Exodus

“Did you know that I planted these trees?” Stephanie asked, looking up. She and a little girl were sitting on a blanket having a picnic.

“Yes Mom, you told me a thousand times. You planted them with Grandma. You slipped plastic sleeves over them to protect them from the deer. You watched them grow. You used to come down here with Dad when you were teenagers.”

Stephanie held her hand to her forehead to block the sunlight. “They were only a foot tall when we planted them, and now look at them.”

Her daughter looked down and popped a snap pea into her mouth. “Are you going to miss them?”

Stephanie didn’t say anything for a few minutes. “Come on, it’s getting late, and we have a long way to go.”

They gathered their things off the ground and stuffed them into the truck bed between the boxes.

That night, the flames turned the sky orange. The smoke was visible in the distance when the sun rose, but Stephanie never looked back.

The Mower

by Philip Larkin 

The mower stalled, twice; kneeling, I found   

A hedgehog jammed up against the blades,   

Killed. It had been in the long grass.

I had seen it before, and even fed it, once.   

Now I had mauled its unobtrusive world   

Unmendably. Burial was no help:

Next morning I got up and it did not.

The first day after a death, the new absence   

Is always the same; we should be careful

Of each other, we should be kind   

While there is still time.

Fishing

The other week one of my friends said that he had a sudden desire to take up fishing. This stirred something in me. I haven’t been fishing in over fifteen years. I have a rod in the garage somewhere that my Dad gave me when I was a teen. I still occasionally have dreams about fishing, at the edge of some pristine clear lake up in the mountains, by myself, casting and retrieving.

My memories of fishing are of my brother and I going with our Dad on little lakes and streams while camping around Michigan. I was an impatient little kid, asking my Dad every 2 minutes why the fish weren’t biting. I also remember the times at Uncle Cliff’s cottage where we could dip our worm baited hooks into Houseman lake and pull out so many blue gills we filled a bucket. Mostly, I remember sitting in a boat with Dad, just sitting, the water still as glass.

I know that memory distorts and it probably didn’t seem so serene at the time, and I am annoyed by people who treat their childhood like it was perfect and can’t seem to let go of a rose-colored view of their past, but these kind of moments, perfect or not, are something I’d like to pass on to my children. When my friend mentioned that he had a sudden desire to go fishing, I immediately remembered Oregon’s free fishing weekend was coming up soon.

There was an event at the Bonneville hatchery in the gorge that had some stocked ponds and a bunch of fishing tips for kids. It sounded perfect. We didn’t even have to bring our own rods. It was a sunny day and there was already a line of parents and kids 100 yards long when we got there at 9am. Before the kids could drop a line in the water they had to go through several stations where they were supposed to learn some basic fishing lore, like water safety or fish identification or how important it is to remove your trash from your fishing spot. After each nugget of fishing wisdom was bestowed the kids waved their “fishing passports” to get stamped by the friendly volunteers. It was similar to events at the zoo, or the science center, or the summer reading program at the library, or other organized fun activities. The kids are corralled along a path, wait in lines, ingest the required fun/learning, get validated, and get prizes at the end (stickers!) After 2 hours of this they were allowed to wait in one last line for their chance to pull a rainbow trout out of a small stocked pond, with dozens of other kids fishing at the same time. The were allowed 20 minutes. If they didn’t catch a fish, they could go back to the end of the line for another shot. (My daughter caught one right away, but my son wasn’t as lucky. We did not wait for a second chance as at this point the line was so long that we would have been there another hour just waiting for his turn.)

I suppose they got something out of it, after all, they didn’t complain the whole time and genuinely seemed to enjoy themselves, but, to me, the whole experience had nothing to do with any of my nostalgic feelings about going fishing. When I was a kid I don’t remember going to anything like this, we just went fishing and my Dad tried to teach us what to do. When I was a kid and we went to the zoo, I don’t remember going on any scavenger hunts or collecting facts about animals, we just looked at the animals. If we wanted to learn about them we read the sign or listened to the speaker or checked out some books about them at the library later. I don’t remember any summer reading program at the library because we didn’t need to be bribed to read.

And I know this is my fault. It’s easier for me to go to something like this than planning a fishing trip and making sure we have the right gear and packing food and driving a long time to get there and knowing they will get bored after and hour or two. Packaged fun. It’s insidious and vexing and too damn convenient. It’s frozen dinners and delivery/takeout. It’s video games and playdates.

Du mußt dein Leben ändern.

