Thursday, March 24, 2011
Treatise on Eccumenical Evolution or How Fozzie Bear Saved My Life
If you stand close enough to the traffic on a bridge, you can hear the sound a tree makes when it falls in an empty forest. When you're talking with an old friend, who you invariably don't see enough, their mannerisms will often remind you that you've forgotten to mail the check for the gas bill. And if you want to go higher, you'll have to pump your legs. Didn't anyone ever teach you that?
Monday, March 14, 2011
To Love Brief
Today there is new life. Or rather, there is old as this is the vessel of a wise and noble soul. He is too small, they say, and the boundless potential of new life seems to lose its sheen behind plastic. But that is the burden of so many without purple hearts or battle scars. So are we to weep and moan? She at the summit of her evolutionary use; I, the culpable bystander whose empathy falls well within normal limits.
Yes, our grief is as honest as it is expected, but we cannot help but find ourselves enamored of him. Although he seems an intubated, incubated, and perfectly sterilized prop, I find his beauty enthralling. We are not speaking in biological terms, but in the language of ignorant and dangerous love. He is no swami or Buddha or guru. Still, we are none of those either. His charm lies in twenty digits, two ocular cavities, and a set of vocal chords to rival the Sirens.
And perhaps all the progenitors of generations past have come to the same conclusions, but only a handful have witnessed an entire lifespan in less than two days.You may think us crazy, now. We say to you that we lived a lifetime with our offspring and you make reassuring gestures and whisper platitudes. But you did not see him then. He laughed - a great, full-bellied laugh. He cried the purest tears for lost toys, friends, lovers, and parents. We walked with him in the sunlight and grew as old as he did strong. And we loved him.
We are satisfied with his life - perhaps the fullest we have known. A wonderful child may also be fleeting. We are not promised a lifetime of parenthood or nurturing, and today parenthood has been as brief as the belabored and arbitrary inhalations and exhalations of a pair of mechanically-sustained lungs. Yet, we are not deprived. Our child has not been taken too soon. His suffering has ended and we are left the poorer for it, but what these two great harbingers of love will miss the most is the sound of his laughter echoing in that warm home.
Yes, our grief is as honest as it is expected, but we cannot help but find ourselves enamored of him. Although he seems an intubated, incubated, and perfectly sterilized prop, I find his beauty enthralling. We are not speaking in biological terms, but in the language of ignorant and dangerous love. He is no swami or Buddha or guru. Still, we are none of those either. His charm lies in twenty digits, two ocular cavities, and a set of vocal chords to rival the Sirens.
And perhaps all the progenitors of generations past have come to the same conclusions, but only a handful have witnessed an entire lifespan in less than two days.You may think us crazy, now. We say to you that we lived a lifetime with our offspring and you make reassuring gestures and whisper platitudes. But you did not see him then. He laughed - a great, full-bellied laugh. He cried the purest tears for lost toys, friends, lovers, and parents. We walked with him in the sunlight and grew as old as he did strong. And we loved him.
We are satisfied with his life - perhaps the fullest we have known. A wonderful child may also be fleeting. We are not promised a lifetime of parenthood or nurturing, and today parenthood has been as brief as the belabored and arbitrary inhalations and exhalations of a pair of mechanically-sustained lungs. Yet, we are not deprived. Our child has not been taken too soon. His suffering has ended and we are left the poorer for it, but what these two great harbingers of love will miss the most is the sound of his laughter echoing in that warm home.
Friday, March 4, 2011
It's Only Life
"We are all being set up," she declared, exhaling impatiently and ashing on the floor of the T-bird. A group of children spilled off a nearby bus, their faces painted like superheroes, a chaperone begging them to calm down as she distributed money. The April sky was a pale blue and the discarded wrappers of the less "green" patrons of the golden arches tumbled across the empty parking lot. Joanie could hear the faint squawking of the high school marching band over the wind. She turned to face Chris in the driver's seat.
"What?" Chris' chin was smeared with special sauce. Her fries were balanced between her knees and her extra large coke sat leaning in the broken cup holder, leaking on the floor.
A truck rumbled up to the drive through.
Joanie said, "All of this bullshit. The Big Macs, the single-file lines, consumerism, loud-ass trucks that are supposed to establish masculinity. Think about it. What's it all for?"
Chris was tossing her garbage out the window. "I'm pretty sure that's just capitalism, dude. Supply and demand. You supply me with advertising and I demand 10,000 greasy, fattening calories served up in 2 minutes or less. How is that a set up?"
"To keep us docile," she sighed. "I mean, it's not like every tiny thing is a set up or orchestrated, but in the big picture it seems like we end up sorta....boxed in, you know?"
Chris began rubbing her stomach. "Oh yeah, I love the Mickey D's set up. They can box me in any day." Joanie tossed her butt out and began rolling up the window. Chris left hers open and began the laborious process of starting the old Ford. It took only six tries. As they rolled along Oaklawn, past the trailer park and the auto mechanics, Chris' phone rang. She glanced at the display and groaned as she flipped it open. Joanie giggled and began making faces at her.
