basketballs, Vietnamese English dictionaries, insignia of rank, Bronze Stars and Purple Hearts, plastic cards imprinted with the Code of Conduct. They carried diseases, among them malaria and dysentery. They carried lice and ringworm and leeches and paddy algae and various rots and molds. They carried the land itself. Vietnam, the place, the sod -a powdery orange-red dust that covered their boots and fatigues and faces. They carried the sky. The whole atmosphere, they carried it, the humidity, the monsoons, the stink of fungus and decay, all of it, they carried gravity. They moved like mules. By daylight they took sniper fire, at night they were mortared, but it was not battle, it was just the endless march, village to village, without purpose, nothing won or lost. They marched for the sake of the march. They plodded along slowly, dumbly, leaning forward against the heat, unthinking, all blood and bone, simple grunts, soldiering with their legs, toiling up the hills and down into the paddies and across the rivers and up again and down, just humping, one step and then the next and then another, but no volition, no will, because it was automatic, it was anatomy, and the war was entirely a matter of posture and carriage, the hump was everything, a kind of inertia, a kind of emptiness, a dullness of desire and intellect and conscience and hope and human sensibility. Their principles were in their feet. Their calculations were biological. They had no sense of strategy or mission. They searched the villages without knowing what to look for, nor caring, kicking over jars of rice, frisking children and old men, blowing tunnels, sometimes setting fires and sometimes not, then forming up and moving on to the next village, then other villages, where it would always be the same. They carried their own lives. The pressures were enormous. In the heat of early afternoon, they would remove their helmets and flak jackets, walking bare, which was dangerous but which helped ease the strain. They would often discard things along the route of march. Purely for comfort, they would throw away rations, blow their Claymores and grenades, no matter, because by nightfall the resupply choppers would arrive with more of the same, then a day or two later still more, fresh watermelons and crates of ammunition and sunglasses and woolen sweaters-the resources were stunning -sparklers for the Fourth of July, colored eggs for Easter. It was the great American war chest-the fruits of sciences, the smokestacks, the canneries, the arsenals at Hartford, the Minnesota forests, the machine shops, the vast fields of corn and wheat they carried like freight trains; they carried it on their backs and shoulders-and for all the ambiguities of Vietnam, all the mysteries and unknowns, there was at least the single abiding certainty that they would never be at a loss for things to carry.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >After the chopper took Lavender away, Lieutenant Jimmy Cross led his men into the village of Than Khe. They burned everything. They shot chickens and dogs, they trashed the village well, they called in artillery and watched the wreckage, then they marched for several hours through the hot afternoon, and then at dusk, while Kiowa explained how Lavender died, Lieutenant Cross found himself trembling.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >He tried not to cry. With his entrenching tool, which weighed five pounds, he began digging a hole in the earth.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >He felt shame. He hated himself He had loved Martha more than his men, and as a consequence Lavender was now dead, and this was something he would have to carry like a stone in his stomach for the rest of the war.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >All he could do was dig. He used his entrenching tool like an ax, slashing, feeling both love and hate, and then later, when it was full dark, he sat at the bottom of his foxhole and wept. It went on for a long while. In part, he was grieving for Ted Lavender, but mostly it was for Martha, and for himself, because she belonged to another world, which was not quite real, and because she was a junior at Mount Sebastian College in New Jersey, a poet and a virgin and uninvolved, and because he realized she did not love him and never would.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Like cement, Kiowa whispered in the dark. I swear to God - boom-down. Not a word.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >I've heard this, said Norman Bowker.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >A pisser, you know? Still zipping himself up. Zapped while zipping.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >All right, fine. That's enough.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Yeah, but you had to see it, the guy just</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >I heard, man. Cement. So why not shut the fuck up?</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Kiowa shook his head sadly and glanced over at the hole where Lieutenant Jimmy Cross sat watching the night. The air was thick and wet. A warm, dense fog had settled over the paddies and there was the stillness that precedes rain.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >After a time Kiowa sighed.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >One thing for sure, he said. The lieutenant's in some deep hurt. I mean that crying jag - the way he was carrying on - it wasn't fake or anything, it was real heavy-duty hurt. The man cares.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Sure, Norman Bowker said.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Say what you want, the man does care.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >We all got problems.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Not Lavender.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >No, I guess not, Bowker said. Do me a favor, though.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Shut up?</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >That's a smart Indian. Shut up.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Shrugging, Kiowa pulled off his boots. He wanted to say more, just to lighten up his sleep, but instead he opened his New Testament and arranged it beneath his head as a pillow. The fog made things seem hollow and unattached. He tried not to think about Ted Lavender, but then he was thinking how fast it was, no drama, down and dead, and how it was hard to feet anything except surprise. It seemed unchristian. He wished he could find some great sadness, or even anger, but the emotion wasn't there and he couldn't make it happen. Mostly he felt pleased to be alive. He liked the smell of the New Testament under his check, the leather and ink and paper and glue, whatever the chemicals were. He liked hearing the sounds of night. Even his fatigue, it felt fine, the stiff muscles and the prickly awareness of his own body, a floating feeling. He enjoyed not being dead. Lying there, Kiowa admired Lieutenant Jimmy Cross's capacity for grief. He wanted to share the man's pain, he wanted to care as Jimmy Cross cared. And yet when he closed his eyes, all he could think was Boon-down, and all he could feel was the pleasure of having his boots off and the fog curling in around him and the damp soil and the Bible smells and the plush comfort of night.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >After a moment Norman Bowker sat up in the dark.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >What the hell, he said. You want to talk, <i>talk</i>. Tell it to me.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Forget it.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >No, man, go on. One thing I hate, it's a silent Indian.