Mind-Forg'd Manacles

London
by William Blake

I wander thro' each charter'd street,
Near where the charter'd Thames does flow,
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every Man,
In every Infant's cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forg'd manacles I hear.

How the Chimney-sweeper's cry
Every black'ning Church appalls;
And the hapless Soldier's sigh
Runs in blood down Palace walls.

But most thro' midnight streets I hear
How the youthful Harlot's curse
Blasts the new born Infant's tear,
And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse.

The Machine Stops

Published 101 years ago.

"By indirections find directions out."

From Brave New World

It was a large room bright with sunshine and yellow
paint, and containing twenty beds, all occupied. Linda
was dying in company–in company and with all the
modern conveniences. The air was continuously alive with
gay synthetic melodies. At the foot of every bed,
confronting its moribund occupant, was a television box.
Television was left on, a running tap, from morning till
night. Every quarter of an hour the prevailing perfume of
the room was automatically changed. "We try," explained
the nurse, who had taken charge of the Savage at the
door, "we try to create a thoroughly pleasant atmosphere
here–something between a first-class hotel and a feelypalace,
if you take my meaning."

Weekah Tegalega

I still see it. At first I thought it was a big cat, but as soon as we turn into the intersection the headlight beams hit it full on and it is immediately apparent what it is.

"A raccoon. Why is it just sitting in the road?" I say.

"I've never seen a live raccoon before," my daughter says from the back seat, straining against her seatbelt to see.

It just sat there, looking right at us. Was that blood on its fur, or is it just wet from being outside?

I don't move the car. No one is behind me, but cars are approaching from both directions on the street it's sitting on. We stare at it silently. After half a minute it stands up and very slowly walks down the street, still in the middle of the lane. Cars are swerving around it to avoid hitting it.

"I can't tell if it's injured or not. It's not acting normal though. Maybe I should call someone. It's walking now, so maybe it's okay. If I call someone and it's injured they'll probably just put it out of it's misery."

I pull into the intersection now that the path is clear and make my turn and head down the road. The raccoon is no longer in sight.

"Or they could fix it," she says, worry in her voice.

What am I doing? I go around the block and head back towards the house. "I'll call someone." Sobs come from the backseat.

When I get back to the intersection there is no sign of it. When we get home I look up the county Animal Control number and leave a message stating my concern that the animal is injured or has rabies or something. We go back out and forget about it.

Later, my daughter is trying to sleep, but in her stillness she is hit by the events of the day. My wife and I don't say a thing when she quietly climbs into the bed and squeezes between us.

He moves in darkness as it seems to me

Mending Wall
by Robert Frost

Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of outdoor game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'

Random NaNo Sentences

I sit on the bus, I don't even know where it is going. You don't see them unless you are looking for them, and most people are focused on traveling from point A to point B and thinking about point C on the way there. "I'm sorry it got out of hand, but that happens sometimes. People just get into their roles so much they forget what they are doing."

Arrgghh.

Lost about 600 words last night when my PC had to restart. I thought I had saved it, but this morning it's gone. Frustrating.

1 + 1

Is it bad to only have two characters? I started off with a few more, but they have yet to make an appearance other than a casual mention.

NaNo alcohol

Does Rogue Ale's Shakespeare Stout provide inspiration? We shall see.

NaNo Cravings

Since I've started this I've been craving a cigarette. I haven't smoked in years, and I haven't wanted to, until now. Odd.

NaNo

Turning into something between juvenile cartoon plot snippets and combo of Burroughs, Pynchon, Grant, Lovecraft, Lynch.

Remember, remember the Fifth of November,
The Gunpowder Treason and Plot,
I can think of no reason
Why the Gunpowder Treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, t'was his intent
To blow up the King and Parli'ment.
Three-score barrels of powder below
To prove old England's overthrow;
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, let the bells ring.
Holloa boys, holloa boys, God save the King!

NaNo

1st two days okay for word count. Plot not going anywhere quickly though. I'm not going back to read though.

I think I had one too many Beamish's at Dublin pub. Fellll asleep on couch watching/listening to old VHS copy of Elephant Man. I hope inspiration soaked in from it.

NaNoWriMo 1st day

The badge to the left is incorrect today. NaNo site is still playing around with their database. True count is 1781 words today.

Morning - 1st draft

Up before the rest and quietly down the stairs.
Coffee maker steams,
Eggs and toast sizzle in leftover bacon drippings.
Sunlight streams through the back window and warms my chair
As I lay out the newspaper and think of a 7 letter word for dream.

Leisurely shower, comfortable clothes,
Out for a early walk.
It's not yet 8 o'clock.

But not today...