"What do you want?"
"..."
"No. We're already out."
"..."
"I don't give a shit. That's not my problem."
"..."
"Ugh, fine. 5 minutes. I'm not stopping. We'll just roll by and you can dive in the window."
She snapped the phone closed and threw it on the dash. Joanie started laughing. They were rounding the curve by the old baseball fields and a group of children were flying a kite with Star Wars characters emblazoned on it. The wind was nearly pulling the pilot off his feet. Chris jerked the wheel, sending Joanie's head into the window. Chris smirked.
"Ow, you bitch," Joanie said, still laughing. She reached for her cigarettes. "What's up with Cale?"
Chris sighed, "Something about a new mouse. He wants us to take him to Wal-Mart."
Joanie gazed out the window as they cruised down their dying main street. Chris flipped radio stations impatiently. The old car shook at the stop signs, hating to idle like a race horse past its prime. The seats' seams were bursting, cigarette burns and tears revealing the stuffing Joanie called Grenfyr, Eater of Spare Change. Most of the dash lights had burnt out long before and Chris' father had instructed her in the fine art of gauging her fuel reserve by her odometer.
"What?" Chris' chin was smeared with special sauce. Her fries were balanced between her knees and her extra large coke sat leaning in the broken cup holder, leaking on the floor.
A truck rumbled up to the drive through.
Joanie said, "All of this bullshit. The Big Macs, the single-file lines, consumerism, loud-ass trucks that are supposed to establish masculinity. Think about it. What's it all for?"
Chris was tossing her garbage out the window. "I'm pretty sure that's just capitalism, dude. Supply and demand. You supply me with advertising and I demand 10,000 greasy, fattening calories served up in 2 minutes or less. How is that a set up?"
"To keep us docile," she sighed. "I mean, it's not like every tiny thing is a set up or orchestrated, but in the big picture it seems like we end up sorta....boxed in, you know?"
Chris began rubbing her stomach. "Oh yeah, I love the Mickey D's set up. They can box me in any day." Joanie tossed her butt out and began rolling up the window. Chris left hers open and began the laborious process of starting the old Ford. It took only six tries. As they rolled along Oaklawn, past the trailer park and the auto mechanics, Chris' phone rang. She glanced at the display and groaned as she flipped it open. Joanie giggled and began making faces at her.
"What do you want?"
"..."
"No. We're already out."
"..."
"I don't give a shit. That's not my problem."
"..."
"Ugh, fine. 5 minutes. I'm not stopping. We'll just roll by and you can dive in the window."
She snapped the phone closed and threw it on the dash. Joanie started laughing. They were rounding the curve by the old baseball fields and a group of children were flying a kite with Star Wars characters emblazoned on it. The wind was nearly pulling the pilot off his feet. Chris jerked the wheel, sending Joanie's head into the window. Chris smirked.
"Ow, you bitch," Joanie said, still laughing. She reached for her cigarettes. "What's up with Cale?"
Chris sighed, "Something about a new mouse. He wants us to take him to Wal-Mart."
Joanie gazed out the window as they cruised down their dying main street. Chris flipped radio stations impatiently. The old car shook at the stop signs, hating to idle like a race horse past its prime. The seats' seams were bursting, cigarette burns and tears revealing the stuffing Joanie called Grenfyr, Eater of Spare Change. Most of the dash lights had burnt out long before and Chris' father had instructed her in the fine art of gauging her fuel reserve by her odometer.
Cale was sitting on his front step when the girls pulled up, shivering with his hands jammed in the pockets of his sweatshirt. "Your left headlight's out," he he said as he climbed past Joanie into the back seat.
"Suck it,” Chris snapped.
Cale laughed through his nose, "Hey Joanie. How ya been?"
Joanie turned to face him. "I'm ok. How's your sister?"
He blinked. "She's good. Yeah, they say she'll come home soon."
Joanie smiled, "Kick ass. Tell her I -". Just then, Chris hurled the car out of the driveway. Joanie punched Chris in the arm and started swearing.
"God damnit, Chris, my mom's home," screamed Cale as the curtains of the house's picture window fell closed. "Now she's gonna chew me out when I get back."
Chris turned up the volume on the tinny stereo and cruised off toward Wal-Mart. Journey drowned out Joanie and Chris' conversation, but she could hear the swells of laughter. She took the long way, making it longer by turning down no less than 11 unnecessary side streets. Joanie and Cale were oblivious. Chris sailed down the main street hill and turned just before the hospital on Wexler. She pressed hard on the accelerator. The car strained to keep up with the demands of its driver, but made it to 40 by the end of the block. Mr. Gallagher was sitting in his wheelchair in front of the hospital, watching as the kids flew by. Chris watched him in her mirror as he shrank and then disappeared. The neon signs on the drive-in next door were lit by the time Chris pulled into the Wal-Mart lot. Cale was climbing over the seat before she had it in park. She shoved him back into the cushion.
