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Friday, October 30, 2009

When the doorbell rings unexpe...

When the doorbell rings unexpectedly am I the only one who has to rush around and hide stuff while putting on pants?

Friday, October 16, 2009

They often call me Speedo, but...

They often call me Speedo, but my real name is Mr Earl. Well they often call me Speedo, because I don't believe in wasting time.

Tuesday, October 06, 2009

Dream of Translucent Creatures

She holds this blade of grass between her thumb and index finger. That's when we meet. I'm walking along the side of the the road when I see her, as she holds the blade of grass just in front of her chin. She isn't studying it though. Her gaze is somewhere else entirely, past the large green field that looks out upon a blue-grey sky. The green expanse bleeds into the blue-grey into the horizon. It may be that she's looking past that blue iris of sky and into the black pupil of space itself, right through the twinkling stars.

What I know is that I spoke to her, we laughed about something. I was so funny, I felt that anything could be made funny. Everything was ammunition for a laugh. You just make light of something, anything... yourself for instance. You explain that you've been walking for three miles and you've forgotten why, because you're so tired at this point in your long, long journey. Was I going to the 7-11? What the hell did I even want there? I've been walking so long--is this still even Nebraska?

I ask her to come walk with me, and I'll buy her a diet soda. It seems I've remembered after all that this is why I was going to the store. Well, I was going for the walk, but my reward was the soda. We deserve a soda, after all. You, with your carefully hunted and expertly severed blade of grass, and me having walked three miles through all sorts of weather and calamity, having at one point lost all my senses and hallucinating a convenience store in the distance. We do deserve some reward. And the only proper reward is diet soda from 7-11.

So this is the story of how we met. Really the story of the way she looked. Her looking like she did is why I approached her. And my funny act is why she agreed to come along with me.

Now, what I'm saying to her is that I like to look at the stars, that I grew up on a farm around here and now I only come back on holidays. I don't know what she's thinking, only that she's saying that her cousin died and she's here with her parents to visit her aunt and uncle, pay her respects. The cousin died in the War, in the Middle East, far away from here, which adds to the feeling that his death can't be real. And she remembers him always as such a sweet boy who she'd hide in her Grandmother's hamper. So it seems very strange that he died as a man, violently, in a place that she'd never been, never would go. It doesn't seem like her baby cousin could be that dead man, not at all.

I look back at her, careful not to let my eyes bore into hers as I'd like them to. I resist because its not respectful and she'd think it odd and threatening. But I want to look in further, and I allow myself to do it a little more and more as she speaks. Her blue-grey irises shrink and her black pupils expand, which makes it easier and more appropriate. And then I don't have to resist anymore, I am allowed to look in, because something has changed now.

I live in there for a while. Sometimes it seems as though time is passing, and sometimes it feels just the same as it always has. I go through the days, and the people I meet sometimes seem real. Sometimes they are telling me important things that I need to hear. Most of the time the sounds people make have no meaning at all, they only stimulate responses from me, which I deliver effortlessly. They exist and then, when out of my sight, they do not. They don't leave even a hair-width of memory behind.

Everything that I do seems fated, even the way I brush my teeth or take out the trash. It's as if my life had been lived by me many times before, and now I'm living the very last one, the one that had been perfected.

And then one day I find myself gazing. I am looking out at the city skyline, into the sky. But I am looking out past everything. The moon is white and cratered with blue in the middle of the day. And I feel as if I am looking right through the sky. I turn and ask her if she's ever seen the moon like that, and she faces me. Her irises shrink, pupils darken, so that I can look in.

She picks up a blade of grass and holds it between her thumb and forefinger. "For all you know," she says, "we are still in Nebraska."