I wake up late.
The kids are downstairs fighting.
No time for coffee, no time for toast and eggs.
No time to cross words.
I have 2 minutes to shower and brush.

My pants are ripped, my shirt has spots.
The car needs gas.
Where's my wallet? Where's the keys?
The dog threw up in my shoe.

No matter how bad a state of mind you may get into, if you keep strong and hold out, eventually the floating clouds must vanish and the withering wind must cease.

-Dogen

Ship of Fools

The Ship of Fools By Sebastian Brant: ""






Ship of Fools painting by Bosch

Question 4

What's the one thing your parents don't understand about you?

I don't give a rat's ass what the weather is like back home. I don't care how the Detroit Tigers are doing. I don't want to hear about your colitis flareup. I love you.

It's Donald Hall's birthday

Poem with One Fact

by Donald Hall

"At pet stores in Detroit, you can buy

frozen rats

for seventy-five cents apiece, to feed

your pet boa constrictor"

back home in Grosse Pointe,

or in Grosse Pointe Park,

while the free nation of rats

in Detroit emerges

from alleys behind pet shops, from cellars

and junked cars, and gathers

to flow at twilight

like a river the color of pavement,

and crawls over bedrooms and groceries

and through broken

school windows to eat the crayon

from drawings of rats—

and no one in Detroit understands

how rats are delicious in Dearborn.

If only we could communicate, if only

the boa constrictors of Southfield

would slither down I-94,

turn north on the Lodge Expressway,

and head for Eighth Street, to eat

out for a change. Instead, tomorrow,

a man from Birmingham enters

a pet shop in Detroit

to buy a frozen German shepherd

for six dollars and fifty cents

to feed his pet cheetah,

guarding the compound at home.

Oh, they arrive all day, in their

locked cars, buying

schoolyards, bridges, buses,

churches, and Ethnic Festivals;

they buy a frozen Texaco station

for eighty-four dollars and fifty cents

to feed to an imported London taxi

in Huntington Woods;

they buy Tiger Stadium,

frozen, to feed to the Little League

in Grosse Ile. They bring everything

home, frozen solid

as pig iron, to the six-car garages

of Harper Woods, Grosse Pointe Woods,

Farmington, Grosse Pointe

Farms, Troy, and Grosse Arbor—

and they ingest

everything, and fall asleep, and lie

coiled in the sun, while the city

thaws in the stomach and slides

to the small intestine, where enzymes

break down molecules of protein

to amino acids, which enter

the cold bloodstream.

Source: Old and New Poems (1990).

(Updated w/ artwork)

What is the most bizarre thing you have done?

via Common Ties, 2008-09-11

Question 16

If you could take back one thing you have done, what would it be?

I tore her Groovy Girl doll in half inches from her face while I was screaming nonsensically through gritted teeth about who knows what. Later I sewed the doll back together as best I could, but I'll never forget the horror in her eyes as the fabric ripped.

From: The Fall of Hyperion

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave
A paradise for a sect; the savage too
From forth the loftiest fashion of his sleep
Guesses at Heaven; pity these have not
Trac'd upon vellum or wild Indian leaf
The shadows of melodious utterance.
But bare of laurel they live, dream, and die;
For Poesy alone can tell her dreams,
With the fine spell of words alone can save
Imagination from the sable charm
And dumb enchantment. Who alive can say,
'Thou art no Poet may'st not tell thy dreams?'
Since every man whose soul is not a clod
Hath visions, and would speak, if he had loved
And been well nurtured in his mother tongue.
Whether the dream now purpos'd to rehearse
Be poet's or fanatic's will be known
When this warm scribe my hand is in the grave.

- John Keats

Quote

Each time a man stands up for an ideal... he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, those ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.

Robert Kennedy, 1966

From 1984

"You are a slow learner, Winston," said O'Brien gently.

"How can I help it?" he blubbered. "How can I help seeing what is in front of my eyes? Two and two are four."

"Sometimes, Winston. Sometimes they are five. Sometimes they are three. Sometimes they are all of them at once. You must try harder. It is not easy to become sane."

Life responds when we risk.

-Rodney Smith, "Lessons From the Dying"

Yeats Quote of the Day

I said: "A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.
Better go down upon your marrow bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world."

from Adam's Curse

The Young Watch Us

The young girls look up
as we walk past the line at the movie,
and go back to examining their fingernails.

Their boyfriends are combing their hair,
and chew gum
as if they meant to insult us.

Today we made love all day.
I look at you. You are smiling at the sidewalk,
dear wrinkled face.

Donald Hall