She said, "How long is this gonna take?"
"10 minutes, max," he replied, pushing his hair out of his eyes.
She turned back to the front and Joanie opened the door to let Cale out. She climbed back into the car and pulled out her cigarettes, offering one to Chris.
Lighting it, Joanie said, "What's your deal with him? He's not that annoying. It's not like he's all pervy and weird or anything."
Chris took a drag, removed it from her mouth, and studied the lit end. "I dunno. I guess I'm just sick of him always hanging around. When we were 5 it was no big thing, but I thought he'd, you know, get his own friends by now. It pisses me off how he just takes it. Like he thinks I secretly love him or something."
"Shit. You do love him. We both know you wouldn't put up with him if you didn't like him a little and you wouldn't be tonguing that cig like that unless you had some kind of Freudian fantasy running through your little toe head."
"Fuck you," she mumbled through lips pursed around the cigarette. Chris rummaged through her purse, then the coin tray, before shoving her hand inside the gaping seat cushion.
Joanie looked up from her phone. "What the hell?"
"I just need fifteeen cents..."
"For what?"
"A pop."
"Dude, you just had an extra large Coke. How are you not pissing your Superman undies right now?"
"It just sounds really good right now. That Sam's Choice crap's only fifty cents anyway."
Joanie rolled her eyes and went back to her phone. She mumbled, "You want it cause it's there."
Chris gave up and yanked her hand free of Grenfyr. "You win again, demon beast!" The girls leaned out the windows and shook their fists at the sky. A few customers cast disapproving glances. Joanie made faces at them and Chris honked the worn out horn. And they waited. Chris smoked three cigarettes and watched lightning strike in the east. The breeze had gotten stiff and cold since the sun had gone down and she put on her sweatshirt. Joanie rummaged through the glove box, examining expired insurance cards, unopened straws, and a very embarrassing picture for someone named "Chrissy" from the class of 1995.
"Some chick my brother probably screwed when he had the car," said Chris as she took the photo from Joanie and tossed it out the window.
"Eeeewww," Joanie cried as she feverishly wiped her hands on her pants, "he's a total family man. There's no way he ever banged in here."
"Yeah. He was a huge sleaze ball before he met Sarah. He told me he's had crabs 3 times."
"Nasty. Why would you let me ride around in here without knowing it was the scene of all his amateur porn videos?"
Chris stared into the mirror, watching her classmates speed away from the town's only stoplight in their parents' cars. "Because I hate you," she said, still looking into the mirror. "We Febreezed the shit out of it, so you'll probably just get syphilis."
The girls were still exchanging good-natured blows when Cale got back to the car. "Save some for me, ladies," he said. Joanie slapped him in the back of the head while letting him climb into the back seat. Cale sat down and ripped into the packaging on the mouse.
"How's the nerdgasm?" said Chris.
Cale reached forward and massaged her shoulder. "You should come back here and I'll show you."
Joanie snatched her phone out of the cup holder and turned on her camera. "Yay, porno," she shouted.
Chris slapped Cale's hand off of her shoulder and turned around to face him. He started laughing and pursing his lips at the camera while Joanie spouted off entries from her list of directorial clichés. Chris fumed at Cale, shoving him into the seat and fueling his delight. Soon, Joanie began urging the two "lovers" to kiss.
The laughter in the car came to a riotous halt once Cale's nose started bleeding. He cupped his nasal fountain in his hands as tears began rolling down his face. Chris, too, was nursing her hand when she turned back around in her seat. Joanie's camera had captured the entire scene: Cale leaning forward in feigned anticipation of a kiss, Chris's small fist colliding with his nose, and Cale's subsequent shock.
"Fuck! What the fuck, Chris?” he said, his voice modulated by his readjusted nose. Joanie stared at Chris who was gazing complacently out the windshield. Her phone was recording the armrest now. Cale started scooting toward her seat, so Joanie leaned forward and opened the door to let him out.
He stood outside the car while the slow drip from his nose stained the parking lot. Joanie finally said, "Want some napkins or something?" He nodded and she pulled a wad from the stash in the glove compartment and handed it to him. He leaned over and looked past Joanie into the car.
"You bitch. I wasn't really going to kiss you." Chris refused to acknowledge him. "You really need to chill out. I've never done anything to you. Right, Joanie?"
"Hey, man, I'm not getting involved in this," she said. Chris finally moved. But only to give Cale the finger as the car sped out of the parking lot.
Chris' blood-flecked knuckles gleamed intermittently in the light from the street lamps as the passed. She still hadn't said a word. Joanie pretended to look out the window, all the while watching for any change in Chris with her peripheral vision. When Chris turned into Joanie's driveway and put the car in park, Joanie turned and spent several seconds choosing her words before speaking.
"What the fuck was that?! We were just fucking around. He didn't really expect you to kiss him. He...I mean, I get that he's annoying and whatever, but you just fucking hit him! And now you're acting like some kind of psycho not talking. You left him at Wal-Mart and we still have his mouse. You're gonna have to see him again. What the hell are you gonna say? Why the hell did you do that, Chris?!"