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >For the most part they carried themselves with poise, a kind of dignity. Now and then, however, there were times of panic, when they squealed or wanted to squeal but couldn't. When they twitched and made moaning sounds and covered their heads and said Dear Jesus and flopped around on the earth and fired their weapons blindly and cringed and sobbed and begged for the noise to stop and went wild and made stupid promises to themselves and to God and to their mothers and fathers, hoping not to die. In different ways, it happened to all of them. Afterward, when the firing ended, they would blink and peek up. They would touch their bodies, feeling shame, then quickly hiding it. They would force themselves to stand. As if in slow motion, frame by frame, the world would take on the old logic-absolute silence, then the wind, then sunlight, then voices. It was the burden of being alive. Awkwardly, the men would reassemble themselves, first in private, then in groups, becoming soldiers again. They would repair the leaks in their eyes. They would check for casualties, call in dust-offs, light cigarettes, try to smile, clear their throats and spit and begin cleaning their weapons. After a time someone would shake his head and say, No lie, I almost shit my pants, and someone else would laugh, which meant it was bad, yes, but the guy had obviously not shit his pants, it wasn't that bad, and in any case nobody would ever do such a thing and then go ahead and talk about it. They would squint into the dense, oppressive sunlight. For a few moments, perhaps, they would fall silent, lighting a joint and tracking its passage from man to man, inhaling, holding in the humiliation. Scary stuff, one of them might say. But then someone else would grin or flick his eyebrows and say, Roger-dodger, almost cut me a new asshole, <i>almost</i>.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >There were numerous such poses. Some carried themselves with a sort of wistful resignation, others with pride or stiff soldierly discipline or good humor or macho zeal. They were afraid of dying but they were even more afraid to show it.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >They found jokes to tell.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >They used a hard vocabulary to contain the terrible softness. <i>Greased</i>, they'd say. <i>Offed, lit up, zapped while zipping.</i> It wasn't cruelty, just stage presence. They were actors and the war came at them in 3-D. When someone died, it wasn't quite dying, because in a curious way it seemed scripted, and because they had their fines mostly memorized, irony mixed with tragedy, and because they called it by other names, as if to encyst and destroy the reality of death itself. They kicked corpses. They cut off thumbs. They talked grunt lingo. They told stories about Ted Lavender's supply of tranquilizers, how the poor guy didn't feel a thing, how incredibly tranquil he was.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >There's a moral here, said Mitchell Sanders.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >They were waiting for Lavender's chopper, smoking the dead man's dope.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >The moral's pretty obvious, Sanders said, and winked. Stay away from drugs. No joke, they'll ruin your day every time.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Cute, said Henry Dobbins.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Mind-blower, get it? Talk about wiggy- nothing left, just blood and brains.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >They made themselves laugh.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >There it is, they'd say, over and over, as if the repetition itself were an act of poise, a balance between crazy and almost crazy, knowing without going. There it is, which meant be cool, let it ride, because oh yeah, man, you can't change what can't be changed, there it is, there it absolutely and positively and fucking well<i> is</i>.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >They were tough.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >They carried all the emotional baggage of men who might die. Grief, terror, love, longing -these were intangibles, but the intangibles had their own mass and specific gravity, they had tangible weight. They carried shameful memories. They carried the common secret of cowardice barely restrained, the instinct to run or freeze or hide, and in many respects this was the heaviest burden of all, for it could never be put down, it required perfect balance and perfect posture. They carried their reputations. They carried the soldier's greatest fear, which was the fear of blushing. Men killed, and died, because they were embarrassed not to. It was what had brought them to the war in the first place, nothing positive, no dreams of glory or honor, just to avoid the blush of dishonor. They died so as not to die of embarrassment. They crawled into tunnels and walked point and advanced under fire. Each morning, despite the unknowns, they made their legs move. They endured. They kept humping. They did not submit to the obvious alternative, which was simply to close the eyes and fall. So easy, really. Go limp and tumble to the ground and let the muscles unwind and not speak and not budge until your buddies picked you up and lifted you into the chopper that would roar and dip its nose and carry you off to the world. A mere matter of falling, yet no one ever fell. It was not courage, exactly; the object was not valor. Rather, they were too frightened to be cowards.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >By and large they carried these things inside, maintaining the masks of composure. They sneered at sick call. They spoke bitterly about guys who had found release by shooting off their own toes or fingers. Pussies, they'd say. Candyasses. It was fierce, mocking talk, with only a trace of envy or awe, but even so, the image played itself out behind their eyes.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >They imagined the muzzle against flesh. They imagined the quick, sweet pain, then the evacuation to Japan, then a hospital with warm beds and cute geisha nurses.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >They dreamed of freedom birds.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >At night, on guard, staring into the dark, they were carried away by jumbo jets. They felt the rush of takeoff <i>Gone! </i>they yelled. And then velocity, wings and engines, a smiling stewardess-but it was more than a plane, it was a real bird, a big sleek silver bird with feathers and talons and high screeching. They were flying. The weights fell off; there was nothing to bear. They laughed and held on tight, feeling the cold slap of wind and altitude, soaring, thinking <i>It's over, I'm gone!</i> - they were naked. They were light and free-it was all lightness, bright and fast and buoyant, light as light, a helium buzz in the brain, a giddy bubbling in the lungs as they were taken up over the Clouds and the war, beyond duty, beyond gravity and mortification anti global entanglements -<i>Sin loi!</i> They yelled, <i>I'm sorry, motherfuckers, but I'm out of it, I'm goofed, I'm on a space cruise, I'm gone! </i>-and it was a restful, disencumbered sensation, just riding the fight waves, sailing; that big silver freedom bird over the mountains and oceans, over America, over the farms and great sleeping cities and cemeteries and highways and the Golden Arches of McDonald's. It was flight, a kind of fleeing, a kind of falling, falling higher and higher, spinning off the edge of the earth and beyond the sun and through the vast, silent vacuum where there were no burdens and where everything weighed exactly nothing. <i>Gone!</i> they screamed, <i>I'm sorry but I'm gone! </i>And so at night, not quite dreaming, they gave themselves over to lightness, they were carried, they were purely borne.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >On the morning after Ted Lavender died, First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross crouched at the bottom of his foxhole and burned Martha's letters. Then he burned the two photographs. There was a steady rain falling, which made it difficult, but he used heat tabs and Sterno to build a small fire, screening it with his body, holding the photographs over the tight blue flame with the tips of his fingers.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >He realized it was only a gesture. Stupid, he thought. Sentimental, too, but mostly just stupid.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Lavender was dead. You couldn't burn the blame.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Besides, the letters were in his head. And even now, without photographs, Lieutenant Cross could see Martha playing volleyball in her white gym shorts and yellow T-shirt. He could see her moving in the rain.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >When the fire died out, Lieutenant Cross pulled his poncho over his shoulders and ate breakfast from a can.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >There was no great mystery, he decided.