Changing Guards

In consideration of an edifice's verticality, that is, its upright girders, one needs context. So we provide this measure, at once, below. References are provided in short fragments - specifically - if unsophisticated.

Throughout its history, my street has maintained relative anonymity. And for that reason it believes in the Lamb. For that very reason, it elaborates upon weighty matters in brief gasps and short strokes. It is the attention-deprived nervous system of city streets. It can not deliver packages of increasing complexity or increasing volume. My street has fulfilled the promise of streets federated upon the fleshy underside of the Manhattan island, and has done so with quiet dignity despite its short stride, ambiguous pronunciation, and deepening paracitification.

You may recall that during the last few years [exposition of statistical trend]. I mean, isn't that a kicker? Big smile. Frantic chuckle fishing, frantic code red code blue the worst color code alarm. Nothing? So it's passed. I seek to describe the rigid cell wall in uncertain terms: it's over. It's over. Continuity is no longer an option, I doubt ordinary chemical treatments can help in this matter. There are two hard outer crusts between us, and I learned of these conditions bathed in a golden light at an uneasy altitude atop the city.

So the throne awaits. The lofty throne that has been occupied so many times before. From this perch, a panorama of the ages surfaces awkwardly against the walls. You can see the breaks in the wallpaper. You can tell that the architect was unable to acquire certain permits. So walk up to the throne. Stumble up, this is a public monument, after all. This is a split-second recalculation, an unthinking audible, a fiery near-disaster. There is an inscription but I'm too lazy to read it. So I stumbled down. I rolled off like a statistic in a mime show. We cornered in together, but agreed on something at once: [secret opinion on the Anglo-Saxon linguistic arsenal]. The train was packed, so we wedged. We ruined a world we weren't always part of - no I'm not thirsty.

Winter Wind

Would you say it's more ethno- or anthro-, Missy?
Frankly, it's more anthro.

Two friends marched towards a clearing in the woods. They were three or four thousand feet above sea level, and the lack of precision was getting to both of them. In statistical parlance, Nick was a 3SD kind of guy. Steven, a 2SD. They both enjoyed the outdoors in precisely these circumstances: accompanied and armed. Once they reached the clearing, they each allowed themselves a romantic turn at the vista.

Nick imagined a moment when the terrain had all its flora skinned bare, exposing the game to unfettered glassing and gravity. He imagined deep red soil and a fiery seat at the base of the upper stratosphere, watching comets and satellites rush past him. In the distance stood tiny marking stations and plush red curtains. He lept off the clearing, holding his shotgun with both hands, cushioned by the Protagonist Buoyancy Clause. He landed back among trees, standing in the front seat of a vintage old Buick. He hopped beside the muscle. The sky swirled around him like highway headlights in a thousand anonymous photos. Only this wasn't some lame bridge shot. It wasn't some deep last chance. Nick's mind cycled through it all, and took it all in: the smell of things that don't really have a smell like "this night," and he heard the "symphony" of creature noises harmonized by Missy's gradually softening sighs. He'd rather this than anything else.

Steven rolled down the clearing onto a mattress of dried leaves. When he looked up, the sky flashed dusk and the stars at him. He raised his arms above his head and clutched his shotgun in his right hand. Maybe the river flowed past him. He spotted a doe at about fifty yards among the brush and gently set his weapon on the ground. He crept towards her. She sensed him. He took a knife from his ankle holster. She heard it being unsheathed. A chipmunk stammered, "You, you don't have the guts to use that." A fox ran up a tree and caught Steve's attention. As he followed the fox up the tree he caught a glimpse of a highway sign. He must've been standing on the county line. She turned and looked right at him. He froze. They both ran towards the shotgun, he swinging his knife, she bobbing her white tail. He got to the spot about twenty seconds after her, and she had run past it, oblivious. He scoped her back side as she fled, and fired off a shot. Her right hind shank exploded and her momentum tore her rib and crown roasts.

Then the two friends followed the ridge line farther up to a designated glassing area. They reached it and glassed the landscape. Nick tweaked the focus but still couldn't see anything. Steve's binoculars had better technology. He glassed from left to right, looking for anything moving, but he also saw nothing. "It stayed hot too long again this summer." "Yeah."