Chris grinned a little and shook her head. "I'm sick of him."
"Suck it,” Chris snapped.
Cale laughed through his nose, "Hey Joanie. How ya been?"
Joanie turned to face him. "I'm ok. How's your sister?"
He blinked. "She's good. Yeah, they say she'll come home soon."
Joanie smiled, "Kick ass. Tell her I -". Just then, Chris hurled the car out of the driveway. Joanie punched Chris in the arm and started swearing.
"God damnit, Chris, my mom's home," screamed Cale as the curtains of the house's picture window fell closed. "Now she's gonna chew me out when I get back."
Chris turned up the volume on the tinny stereo and cruised off toward Wal-Mart. Journey drowned out Joanie and Chris' conversation, but she could hear the swells of laughter. She took the long way, making it longer by turning down no less than 11 unnecessary side streets. Joanie and Cale were oblivious. Chris sailed down the main street hill and turned just before the hospital on Wexler. She pressed hard on the accelerator. The car strained to keep up with the demands of its driver, but made it to 40 by the end of the block. Mr. Gallagher was sitting in his wheelchair in front of the hospital, watching as the kids flew by. Chris watched him in her mirror as he shrank and then disappeared. The neon signs on the drive-in next door were lit by the time Chris pulled into the Wal-Mart lot. Cale was climbing over the seat before she had it in park. She shoved him back into the cushion.
She said, "How long is this gonna take?"
"10 minutes, max," he replied, pushing his hair out of his eyes.
She turned back to the front and Joanie opened the door to let Cale out. She climbed back into the car and pulled out her cigarettes, offering one to Chris.
Lighting it, Joanie said, "What's your deal with him? He's not that annoying. It's not like he's all pervy and weird or anything."
Chris took a drag, removed it from her mouth, and studied the lit end. "I dunno. I guess I'm just sick of him always hanging around. When we were 5 it was no big thing, but I thought he'd, you know, get his own friends by now. It pisses me off how he just takes it. Like he thinks I secretly love him or something."
"Shit. You do love him. We both know you wouldn't put up with him if you didn't like him a little and you wouldn't be tonguing that cig like that unless you had some kind of Freudian fantasy running through your little toe head."
"Fuck you," she mumbled through lips pursed around the cigarette. Chris rummaged through her purse, then the coin tray, before shoving her hand inside the gaping seat cushion.
Joanie looked up from her phone. "What the hell?"
"I just need fifteeen cents..."
"For what?"
"A pop."
"Dude, you just had an extra large Coke. How are you not pissing your Superman undies right now?"
"It just sounds really good right now. That Sam's Choice crap's only fifty cents anyway."
Joanie rolled her eyes and went back to her phone. She mumbled, "You want it cause it's there."
Chris gave up and yanked her hand free of Grenfyr. "You win again, demon beast!" The girls leaned out the windows and shook their fists at the sky. A few customers cast disapproving glances. Joanie made faces at them and Chris honked the worn out horn. And they waited. Chris smoked three cigarettes and watched lightning strike in the east. The breeze had gotten stiff and cold since the sun had gone down and she put on her sweatshirt. Joanie rummaged through the glove box, examining expired insurance cards, unopened straws, and a very embarrassing picture for someone named "Chrissy" from the class of 1995.
"Some chick my brother probably screwed when he had the car," said Chris as she took the photo from Joanie and tossed it out the window.
"Eeeewww," Joanie cried as she feverishly wiped her hands on her pants, "he's a total family man. There's no way he ever banged in here."
"Yeah. He was a huge sleaze ball before he met Sarah. He told me he's had crabs 3 times."
"Nasty. Why would you let me ride around in here without knowing it was the scene of all his amateur porn videos?"
Chris stared into the mirror, watching her classmates speed away from the town's only stoplight in their parents' cars. "Because I hate you," she said, still looking into the mirror. "We Febreezed the shit out of it, so you'll probably just get syphilis."
The girls were still exchanging good-natured blows when Cale got back to the car. "Save some for me, ladies," he said. Joanie slapped him in the back of the head while letting him climb into the back seat. Cale sat down and ripped into the packaging on the mouse.
"How's the nerdgasm?" said Chris.
Cale reached forward and massaged her shoulder. "You should come back here and I'll show you."
Joanie snatched her phone out of the cup holder and turned on her camera. "Yay, porno," she shouted.
Chris slapped Cale's hand off of her shoulder and turned around to face him. He started laughing and pursing his lips at the camera while Joanie spouted off entries from her list of directorial clichés. Chris fumed at Cale, shoving him into the seat and fueling his delight. Soon, Joanie began urging the two "lovers" to kiss.
The laughter in the car came to a riotous halt once Cale's nose started bleeding. He cupped his nasal fountain in his hands as tears began rolling down his face. Chris, too, was nursing her hand when she turned back around in her seat. Joanie's camera had captured the entire scene: Cale leaning forward in feigned anticipation of a kiss, Chris's small fist colliding with his nose, and Cale's subsequent shock.