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >In those burned letters Martha had never mentioned the war, except to say, Jimmy take care of yourself. She wasn't involved. She signed the letters "Love," but it wasn't love, and all the fine lines and technicalities did not matter.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >The morning came up wet and blurry. Everything seemed part of everything else, the fog and Martha and the deepening rain.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >It was a war, after all.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Half smiling, Lieutenant Jimmy Cross took out his maps. He shook his head hard, as if to clear it, then bent forward and began planning the day's march. In ten minutes, or maybe twenty, he would rouse the men and they would pack up and head west, where the maps showed the country to be green and inviting. They would do what they had always done. The rain might add some weight, but otherwise it would be one more day layered upon all the other days.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >He was realistic about it. There was that new hardness in his stomach.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >No more fantasies, he told himself.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Henceforth, when lie thought about Martha, it would be only to think that she belonged elsewhere. He would shut down the daydreams. This was not Mount Sebastian, it was another world, where there were no pretty poems or midterm exams, a place where men died because of carelessness and gross stupidity. Kiowa was right. Boom-down, and you were dead, never partly dead.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Briefly, in the rain, Lieutenant Cross saw Martha's gray eyes gazing back at him.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >He understood.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >It was very sad, he thought. The things men carried inside. The things men did or felt they had to do.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >He almost nodded at her, but didn't.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Instead he went back to his maps. He was now determined to perform his duties firmly and without negligence. It wouldn't help Lavender, he knew that, but from this point on he would comport himself as a soldier. He would dispose of his good-luck pebble. Swallow it, maybe, or use Lee Strunk's slingshot, or just drop it along the trail. On the march he would impose strict field discipline. He would be careful to send out flank security, to prevent straggling or bunching up, to keep his troops moving at the proper pace and at the proper interval. He would insist on clean weapons. He would confiscate the remainder of Lavender's dope. Later in the day, perhaps, he would call the men together and speak to them plainly. He would accept the blame for what had happened to Ted Lavender. He would be a man about it. He would look them in the eyes, keeping his chin level, and he would issue the new SOPs in a calm, impersonal tone of voice, an officer's voice, leaving no room for argument or discussion. Commencing immediately, he'd tell them, they would no longer abandon equipment along the route of march. They would police up their acts. They would get their shit together, and keep it together, and maintain it neatly and in good working order.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >He would not tolerate laxity. He would show strength, distancing himself.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" >Among the men there would be grumbling, of course, and maybe worse, because their days would seem longer and their loads heavier, but Lieutenant Cross reminded himself that his obligation was not to be loved but to lead. He would dispense with love; it was not now a factor. And if anyone quarreled or complained, he would simply tighten his lips and arrange his shoulders in the correct command posture. He might give a curt little nod. Or he might not. He might just shrug and say Carry on, then they would saddle up and form into a column and move out toward the villages west of Than Khe. (1986)</span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; font-size: 12px; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></p></span>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-42615507957556514902010-10-21T10:12:00.000-07:002010-10-21T10:22:42.952-07:00Thursday's: I Wish I Wrote This<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEve2bAQZ0hAr8Sxxb0XzHxtYV9gdn7HYpXYYAodAB2iJWxVYemtVpFpcm4kY-oMix0JARQNYUjVR7jgq28ryc60OtbexdBg8bSdT2qsfYUntvVKJxcNYs8laWfrrLsVkEzHT9FGPJSw/s1600/stephenkingsn_01.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 210px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBEve2bAQZ0hAr8Sxxb0XzHxtYV9gdn7HYpXYYAodAB2iJWxVYemtVpFpcm4kY-oMix0JARQNYUjVR7jgq28ryc60OtbexdBg8bSdT2qsfYUntvVKJxcNYs8laWfrrLsVkEzHT9FGPJSw/s320/stephenkingsn_01.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5530550993443554498" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span">Halloween is coming up, so a horror story seemed logical. This is episode one of "N" based on a short story by Stephen King. Just follow the link into YouTube to see the rest of them. I said one, bad number. Six is a fix, so long as it does come in three. That's a another kind of bad number altogether... the only way to fix three 6's is to add them together, which makes 18.</span></span><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 6px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; outline-width: 0px; outline-style: initial; outline-color: initial; background-image: initial; background-attachment: initial; background-origin: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: transparent; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span">18 is safe.</span></span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; "><span class="Apple-style-span">Unless you divide it by 2. You can, however, multiply it. The number 36 is a very good one</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small; font-family: arial; ">.</span> <div><br /></div><div><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXwZYc3fyLk&feature=related">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TXwZYc3fyLk&feature=related</a></div>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-63754850297427908492010-10-14T16:51:00.000-07:002010-10-14T16:52:01.968-07:00Thursday's: I Wish I Wrote This<div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS'; font-size: 20px; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><b>A Dog Has Died</b></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; "><table border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" width="100%" id="table23"><tbody><tr><td valign="top" style="font-family: Verdana, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; width: 524px; "><span style="font-size: 14px; font-family: Arial; color: rgb(51, 51, 51); "><br />My dog has died.<br />I buried him in the garden<br />next to a rusted old machine.<br /><br />Some day I'll join him right there,<br />but now he's gone with his shaggy coat,<br />his bad manners and his cold nose,<br />and I, the materialist, who never believed<br />in any promised heaven in the sky<br />for any human being,<br />I believe in a heaven I'll never enter.<br />Yes, I believe in a heaven for all dogdom<br />where my dog waits for my arrival<br />waving his fan-like tail in friendship.<br /><br />Ai, I'll not speak of sadness here on earth,<br />of having lost a companion<br />who was never servile.<br />His friendship for me, like that of a porcupine<br />withholding its authority,<br />was the friendship of a star, aloof,<br />with no more intimacy than was called for,<br />with no exaggerations:<br />he never climbed all over my clothes<br />filling me full of his hair or his mange,<br />he never rubbed up against my knee<br />like other dogs obsessed with sex.<br /><br />No, my dog used to gaze at me,<br />paying me the attention I need,<br />the attention required<br />to make a vain person like me understand<br />that, being a dog, he was wasting time,<br />but, with those eyes so much purer than mine,<br />he'd keep on gazing at me<br />with a look that reserved for me alone<br />all his sweet and shaggy life,<br />always near me, never troubling me,<br />and asking nothing.