Later that day they marched home with nothing to show for all their hiking, glassing, and good decisions. Nick hung up his mountain coat, Steven opened a bottle. They sat at a wooden table and said something like...

"What do you think of her Nick?"
"She's great buddy you know I like her."
"I know I know just checkin'."
"I'm in it. I'm really in it."
"Oh yeah?"
"I really am, and I'm thinking about really going for it."
"You should if you think it's right."
"I don't care whether or not it's right you know?"
"You'll never know if you don't try it."
"I hate that saying, it's so vacuous."
"Yeah."

Nick asked Steven for a pour, he obliged. They sat there thinking about her for a second. Their rifles rest against some cold stone formation in the cabin's living room. Nick remembered the best way to protect against the cold, the heat, and a variety of other things vaguely removed from instinct. Steven got off first. He thought about his accounting, his career, and his education.

"What do you think of Vitaly?"
"Ah I don't know the guy does what he wants. He's a little unhinged."
"I guess, but he's made a lot for himself, and he's honest enough."
"There's nothing wrong with it, but to each his own, you know?"
"I hate that saying, Nick. Why don't you just explain your judgment instead of admitting that you're judging someone and you're too tight-assed and afraid to say it out loud? How long have we been friends?"
"Allright. I respect that. I think Vitaly is a hard-working guy who knows what he wants and knows how to get it."
"Yeah."
"You know the truth of it, Steve, you know my tight ass can't wrap itself around something so risky."
"Then keep your mouth shut about Vitaly, and anyone else that doesn't meet your outdated standards."

They looked at each other for a second and then both clicked their recliners back. Nick looked out the great room's window and out at the imminent twilight. He thought he saw something moving in the distance. Then it got a bit closer and he confirmed it. It was a deer. Steven saw it too. They followed it across the landscape. Steven's parents had hung some knit quotations on the wall above the window before the ceiling. They said stuff like, "It takes hands to build a house, but only hearts can build a home." Nick thought of something to give it a little edge, but either couldn't say it out loud or couldn't come up with anything clever enough.

Nick looked up at the vaulted ceiling, the crossbeams and the logs' symmetry, "Listen man you're right about Vitaly I shouldn't say anything, and you're right about that retarded saying, it's a total cop-out."
"Ah whatever I'm just pissed about Teresa as usual."
"What's going on with that?"
"Same as always: nothing, and then blips of gold-plated nothing."
"Bullshit man. She's not worth your energy."
"Ah! But who is, Nick? When do you just go for it? You know?"
"Yeah I'm having trouble with that myself."
"You're fine just go for it, you already said you're in it."
"I don't know. I don't want to be left standing out there naked and all alone."
"Seriously, you say go for it with Teresa but what do I even say? It's a complete dead end at this point."
"I think you need a kamikaze mission, I do that now and then."
"What's that?"
"Just, go all out recklessly."
"You've never done that, Nick."

Night fell, the lights in the cabin completely obscured the outside. It was a scene - the two of them, wrapped in blankets, Nick's off-white, Steven's navy blue, sitting in recliners looking up at the ceiling and the beams. Joke. Their boots had dried over by the front door over the cheery "Welcome Home" mat.

"Yeah. I've never done it. Never had the probability of success where I need it."

From Whitestone Road

Santa Anna's guilt leather black beard mausoleum.
Brothers' town pocket dragged'n'bound forgotten trust.
Oklahoma baby bridge yellow painting hanging.
Your mother's cuffs slip fall slowly beneath pipes.
Friends seeping dream under Angie Beck neck pain.
Reading olive frustration tomorrow account low.
Payment canyon carrot stars above the campsite.
Mesquite road abbreviation tearful lake fire.

Santa Anna's golden hair, a campfire backpack ridge.
Brother carefully limns; watched forever.
Oklahoma museum tickets airport architecture.
Your mom's quiet march through the church.
Friendly exchanges for now slip, chuckle, pop.
Reading peacefully until a thought rises.
Payment unnecessary she told me, kneeling.
Mesquite brush can't light up - no moon.