"Fuck! What the fuck, Chris?” he said, his voice modulated by his readjusted nose. Joanie stared at Chris who was gazing complacently out the windshield. Her phone was recording the armrest now. Cale started scooting toward her seat, so Joanie leaned forward and opened the door to let him out.
He stood outside the car while the slow drip from his nose stained the parking lot. Joanie finally said, "Want some napkins or something?" He nodded and she pulled a wad from the stash in the glove compartment and handed it to him. He leaned over and looked past Joanie into the car.
"You bitch. I wasn't really going to kiss you." Chris refused to acknowledge him. "You really need to chill out. I've never done anything to you. Right, Joanie?"
"Hey, man, I'm not getting involved in this," she said. Chris finally moved. But only to give Cale the finger as the car sped out of the parking lot.
Chris' blood-flecked knuckles gleamed intermittently in the light from the street lamps as the passed. She still hadn't said a word. Joanie pretended to look out the window, all the while watching for any change in Chris with her peripheral vision. When Chris turned into Joanie's driveway and put the car in park, Joanie turned and spent several seconds choosing her words before speaking.
"What the fuck was that?! We were just fucking around. He didn't really expect you to kiss him. He...I mean, I get that he's annoying and whatever, but you just fucking hit him! And now you're acting like some kind of psycho not talking. You left him at Wal-Mart and we still have his mouse. You're gonna have to see him again. What the hell are you gonna say? Why the hell did you do that, Chris?!"
Chris grinned a little and shook her head. "I'm sick of him."
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
An Ode
I think she's only with me for the view.
I think she's only with me for the nickels.
I think she's only with me for the inside jokes.
I think she's only with me for my snobbery.
I know she's not with me for my looks.
I know she's not with me for my charm.
I know she's not with me for my mind.
I know she's not with me for my car.
I wonder if she's with me for the money.
I wonder if she's with me for the brilliance.
I wonder if she's with me for the sass.
I wonder if she's with me for the time being.
I know she's with me.
I think she's only with me for the nickels.
I think she's only with me for the inside jokes.
I think she's only with me for my snobbery.
I know she's not with me for my looks.
I know she's not with me for my charm.
I know she's not with me for my mind.
I know she's not with me for my car.
I wonder if she's with me for the money.
I wonder if she's with me for the brilliance.
I wonder if she's with me for the sass.
I wonder if she's with me for the time being.
I know she's with me.
Friday, November 26, 2010
A Face
She told me that I wore my face well.
It didn’t seem a romantic overture, but I began to wonder
Whether someone else might wear it better. Could prurient
Hands uncover the truth – that my face is ill-fitting, too tight
Around the nose, loose around the ears and eyes?
Perhaps it does not flatter my soul.
It may be an imposter, my face. Draped across my mind
And heart, it pantomimes love, laughter, and beauty, never
Quite telling the truth, no matter how it tries.
Yes, I wear my face as well as I can, you see.
Because it is only polite
To wear a face. They wouldn’t have me naked, telling
Them all what fools they’ve been, wearing their faces so.
And we all do not wear them well. Faces too big or too small,
Too morose or melancholy do their wearers an injustice.
She told me that my face was fashionable,
For the time being, anyhow. As though I had chosen it,
Picked it from among my faces that morning. But I did
Not choose. Perhaps my face, reflected in hers,
showed only how well she wore her own.
Friday, November 19, 2010
Abject Happiness
Let's say Adam and Eve never ate the apple and realized how nakey they really were. What if the serpent had never tempted her and she'd decided to use it in some kind of burlesque act she was putting together to surprise Adam for their anniversary? Maybe a burlesque show falls under the "knowledge of good and evil" clause, but I'd like to think God would've allowed a little sexuality in the Garden. I mean, he created it for us to enjoy within the confines of holy matrimony...or something. The point is, where would we be today if nothing bad had ever happened in the history of the world? We're talking no pain, no war, no illness, no Kanye -- perfection, folks.
Eulogizers, motivational speakers, and pithy quotes love to remind us about how we can't experience joy without pain, love without loss, Sam Adams without Busch Light, etc. How hollow and meaningless would our collective existence be, then, if we'd been spending all of history dancing naked in a garden with the Almighty's radiant love pouring all over us? Sure it sounds like 19 layers of awesome, but we wouldn't have a clue. We love to imagine the absence of evil and suffering as some kind of euphoric bliss -- a hundred billion hits of Ecstacy -- but could we really feel like that if we'd never known anything else?
It seems like it would be a system shock, you know, when you first spring from his mind, or loins, or the abyss, or whatever. You'd be completely overwhelmed by the perfection and warmth at first, owing only to the fact that any kind of external stimulus is brand new and kind of freaky. But I might be wrong there. It's God, right? He can make you instantly joyful and serene. The laws of man don't apply to him and it's within his power to give me knowledge of the vast blessings he's bestowed upon me without my experiencing any kind of suffering.