<br /><br />Ai, how many times have I envied his tail<br />as we walked together on the shores of the sea<br />in the lonely winter of Isla Negra<br />where the wintering birds filled the sky<br />and my hairy dog was jumping about<br />full of the voltage of the sea's movement:<br />my wandering dog, sniffing away<br />with his golden tail held high,<br />face to face with the ocean's spray.<br /><br />Joyful, joyful, joyful,<br />as only dogs know how to be happy<br />with only the autonomy<br />of their shameless spirit.<br /><br />There are no good-byes for my dog who has died,<br />and we don't now and never did lie to each other.<br /><br />So now he's gone and I buried him,<br />and that's all there is to it.<br /><br /><span style="font-size: 20px; ">-Pablo Neruda </span></span></td></tr></tbody></table></span></div>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-20608163979696173832010-10-07T13:41:00.000-07:002010-10-07T13:45:00.868-07:00Thursday's: I Wish I Wrote This<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjolx8XiQs-1vROIOY6M-JHBmtqD1gkbz7RtvZcmeCO0cOFJf5kKo2BgAvVxXqd_eX8cfWr-Bz17Purw4Pi-6z9ElflylJkP7rPMxmDNfzBtg84bi8WTpA6HxJPFGQnWnC5Qib3PT_BJmo/s1600/A_Very_Old_Man____by_Xiousinoa.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 144px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjolx8XiQs-1vROIOY6M-JHBmtqD1gkbz7RtvZcmeCO0cOFJf5kKo2BgAvVxXqd_eX8cfWr-Bz17Purw4Pi-6z9ElflylJkP7rPMxmDNfzBtg84bi8WTpA6HxJPFGQnWnC5Qib3PT_BJmo/s200/A_Very_Old_Man____by_Xiousinoa.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5525407953384296498" /></a><br /><div align="center" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica14" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 18px; ">A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings: A Tale For Children </span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="center" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><i><b><span class="Helvetica12" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 16px; ">Gabriel Garcia Marquez</span></b></i></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><span class="Times10" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', adobe-times, Times; font-size: 10px; "> </span>On the third day of rain they had killed so many crabs inside the house that Pelayo had to cross his drenched courtyard and throw them into the sea, because the newborn child had a temperature all night and they thought it was due to the stench. The world had been sad since Tuesday. Sea and sky were a single ash-gray thing and the sands of the beach, which on March nights glimmered like powdered light, had become a stew of mud and rotten shellfish. The light was so weak at noon that when Pelayo was coming back to the house after throwing away the crabs, it was hard for him to see what it was that was moving and groaning in the rear of the courtyard. He had to go very close to see that it was an old man, a very old man, lying face down in the mud, who, in spite of his tremendous efforts, couldn't get up, impeded by his enormous wings.</span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><span class="Times10" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', adobe-times, Times; font-size: 10px; "> </span>Frightened by that nightmare, Pelayo ran to get Elisenda, his wife, who was putting compresses on the sick child, and he took her to the rear of the courtyard. They both looked at the fallen body with a mute stupor. He was dressed like a ragpicker. There were only a few faded hairs left on his bald skull and very few teeth in his mouth, and his pitiful condition of a drenched great-grandfather took away and sense of grandeur he might have had. His huge buzzard wings, dirty and half-plucked were forever entangled in the mud. They looked at him so long and so closely that Pelayo and Elisenda very soon overcame their surprise and in the end found him familiar. Then they dared speak to him, and he answered in an incomprehensible dialect with a strong sailor's voice. That was how they skipped over the inconvenience of the wings and quite intelligently concluded that he was a lonely castaway from some foreign ship wrecked by the storm. And yet, they called in a neighbor woman who knew everything about life and death to see him, and all she needed was one look to show them their mistake.</span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><span class="Times10" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', adobe-times, Times; font-size: 10px; "> </span>"He's an angel," she told them. "He must have been coming for the child, but the poor fellow is so old that the rain knocked him down."</span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><span class="Times10" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', adobe-times, Times; font-size: 10px; "> </span>On the following day everyone knew that a flesh-and-blood angel was held captive in Pelayo's house. Against the judgment of the wise neighbor woman, for whom angels in those times were the fugitive survivors of a spiritual conspiracy, they did not have the heart to club him to death. Pelayo watched over him all afternoon from the kitchen, armed with his bailiff's club, and before going to bed he dragged him out of the mud and locked him up with the hens in the wire chicken coop. In the middle of the night, when the rain stopped, Pelayo and Elisenda were still killing crabs. A short time afterward the child woke up without a fever and with a desire to eat. Then they felt magnanimous and decided to put the angel on a raft with fresh water and provisions for three days and leave him to his fate on the high seas. But when they went out into the courtyard with the first light of dawn, they found the whole neighborhood in front of the chicken coop having fun with the angel, without the slightest reverence, tossing him things to eat through the openings in the wire as if weren't a supernatural creature but a circus animal.</span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><span class="Times10" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', adobe-times, Times; font-size: 10px; "> </span>Father Gonzaga arrived before seven o'clock, alarmed at the strange news. By that time onlookers less frivolous than those at dawn had already arrived and they were making all kinds of conjectures concerning the captive's future. The simplest among them thought that he should be named mayor of the world. Others of sterner mind felt that he should be promoted to the rank of five-star general in order to win all wars. Some visionaries hoped that he could be put to stud in order to implant the earth a race of winged wise men who could take charge of the universe. But Father Gonzaga, before becoming a priest, had been a robust woodcutter. Standing by the wire, he reviewed his catechism in an instant and asked them to open the door so that he could take a close look at that pitiful man who looked more like a huge decrepit hen among the fascinated chickens. He was lying in the corner drying his open wings in the sunlight among the fruit peels and breakfast leftovers that the early risers had thrown him. Alien to the impertinences of the world, he only lifted his antiquarian eyes and murmured something in his dialect when Father Gonzaga went into the chicken coop and said good morning to him in Latin. The parish priest had his first suspicion of an imposter when he saw that he did not understand the language of God or know how to greet His ministers. Then he noticed that seen close up he was much too human: he had an unbearable smell of the outdoors, the back side of his wings was strewn with parasites and his main feathers had been mistreated by terrestrial winds, and nothing about him measured up to the proud dignity of angels. The he came out of the chicken coop and in a brief sermon warned the curious against the risks of being ingenuous. He reminded them that the devil had the bad habit of making use of carnival tricks in order to confuse the unwary. He argued that if wings were not the essential element in determining the different between a hawk and an airplane, they were even less so in the recognition of angels. Nevertheless, he promised to write a letter to his bishop so that the latter would write his primate so that the latter would write to the Supreme Pontiff in order to get the final verdict from the highest courts.