Santa Anna, like the morning's last dream (for once!).
Brother like the blood we share, bones and clothes.
Oklahoma at night stirs us up - twists and churns.
Your mom wore a pin to the demonstration.
Friendly bets about the depressing occasion.
Reading stopped and the pig's snout crumbled.
Pay as you play but play all you want.
Mesquite highway burial, the lights and the bridge, the snares and the sounds after. The ghosts in the breeze held tight against the wind. Two figures moved up the line and the moon stayed behind the one cloud in the sky, and I thought to my brother, "how did we end up here?" And he thought back, "we're standing still." So I addressed the situation 42 Whitestone Road: "ha-d'ya mean it cheerp?" I had never heard this accent before so I had to ask for another swig of it. "Kai get anoffer?" and kind of raised my bottom lip a touch. "Ayyh"

Sigh, of course, I couldn't hear anything over the roar of the CHP choppers. I know, I should've given you that information up front. Sometimes I get all clandestine on ya. Oooh, shady like a how-does it sound? I stood quietly because I wanted the moment to last. I expected it would - "much obliged" I muttered, "much obliged." I thought of these things and I thought how weird stuff feels.

Something's so easy about the oldern days. It's as if they weighed so little and there were no hardships, right Peter P.? I missed that decade and now the days are porky messes, spooky bass notes all the way down in the scales at the end of the piano where I let my cousin sit and see the crumbs under the keys, and inside: God's light. Inside: it was cold but verdant, the opposite of temperature, colored green and alluding unequivocally to Fridays when I wore shorts out in the blustery evening air. These precautions are for you own good, everyone yelled. Everyone's always yelling and if they're not than I am on the inside.

"Me and Frankie, livin' and drinkin', nothin' feels better than blood on blood.
Takin' turns dancin' with Maria, as the band played Night of the Johnstown Flood."

No Flowers

I would like the cross-section of a piece of Sicilian Easter pie, taganu d'aragona, as a tattoo on my arm, and I'd like to have a stained old piece of parchment paper with the recipe. When I make mini-quartered ones to test it out next spring, I'm going to substitute a (slightly) more common sheep's milk cheese, like caciocavallo. I'm sure I'll make the meatballs too tough, so I'll try not to. I'm probably going to use ditali instead of rigatoni because I'd rather fall from a green awning on a quaint little cobblestone sidestreet trying to fix a gutter. The ice from the winter made it that way, screamed an old aunt. Everyone rushed around holding towels. Rosa knocked over a wooden chair as she lunged for a box of bandages. A few jars of lentils spilled out onto the floor. One of them fell off the table and shattered. All the men tried to straighten me out on the ground, it made sense I guess.

I had broken my neck though, so in some ways bandages and a makeshift gurney really didn't help. All the blood from my heart gushed into places blood doesn't belong in the human neck because a couple vertebrae had punctured a major artery and tore half a dozen muscles and fat tissue. I coughed and squirmed unconsciously, and my blood started to trickle onto the street. At first it filed dutifully around each stone in the recessed paths that outline each stone. After a few seconds the blood poured over onto the (mostly) smooth surface of the cobblestones. I have B negative blood, and I don't recall but I don't think blood type affects the color of blood, it's probably all the oxyhemoglobularization and whatnot.

My brain let me think of a few things as I lay there about to die. For one, it let me think about the situation, which I quickly accessed as quite bad. Under less severe circumstances, I think the pain and the realization would've knocked me out or caused me to lose control of my bladder. But this was a difficult time. I had about twenty seconds of thoughts before I passed. As I mentioned, I spent the first twelve seconds panicking about all the blood and the frantic people and the feeling of complete detachment from everything below my chin. In retrospect it was foolish to spend 60% of the rest of my life worrying about dying. I mean I think 10-15% would've been a more reasonable portion.

That way, I could've used nine whole seconds thinking about [my most basic pleasures: soup, egg sandwiches, listening to loud music, gingerbread lattes, relaxing with [the golden girl of my dreams], etc.]. Then! I could've used about three seconds to think about things I've never done, like climb Mt. Everest, watch Star Wars, figure out why people believe that soccer is fun, or take a picture with Bruce/Rafa/Jamie/Dave.

I don't really know how the last five seconds would play out. I don't think you can plan that. My guess would be that I'd think something idiotic like, "hey I never gave so and so a chance." Or, "Rosa is so stupid what is that stupid towel going to do my backbone is sticking out of my shoulder." Or, "Dear God, please send me to heaven even though I [the big sins]."