So let's say God's filled me with his love...juice, and my rib-wife and I hang around with all of the other couples watching guys appear out of nowhere and inviting them to join our hilariously madcap Jenga games. Ok, ok, so we do other things too. You gotta sing God's praises and perform sacraments, but for the most part we hang around getting along really well with one another and having an awesome time. It seems like we'd get a little bored eventually. You know, a little antsy to do something else for a while. It's only human nature. But it seems like I'm wrong there again. God ought to be able to keep me satisfied for all of eternity, right?
The answer's "yes" in case you were confused. But it brings up an interesting question: why did he create us in the first place? The obvious answer is that we were created to love and worship him. And while that sounds a touch narcissistic, I'll roll with it. So God created us as pets or children, take your pick. He loves us, wants the best for us, and the only thing he asks in return is that we love him forever and ever, amen.
That's cool. That's really cool, actually.
Anyway, he sets up this garden where everything is perfect and we're free to do as we please, because the only things we please are the things that please him. Now, this is where it gets confusing. He made it all, right? In the beginning there was the word...and then there were toasters, and badgers, and grandmothers, and paperclips. At some point he had to decide to create the tree and the fruit that contained the knowledge of good and evil. Why?
He loves me. He loves my bone-lady and our immaculately-conceived children in ways our puny human minds could never imagine. Still, he put this beautiful tree and its fruit right in the middle of the garden and told us to stay away or else. Apparently loving him was too easy. He wanted to make it a challenge. Seems like a cruel thing to do to your most beloved creations. And I know some would say that good and evil had to exist in humans. God can't control us, only make suggestions. But the truth of the matter is that if he is, in fact, God, everything is his to manipulate. He didn't have to create evil and suffering. He didn't have to tempt Eve. He didn't even have to make the tree. The bottom line is that he could have made us perfect and happy and let us roam free.
But what fun is that? The image of God as an angry little kid with an ant farm has been beaten to death. I don't think he's angry, he just wants to make things sportin'. There are a number of good theories as to why he did it. Maybe he realized there would be no larger purpose for us if there were no pain and suffering to sort through, so he was trying to give us the opportunity to create our own purpose. Shades of carrot-on-a-stick incentivism, but it still seems to come from a good place. Of course, if I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt, I also have to play devil's advocate. Maybe he was just bored with perfection.
It seems to me that God was probably doing humankind the biggest solid ever. He was saving all of us from a fate worse than pain, suffering, and death: abject happiness. He knew that our joy and love would be completely meaningless if he sustained it by himself. Sure, everything would be awesome (from the perspective of the current population of sinners), but it might as well be hell if we don't know what we've got.
So thanks, big guy, for doing the best you could in the situation (you created) to give our lives some meaning. Maybe next time you could try making a huge bouncy house instead of necessitating the Holocaust.
I mean, I don't think I could ever get tired of a bouncy house!
Eulogizers, motivational speakers, and pithy quotes love to remind us about how we can't experience joy without pain, love without loss, Sam Adams without Busch Light, etc. How hollow and meaningless would our collective existence be, then, if we'd been spending all of history dancing naked in a garden with the Almighty's radiant love pouring all over us? Sure it sounds like 19 layers of awesome, but we wouldn't have a clue. We love to imagine the absence of evil and suffering as some kind of euphoric bliss -- a hundred billion hits of Ecstacy -- but could we really feel like that if we'd never known anything else?
It seems like it would be a system shock, you know, when you first spring from his mind, or loins, or the abyss, or whatever. You'd be completely overwhelmed by the perfection and warmth at first, owing only to the fact that any kind of external stimulus is brand new and kind of freaky. But I might be wrong there. It's God, right? He can make you instantly joyful and serene. The laws of man don't apply to him and it's within his power to give me knowledge of the vast blessings he's bestowed upon me without my experiencing any kind of suffering.
So let's say God's filled me with his love...juice, and my rib-wife and I hang around with all of the other couples watching guys appear out of nowhere and inviting them to join our hilariously madcap Jenga games. Ok, ok, so we do other things too. You gotta sing God's praises and perform sacraments, but for the most part we hang around getting along really well with one another and having an awesome time. It seems like we'd get a little bored eventually. You know, a little antsy to do something else for a while. It's only human nature. But it seems like I'm wrong there again. God ought to be able to keep me satisfied for all of eternity, right?
The answer's "yes" in case you were confused. But it brings up an interesting question: why did he create us in the first place? The obvious answer is that we were created to love and worship him. And while that sounds a touch narcissistic, I'll roll with it. So God created us as pets or children, take your pick. He loves us, wants the best for us, and the only thing he asks in return is that we love him forever and ever, amen.
That's cool. That's really cool, actually.
Anyway, he sets up this garden where everything is perfect and we're free to do as we please, because the only things we please are the things that please him. Now, this is where it gets confusing. He made it all, right? In the beginning there was the word...and then there were toasters, and badgers, and grandmothers, and paperclips. At some point he had to decide to create the tree and the fruit that contained the knowledge of good and evil. Why?