</span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><span class="Times10" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', adobe-times, Times; font-size: 10px; "> </span>His prudence fell on sterile hearts. The news of the captive angel spread with such rapidity that after a few hours the courtyard had the bustle of a marketplace and they had to call in troops with fixed bayonets to disperse the mob that was about to knock the house down. Elisenda, her spine all twisted from sweeping up so much marketplace trash, then got the idea of fencing in the yard and charging five cents admission to see the angel.</span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><span class="Times10" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', adobe-times, Times; font-size: 10px; "> </span>The curious came from far away. A traveling carnival arrived with a flying acrobat who buzzed over the crowd several times, but no one paid any attention to him because his wings were not those of an angel but, rather, those of a sidereal bat. The most unfortunate invalids on earth came in search of health: a poor woman who since childhood has been counting her heartbeats and had run out of numbers; a Portuguese man who couldn't sleep because the noise of the stars disturbed him; a sleepwalker who got up at night to undo the things he had done while awake; and many others with less serious ailments. In the midst of that shipwreck disorder that made the earth tremble, Pelayo and Elisenda were happy with fatigue, for in less than a week they had crammed their rooms with money and the line of pilgrims waiting their turn to enter still reached beyond the horizon.</span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><span class="Times10" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', adobe-times, Times; font-size: 10px; "> </span>The angel was the only one who took no part in his own act. He spent his time trying to get comfortable in his borrowed nest, befuddled by the hellish heat of the oil lamps and sacramental candles that had been placed along the wire. At first they tried to make him eat some mothballs, which, according to the wisdom of the wise neighbor woman, were the food prescribed for angels. But he turned them down, just as he turned down the papal lunches that the pentinents brought him, and they never found out whether it was because he was an angel or because he was an old man that in the end ate nothing but eggplant mush. His only supernatural virtue seemed to be patience. Especially during the first days, when the hens pecked at him, searching for the stellar parasites that proliferated in his wings, and the cripples pulled out feathers to touch their defective parts with, and even the most merciful threw stones at him, trying to get him to rise so they could see him standing. The only time they succeeded in arousing him was when they burned his side with an iron for branding steers, for he had been motionless for so many hours that they thought he was dead. He awoke with a start, ranting in his hermetic language and with tears in his eyes, and he flapped his wings a couple of times, which brought on a whirlwind of chicken dung and lunar dust and a gale of panic that did not seem to be of this world. Although many thought that his reaction had not been one of rage but of pain, from then on they were careful not to annoy him, because the majority understood that his passivity was not that of a her taking his ease but that of a cataclysm in repose.</span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><span class="Times10" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', adobe-times, Times; font-size: 10px; "> </span>Father Gonzaga held back the crowd's frivolity with formulas of maidservant inspiration while awaiting the arrival of a final judgment on the nature of the captive. But the mail from Rome showed no sense of urgency. They spent their time finding out in the prisoner had a navel, if his dialect had any connection with Aramaic, how many times he could fit on the head of a pin, or whether he wasn't just a Norwegian with wings. Those meager letters might have come and gone until the end of time if a providential event had not put and end to the priest's tribulations.</span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><span class="Times10" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', adobe-times, Times; font-size: 10px; "> </span>It so happened that during those days, among so many other carnival attractions, there arrived in the town the traveling show of the woman who had been changed into a spider for having disobeyed her parents. The admission to see her was not only less than the admission to see the angel, but people were permitted to ask her all manner of questions about her absurd state and to examine her up and down so that no one would ever doubt the truth of her horror. She was a frightful tarantula the size of a ram and with the head of a sad maiden. What was most heartrending, however, was not her outlandish shape but the sincere affliction with which she recounted the details of her misfortune. While still practically a child she had sneaked out of her parents' house to go to a dance, and while she was coming back through the woods after having danced all night without permission, a fearful thunderclap rent the sky in tow and through the crack came the lightning bolt of brimstone that changed her into a spider. Her only nourishment came from the meatballs that charitable souls chose to toss into her mouth. A spectacle like that, full of so much human truth and with such a fearful lesson, was bound to defeat without even trying that of a haughty angel who scarcely deigned to look at mortals. Besides, the few miracles attributed to the angel showed a certain mental disorder, like the blind man who didn't recover his sight but grew three new teeth, or the paralytic who didn't get to walk but almost won the lottery, and the leper whose sores sprouted sunflowers. Those consolation miracles, which were more like mocking fun, had already ruined the angel's reputation when the woman who had been changed into a spider finally crushed him completely. That was how Father Gonzaga was cured forever of his insomnia and Pelayo's courtyard went back to being as empty as during the time it had rained for three days and crabs walked through the bedrooms.</span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><span class="Times10" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', adobe-times, Times; font-size: 10px; "> </span>The owners of the house had no reason to lament. With the money they saved they built a two-story mansion with balconies and gardens and high netting so that crabs wouldn't get in during the winter, and with iron bars on the windows so that angels wouldn't get in. Pelayo also set up a rabbit warren close to town and have up his job as a bailiff for good, and Elisenda bought some satin pumps with high heels and many dresses of iridescent silk, the kind worn on Sunday by the most desirable women in those times. The chicken coop was the only thing that didn't receive any attention. If they washed it down with creolin and burned tears of myrrh inside it every so often, it was not in homage to the angel but to drive away the dungheap stench that still hung everywhere like a ghost and was turning the new house into an old one. At first, when the child learned to walk, they were careful that he not get too close to the chicken coop. But then they began to lose their fears and got used to the smell, and before they child got his second teeth he'd gone inside the chicken coop to play, where the wires were falling apart. The angel was no less standoffish with him than with the other mortals, but he tolerated the most ingenious infamies with the patience of a dog who had no illusions. They both came down with the chicken pox at the same time. The doctor who took care of the child couldn't resist the temptation to listen to the angel's heart, and he found so much whistling in the heart and so many sounds in his kidneys that it seemed impossible for him to be alive. What surprised him most, however, was the logic of his wings. They seemed so natural on that completely human organism that he couldn't understand why other men didn't have them too.