I'm a big fan of "what went on while" another event happened. I guess it's a little ironic. That presupposes that I would've described something like, ahem, then the blood trickled down the small street in the direction of the coast, where [XX] and [XY] embraced serenely.

I should take this out now. It's almost ready.

At Peace

i will bring you water, if you will bring me wine.
we will sit together, until the end of time.
and you will call me yours, i will call you mine.
and we will stay together, until the end of time.
i will call you mine.
---
i will bring you water, you will bring me wine.
we will be together, until the end of time.
you will call me yours, i will call you mine.
we will dance forever, until the end of time.

i had to walk a long way to get to the cloudy dwelling of the Legend, and at the end of my trip i was sweating a great deal. there were nice little shrubs and these odd-shaped, fragrant roots all along the side of the road. i couldn't take my ipod because of some provincial regulation, but that actually worked out fine because when you walk around in heaven there are all kinds of interesting things to listen to anyway.

you'd expect that daylight lasts forever up there but each little province has its own solar regimen. actually the occupants of each province select it themselves. there's a form you can fill out when you get your place, it's a neat little interactive chart that can be as detailed as you want, and since time and bladder considerations don't really exist, new occupants typically spend quite a while detailing the atmospheric conditions of their plot.

it's a cool setup, i have to say. they really thought things through. i heard they used IBM for all the operational stuff and they use Microsoft Surface now for the adminstrative tasks and bookkeeping. i'm not surprised that the Legend chose the environment he did: a sort of perpetual golden blue just-before-twilight, juuuuuust shy of overly humid, and no breeze. he did choose — as many do — to have a few hours of random weather generation every now and again.

you can restrict the types of random weather. for example, you can say, "random weather but nothing worse than 50 mph winds and nothing better than the nicest day i ever experienced on the earthball." the Legend did not put any such restrictions on the weather in his province, he didn't mind patching up his home if something happened, these were the pleasures he missed since he arrived, and he actually welcomed a palm tree or two falling through the roof of his garage.

i walked confidently along the dusty road and felt my heart fill up warmly and comfortably. i would love to join Him there for longer but I had to go back to the city after I spoke with Him, oh well, I'll definitely visit Him a ton when I get up there.

...

"i don't know, sometimes i take such a huge step forward and then i see them and they grab at me and pull me back. it's a little upsetting but i guess that's part of life." He told me to relax and not think about it so much. he told me a story about a dream he had. i smiled the entire time. As he told it, i mouthed some of his words if he elongated them or when he would emphasize a point with his hands or his electromagnetic eyes:

"I was watching my son play baseball near the airport and I saw a woman with a child down by the bay. She was hunched over with the little guy between her legs and he was splashing around with a red plastic shovel. I walked over to her and along the way I thought about lying down on the side of a road. I looked up through leaves and saw airplanes and the sky and the golden hair of my wife. I loved when she rode with me. She'd say things to me as we drove and I'd feel a little sad or a little happy. I felt admiration and jealousy, but what mattered when I stopped the bike was not my own emotions, but the beauty of where we were, how we were together, how beautiful she was and how comfortable the dirt was against my back."

...

then He told me a classic story about Him and His golden goddess. i told Him i wouldn't tell anyone about it even though He said He wouldn't mind. one of the things i always admired about the Legend was his understated dignity. in the most extraordinary way, his mannerisms conveyed epic dignity. sometimes i do things so wretchedly devoid of dignity and i am ashamed to even consider what He would think, how He would gaze at me. that memory alone should keep me from the rock-bottom. i don't want to go there again.

...

the blue light at the edge of the golden flame reminded me of the pavement — our city. the dusk and aromas and alcohol reminded me of argentina and motorcycles. i remember alternately the sterile white houses and the hangar-car-garages. we sat in these ungodly comfortable lounge chairs and looked around, over the fire, at the fire, at the harmless little flies. gorgeous creamily rigid jungle leaves relaxed there too. we all listened to Him. He told stories that made your hands recall an index of touches and shapes and feelings that your fingers may not have ever experienced. He cast my face into an uninhibited, effortless smile, and i miss that now. the glow must have been visible in the other provinces.

rest in peace Friend.

August 8, 2007