He loves me. He loves my bone-lady and our immaculately-conceived children in ways our puny human minds could never imagine. Still, he put this beautiful tree and its fruit right in the middle of the garden and told us to stay away or else. Apparently loving him was too easy. He wanted to make it a challenge. Seems like a cruel thing to do to your most beloved creations. And I know some would say that good and evil had to exist in humans. God can't control us, only make suggestions. But the truth of the matter is that if he is, in fact, God, everything is his to manipulate. He didn't have to create evil and suffering. He didn't have to tempt Eve. He didn't even have to make the tree. The bottom line is that he could have made us perfect and happy and let us roam free.
But what fun is that? The image of God as an angry little kid with an ant farm has been beaten to death. I don't think he's angry, he just wants to make things sportin'. There are a number of good theories as to why he did it. Maybe he realized there would be no larger purpose for us if there were no pain and suffering to sort through, so he was trying to give us the opportunity to create our own purpose. Shades of carrot-on-a-stick incentivism, but it still seems to come from a good place. Of course, if I'm going to give him the benefit of the doubt, I also have to play devil's advocate. Maybe he was just bored with perfection.
It seems to me that God was probably doing humankind the biggest solid ever. He was saving all of us from a fate worse than pain, suffering, and death: abject happiness. He knew that our joy and love would be completely meaningless if he sustained it by himself. Sure, everything would be awesome (from the perspective of the current population of sinners), but it might as well be hell if we don't know what we've got.
So thanks, big guy, for doing the best you could in the situation (you created) to give our lives some meaning. Maybe next time you could try making a huge bouncy house instead of necessitating the Holocaust.
I mean, I don't think I could ever get tired of a bouncy house!
Monday, November 1, 2010
Nina Simone & Public Transportation
Daphne was rushed; all broken heels, stiff back, and sore smile muscles as she waited for the bus. The show had been a “smashing success” by the gallery owner’s own proclamation and several of her pieces had already sold. Fortunately they were the pieces she’d secretly wanted to sell; proportions not quite right, tiny flaws invisible to the casual viewer, and amateurish composition. They were the mistakes – artistic abortions that collectors treasure when they fall from the womb of someone famous.
Her knee bounced as she craned her neck to look for the bus. When it finally arrived, she was first in line, all but prying the doors open with hands exhausted from too much shaking. Each stoplight was met with a furious eye-roll and another check of the watch that would not stop ticking. People insisted on getting on and off at every stop. Old women, wheelchairs, and all manner of lacksadaisical conversationalists slowly destroyed any hope Daphne had of making it home on time.
She stumbled down from the bus, but caught herself on the fire hydrant. Her portfolio slipped and landed hard on the pavement.
“Shit! Of course…,” she mumbled to herself. She dragged her belongings into the building and pushed the buzzer for the apartment, but Dan would not answer. After at least eleven attempts and on the verge of tears, she resigned herself to the thought of six flights of stairs and that temperamental lock the landlord was always making promises about.
The apartment was spotless. Each and every book and knick knack was in its place, carefully arranged to create the illusion of nonchalance Dan was so fond of. Daphne set her things against the wall as she peered around the corner into their tiny, Formica-drenched kitchen. No Dan. No pots and pans. No “kiss the chef” apron, half-empty beer, dancing and singing along to the Police. She frowned and sighed as her gaze drifted across the room. He had lit every candle they owned and placed them throughout their living/dining room. The stereo was softly crooning Nina Simone and the table was set with their mix-matched dinnerware atop the only picnic tablecloth they owned. Chicken marsala
Daphne walked over to the table and touched the chicken before picking up the glass. Nina’s voice swelled in the room as Daphne went to the window and sat on the bench there. Rain was beginning to fall against the glass and she watched the fat drops run down the window as she hummed along and drank. It soon grew dark. Her glass grew empty, as did the other, and humming became full-fledged singing. The singing slowly gave way to crying as Nina declared “be my husband, and I’ll be your wife.”
Bitterness came creeping in at the edges of her mind. Where the hell was Dan? She was only an hour late. He could have waited. He knew it would be impossible getting out of the show. She’d promised him she’d be home as soon as she could. Why had he gone to all this trouble if he was going to ditch her anyway? Fuck you, Dan. Just fuck you.
Through the tears and the rain she saw someone running down the street toward the apartment. His sweatshirt hood was up to protect from the rain, but it was clearly soaked through. His hands were jammed into this pockets and a large paper package was clenched under his right arm. Daphne’s heart jumped, but she quickly reminded herself of her newfound distaste for Dan and prepared to give him a piece of her wine-soaked mind.
Squeaking tennis shoes, fumbling with keys, and cursing to himself, Dan fought desperately with the door, praying that Daphne wasn’t already home. When the door finally burst open, they stood face to face for a moment; Dan, soaked from head to toe, his elbow scraped and bleeding, clutching the package, and Daphne glaring with an empty wine glass in each hand. His apologies began just as her accusations started, drowning out Nina’s moans of strange fruit and poplar trees.