</span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><span class="Times10" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', adobe-times, Times; font-size: 10px; "> </span>When the child began school it had been some time since the sun and rain had caused the collapse of the chicken coop. The angel went dragging himself about here and there like a stray dying man. They would drive him out of the bedroom with a broom and a moment later find him in the kitchen. He seemed to be in so many places at the same time that they grew to think that he'd be duplicated, that he was reproducing himself all through the house, and the exasperated and unhinged Elisenda shouted that it was awful living in that hell full of angels. He could scarcely eat and his antiquarian eyes had also become so foggy that he went about bumping into posts. All he had left were the bare cannulae of his last feathers. Pelayo threw a blanket over him and extended him the charity of letting him sleep in the shed, and only then did they notice that he had a temperature at night, and was delirious with the tongue twisters of an old Norwegian. That was one of the few times they became alarmed, for they thought he was going to die and not even the wise neighbor woman had been able to tell them what to do with dead angels.</span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div><div align="left" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; "><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><span class="Times10" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', adobe-times, Times; font-size: 10px; "> </span>And yet he not only survived his worst winter, but seemed improved with the first sunny days. He remained motionless for several days in the farthest corner of the courtyard, where no one would see him, and at the beginning of December some large, stiff feathers began to grow on his wings, the feathers of a scarecrow, which looked more like another misfortune of decreptitude. But he must have known the reason for those changes, for he was quite careful that no one should notice them, that no one should hear the sea chanteys that he sometimes sang under the stars. One morning Elisenda was cutting some bunches of onions for lunch when a wind that seemed to come from the high seas blew into the kitchen. Then she went to the window and caught the angel in his first attempts at flight. They were so clumsy that his fingernails opened a furrow in the vegetable patch and he was on the point of knocking the shed down with the ungainly flapping that slipped on the light and couldn't get a grip on the air. But he did manage to gain altitude. Elisenda let out a sigh of relief, for herself and for him, when she watched him pass over the last houses, holding himself up in some way with the risky flapping of a senile vulture. She kept watching him even when she was through cutting the onions and she kept on watching until it was no longer possible for her to see him, because then he was no longer an annoyance in her life but an imaginary dot on the horizon of the sea. </span></div><div><span class="Helvetica10" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, adobe-helvetica, 'Arial Narrow'; font-size: 13px; "><br /></span></div>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-54838506141986973352010-09-30T10:20:00.000-07:002010-09-30T10:20:32.868-07:00Thursday's: I Wish I Wrote This<object style="background-image:url(http://i3.ytimg.com/vi/JW12Ealvj0s/hqdefault.jpg)" width="480" height="295"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/JW12Ealvj0s?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/JW12Ealvj0s?fs=1&hl=en_US" width="480" height="295" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-4373922681673272522010-09-23T10:25:00.000-07:002010-09-23T11:12:44.994-07:00Thursday's: I Wish I Wrote This<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; "><div id="describe_columns" style="-webkit-column-count: 3; -webkit-column-gap: 20px; padding-top: 25px; padding-right: 20px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 20px; margin-bottom: -17px; text-align: justify; "><span id="describe_text" style="font: normal normal normal 0.9em/normal Garamond, Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; margin-top: 10px; color: rgb(109, 107, 97); letter-spacing: 0.05em; margin-left: 20px; "><br /><br /></span></div><p><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2696" title="poorsailor01" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/05/poorsailor01.gif" alt="" width="500" height="450" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /></p><div class="anchoroffset" style="position: relative; top: -157px; border-top-color: red; border-right-color: red; border-bottom-color: red; border-left-color: red; border-top-style: solid; border-right-style: solid; border-bottom-style: solid; border-left-style: solid; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; "><h1 id="2707" style="font: normal normal normal 0.53em/normal Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; letter-spacing: 0.3em; "></h1></div><p><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2740" title="poorsailor01" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor01.gif" alt="" width="500" height="450" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2741" title="poorsailor02" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor02.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2742" title="poorsailor03" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor03.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2743" title="poorsailor04" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor04.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2744" title="poorsailor05" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor05.gif" alt="" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2745" title="poorsailor06" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor06.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2746" title="poorsailor07" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor07.gif" alt="" width="500" height="250" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2747" title="poorsailor08" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor08.gif" alt="" width="500" height="350" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2748" title="poorsailor09" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor09.gif" alt="" width="500" height="300" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /></p><div class="anchoroffset" style="position: relative; top: -157px; border-top-color: red; border-right-color: red; border-bottom-color: red; border-left-color: red; border-top-style: solid; border-right-style: solid; border-bottom-style: solid; border-left-style: solid; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; "><h1 id="2756" style="font: normal normal normal 0.53em/normal Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; letter-spacing: 0.3em; "></h1></div><p><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2750" title="poorsailor10" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor10.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2751" title="poorsailor11" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor11.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2752" title="poorsailor12" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor12.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2753" title="poorsailor13" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor13.gif" alt="" width="500" height="420" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2755" title="poorsailor15" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor15.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /></p><div class="anchoroffset" style="position: relative; top: -157px; border-top-color: red; border-right-color: red; border-bottom-color: red; border-left-color: red; border-top-style: solid; border-right-style: solid; border-bottom-style: solid; border-left-style: solid; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; "><h1 id="2791" style="font: normal normal normal 0.53em/normal Georgia, 'Times New Roman', Times, serif; letter-spacing: 0.3em; "></h1></div><p><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2792" title="poorsailor15" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor151.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2793" title="poorsailor16" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor16.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2794" title="poorsailor17" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor17.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2795" title="poorsailor18" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor18.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2796" title="poorsailor19" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor19.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2797" title="poorsailor20" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor20.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /><img class="aligncenter size-full wp-image-2798" title="poorsailor21" src="http://whatthingsdo.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/06/poorsailor21.gif" alt="" width="500" height="1000" style="border-top-style: none; border-right-style: none; border-bottom-style: none; border-left-style: none; border-width: initial; border-color: initial; border-top-width: 0px; border-right-width: 0px; border-bottom-width: 0px; border-left-width: 0px; border-style: initial; border-color: initial; " /></p></span>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-66647255772641650752010-09-22T19:03:00.000-07:002010-09-22T19:17:58.399-07:00Yellow Severed<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCkZwjFS4Qf7dCe6VQAA6iiaWIzTynSwDZ4i5PFESeoqGdhYq__nTrKZfxQVRXyDzNT6gXtdzzc43uy_fzBNhwYyA4QdRHdLymRn7S-RCs5UMSd_cdjzMYohhyEisEOflwjbvmFSfA1w/s1600/Daisy_by_abhUtatva.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvCkZwjFS4Qf7dCe6VQAA6iiaWIzTynSwDZ4i5PFESeoqGdhYq__nTrKZfxQVRXyDzNT6gXtdzzc43uy_fzBNhwYyA4QdRHdLymRn7S-RCs5UMSd_cdjzMYohhyEisEOflwjbvmFSfA1w/s200/Daisy_by_abhUtatva.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519927483925934754" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">the first thing I ever gave a girl?<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">I gave flowers.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">I gave flowers to a girl I didn’t know<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">no tender<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black"> red<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">strings attached<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">being young, she was younger<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">could just utter words<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">each time I saw her<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">she was<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">alone<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">I never left the brick fence,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">inside<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">she stood,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">outside<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">I would pass daisies through the<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">C r a c k s<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">on the walls<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">and let them bunch up in gold rows<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">I knew flowers made girls happy<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">plucked and passed<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">I had no need for daisies growing on the floor,<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">older Sister witnessed<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><i><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">sitting in a tree :</span></i><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><b><i><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"HelveticaNeueLT Com 107 XBlkCn","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman";mso-bidi-font-family:"Helvetica World"; color:black">KI-SS-ING</span></i></b><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family: "HelveticaNeueLT Com 107 XBlkCn","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-font-family:"Helvetica World";color:black"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><i><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">First comes love,</span></i><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><i><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">Then comes marriage,</span></i><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><i><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">Then comes baby in the golden carriage.</span></i><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black"><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">Red<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">Strings came crashing down<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">labeled<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">I never saw her again<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:3.0pt;line-height:normal"><span style="font-size:12.0pt;font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";color:black">daisies never grew back.<br /> <o:p></o:p></span></p>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7627963423164549619.post-62446016514626526722010-09-21T22:39:00.000-07:002010-09-21T22:42:06.092-07:00Frankenstein Resurrected<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3igrCBU15R3h66wubJGeldZaeD3gJFoFVT3Smz6wvXhRlNzkU1bUui9L87mkqZbaOTJz4qoyd2-X28lwjYbJLpeFXrhlGbP-mt1MESXuQKYiOKw5scKkf-U61xz1tuYLngcZADMygMw/s1600/bride_of_frankenstein_by_Alicechan.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 250px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgX3igrCBU15R3h66wubJGeldZaeD3gJFoFVT3Smz6wvXhRlNzkU1bUui9L87mkqZbaOTJz4qoyd2-X28lwjYbJLpeFXrhlGbP-mt1MESXuQKYiOKw5scKkf-U61xz1tuYLngcZADMygMw/s320/bride_of_frankenstein_by_Alicechan.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5519608977666010898" /></a><br /><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">I always knew I was smarter than my husband. It was very evident today when he brought back home that tasteless action movie; I could hear Ward laughing all the way from the living room to the kitchen. I pictured him indented in the sofa with his mouth open ogling at the screen; like a fish out of water who decided to give up and stopped thrashing to save its life. Not breathing, blank eyes, gazing at the world. I could also hear barking from Frankenstein, our mutt terrier, from our backyard and it seeped through our walls. I began to wash the dishes and I looked outside into our back yard.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">I lived in a placid suburb that seemed more like a ghost town, eerily quiet. It was a beautiful street, with two story houses that all gazed at each other with ostentatious stucco faces designed by the same architect, they were all the same color, had the same number of bushes, and the same number of lawn ornaments that the neighborhood ruled could not exceed more than four per house. The house I lived in stood at the center of the block, attached to its neighbors, aware of the privileged and calm lives within them. Occasionally I would see some joggers in track suits with earphones on, brisk fully jogging down the street. I would watch them; I would watch them jog, until they left the horizon of my perfectly paved sidewalk. It was always quiet, except for Frankenstein. My neighbors would have complained about the putrid barks Frankenstein made; that is, if I ever saw them. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">Frankenstein was the name my son gave her, I tried to convince my son to name her something else, something more dignified; but he was bent on naming it Frankenstein after watching the movie <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Frankenstein</i>. Even with that ridiculous name, my son and Frankenstein were once inseparable; they would terrorize my backyard and my plants, and even our laundry from time to time; but now there are no more ditches in our soil, my plants are a pristine green, upright, and unbroken, and our laundry never needs more than one round in the washing machine. The time I spent yelling at them and repairing my garden was now spent alone, in silence, with a television or a book. Frankenstein lived in her cage, a creation of my husband Ward with the help of my son. It was a compact diamond wire mesh fence that encircled Frankenstein’s even smaller igloo house. The cage was poorly constructed, with wires holding the fences together in a comical fashion and a door that couldn’t be opened unless you untied the wires holding it to the fences. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri"> My son grew older and got bored of playing with Frankenstein, he would come home from school and head straight to his room and watch television and play video-games. He never stepped a foot in the backyard again, and would spend weeks without seeing Frankenstein or remembering she was even alive. I dried a plate with a rag in a circular motion and stared at Frankenstein as sunlight broke through the windows. Frankenstein was laid on the ground, her front paws outstretched towards me and her head in between them. She stared right back at me from her cage with pleading eyes as I gazed at her from behind the window.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;line-height:200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri"> “Sage, what is there to eat?” Ward yelled from the living room, his eyes still fixed on the television screen. That was the first thing he always told me when he got home nowadays. “I made a chicken casserole!” I yelled from the kitchen and brought him a plate without him asking for it, and set it down on the forever food stained coffee table. Rings were made on the mahogany from scores of cold beers; the wood was faded from ancient grease that had fallen from his plate. Stains that aren’t noticeable unless you’re up close, but stains I knew were there none the less. Barking from Frankenstein continued to echo through the rooms of the house. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">I sat down next to him; he continued to stare at the screen, occasionally he brought food to his mouth and chewed loudly like a cow. I looked at his rugged face and remembered how Ward and I used to fool around on the very same sofa that we were sitting on now, how we would talk hours on end about nothing and everything, how he would bring back movies that he knew I would like, and how long ago that all seemed.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">Ages ago I attended a university; I had plans to become a writer, I never finished. With short hair, and a free spirit I cruised through my writing classes with ease, all my professors commented that I had a natural talent with words. I met Ward through a close friend at the university and quickly fell in love. He was the sweetest man I ever met, always saying the corniest things imaginable; it worked on me. My mother always told me to follow my heart, and with that advice, we foolishly moved in together a year later in order to wake up naked in each others arms. We could only afford to keep one of us studying and I quickly buried my dreams underground for him. I always felt I had more potential than he did, but my career path didn’t guarantee us the financial stability his did. We had a child, my hair grew long, I became a housewife, and I never looked back. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">Ward continued to gawk at the television screen, sometimes I felt more alone being with him than I did by myself. The barking started up again. I picked up a vanity magazine and opened up to the picture I fantasized about earlier: a slender young woman with a short French haircut. I asked, “Ward, what do you think of her hair?” His stare shifted towards the lifted magazine for half a second while food crumbled down his shirt and said, “What’s wrong with the hair you have now? I took a deep breath and replied, “I was thinking of cutting my hair, having it like I used to, like I did back when you first met me.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">“Your hair looks fine as it is,” Ward said with a mouthful. The barking seemed to be coming from right outside the door; my attention was back outside towards Frankenstein’s cage, she was gone. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">I told Ward, flabbergasted, he rushed to the door. The second he opened it, Frankenstein rushed in with muddy paws and jumped on the sofa and began panting deafeningly next to me while Ward cursed at the top of his lungs at her. She crawled onto my lap and put her head down like my son used to when he was a child, I raised my hand slowly to her head and patted.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">It took a bit of convincing, but Frankenstein was allowed to stay inside. I gave her a good wash and argued with Ward that keeping her locked in that cage was a crime. The weeks that followed were a blessing for me and a travesty for Ward and my son. She would keep me company while they were away, but would do a number on their possessions. My son came home one day and found his videogame console cables tattered to ribbons along with his television power cord. Ward got the worst of it. Frankenstein made it a habit of urinating on everything ward owned, along with destroying any piece of Ward’s clothing that got in her reach.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">I started writing like I used to, with Frankenstein on my lap and my notebook resting on her back. My creativity and energy came back to me all at once, as fast as turning on a light switch. I mostly wrote children stories about Frankenstein. She would go on marvelous adventures meeting mesmerizing characters while learning life lessons, some humorous, others heart-breaking, in a magical realism style.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">My time with Frankenstein didn’t last very long. Ward and my son were finally fed up with the situation. One day, Ward brought home several materials from the hardware store, resolute on building a new impenetrable cage. I didn’t argue about it, I knew there was no defense I could muster on why Frankenstein should stay in the house, and why their cherished belongings should keep being ruined on a daily basis at the cost of her freedom. I watched on from the living room as Ward and my son began to build a new cage with Frankenstein on my lap; as I moved my hand from her head to her back, to and fro, my eyes didn’t divert from the construction. Finally, the time came when the cage was nearly finished. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">Ward asked me to bring Frankenstein out. I brought her outside along with her favorite tennis ball. I tossed the ball around by the open front gate facing the beige cloned houses. I had an emotionless expression, my eyes looking at nothing, hardly blinking at all. Ward making the finishing touches looked at me and said, “I am sorry, we just can’t afford to have her free.” He squatted down and began making calling hand gestures at Frankenstein while whistling and saying her name in a pseudo loving manner. Frankenstein crawled to him slowly in a submissive manner, her tail wagged, with trepidation in her eyes. She leaned sideways when Ward came near her and he scooped her up with ease. He walked towards the cage while I stood still by the gate. My son opened the cage door for Ward; Frankenstein seeing this realized what was going to happen. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri">She lashed out with snarls and teeth at Ward in a fit of rage. With blood running down his arm he tossed her up in the air. Frankenstein landed on the ground and began running around the yard with Ward and my son in pursuit. They made dives at her and tried to cut her off, but each time she broke free. They succeeded in working her into a corner, but failed when she ran in between them. Ward yelled as he and my son chased after her. The whole scene brought life back into my eyes. Frankenstein was dashing towards the gate. “Stop her, don’t let her get out!” Ward and my son yelled out. I stood still and just watched her; I watched her wild eyes and her pink tongue hang out in ecstasy as she ran out the gate. Ward in frustration asked “Why did you just stand there?” She made it halfway down the block when she turned around and looked at me; I looked on from inside the gate. We made eye contact for what seemed to be an eternity, but when Ward and my son came near her time came back into the world and she turned back around towards the streets and ran.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom:10.0pt;text-indent:.5in;line-height: 200%"><span style="font-family:"Helvetica World","sans-serif";mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I watched them all run into the distance as I made my way into the house. I walked into the bathroom imagining if Frankenstein would have all those adventures I wrote about. I turned the knob on my sink to hot and thought about what was most likely going to happen to her, she would be caught by either Ward and my son, or a dog catcher some time later. I wet my hair and as I towel dried it I pictured her dead of starvation and laid out in a street with tread marks on her stomach. I shook all these thoughts off my head and just pictured her wild eyes and her pink tongue. It brought a smile to my face as I began to cut my hair.<o:p></o:p></span></p>Rogerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01485813994739321597noreply@blogger.com0