Dan’s glasses had been slowly fogging up since he came inside and he was quickly blind to the world. Daphne’s yelling slowly turned to crying laughter as she watched his gestures grow larger and voice louder behind now-white eyes. Obviously too upset and proud to admit he had no idea where she was, Dan’s mounting frustration only increased Daphne’s amusement. She let him flail helplessly for a few moments before setting the glasses down and slowly approaching him. Catching both of his arms, she put them around her waist and took his glasses off, setting them on the counter. Dan was still upset.
“…and I made the chicken too early because I thought it would take longer, but the cork wouldn’t come out of the bottle!”
“Dan,” she said evenly.
He stopped and looked at her. “Damn it, Daphne,” he said, “I screwed it up.” Her hand grazed his elbow and he winced.
“You look like shit, dear,” she said and they both smiled. “What the hell were you doing out there?”
He brought the package, ruined by the rain, up to their faces. “I forgot the flowers…”
Three Gifts
“If you were only allowed to give me three gifts during the course of the rest of our lives together, what would they be?”
She looked up from the crossword, biting the end of her pen. “Love, love, and love, what else is there?”
Dan was staring out the window at the people on the street. He shook his head absentmindedly as Daphne spoke, but turned to look at her as she went back to her puzzle. Leaning forward, Dan put his hand over the paper.
“Seriously, Daph, I’m talking about a gift – a real, physical gift to give someone.”
“Dan, I don’t understand what you’re saying; three gifts for the rest of my life? How is that relevant to anything?”
He chuckled and picked up her hand, rubbing the engagement ring on her slender finger. Her expression softened and she rolled her blue-green eyes as a wry smile slid across her face.
“You’re in for a lifetime of this, you know?”
“Sometimes I still wonder why I agreed,” she said.
Dan’s hands went to his heart as he slumped over in his chair. Daphne kicked him, but he didn’t move. She stared for a moment. Dan’s eyelids flickered. Finally, she gathered up her things and stood.
Daphne turned to the man sitting next to them and gestured, “Apparently, my fiancée is dead. I’m pretty sure he’s got some cash in his wallet.” The man grinned and nodded as she went to throw away her coffee cup.
The hood of his sweatshirt adhered itself to the back of his head as Dan burst out of the shop. He spied Daphne at least two blocks away walking on the north side of the street to avoid the wind. She was going out of her way to step on the crunchy leaves. He began to jog after her.
Dan was slender, genetically predisposed to the sport he loved so much, but his staccato gait had been the cause of too much prejudice and mockery by his high school coaches. Now, each chance to run was a race – against the sun, a car, a leaf, or his fleeing fiancée. They always ended in slow motion, Dan’s arms raised in triumph.
“Won again?” Daphne teased as he approached. “It’s really not a race if you don’t tell me.” She jumped with both feet onto a leaf, twisting her feet to prolong the satisfaction. He lunged in front of her, stealing the next leaf, and she leapt onto his back, kissing his bearded check. He walked with her on his back.
He said, “When are you going to marry me”?
“Aren’t we already?” she replied. “I mean, look at me. I’m already on your back.”
He shifted her weight and began running down the sidewalk. They narrowly missed an old couple walking together as Daphne shouted an apology, her speech punctuated by each of Dan’s steps. They approached a busy intersection.
“I’m gonna kill us both if you don’t give me a date!”
She began beating his chest, “God damn it, Dan! Stop!” Leaping off his back, she shoved him to the ground. Dan slid on the pavement and his jeans tore.
Rolling over, Dan laughed, “Damn, Daph. I was just–“
“Fuck you! You’re always ‘just…’ and I’m tired of it.” She turned, pushing her hair back, and began walking away.
He watched her walk. He grinned. Finally, he stood, checked his freshly-trendy jeans, and walked toward her. Dashing behind trees and rolling from cover to cover, Dan stealthily crept up on Daphne. She remained stalwart, eyes forward, daring the world to antagonize her further.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Tuesday, August 24, 2010
The Whole Damned World
The setting for my life is a 12 by 12 cell. It’s got windows, you know, so I can see a bird walk or a man die a slow-quick death. That’s mostly what I do; I look out my windows and look at the world running by. That’s right, I said running. Don’t nobody walk these days, not from what I can see anyway. I don’t do much myself so I can’t say why it is they do or don’t.
I think I can leave my cell when I want, but I don’t try. These windows ain’t barred and the sunlight don’t have no qualms about makin’ himself at home in my world so I expect I got it pretty good and well right where I am. Can sit on my head and read a book if I want, I can love myself and hate everybody else. Thrice a day that big ole guard comes by and gives me my food. I eat it most the time. There’s about four hundred of us all told; I’ve never seen ‘em, but the Old Sack says he hears ‘em wailing in the middle of the night while I sleep. See I gotta sleep my good 10 hours a night or I start seein’ good inside out and bad upside down. Been in here now since hairs was on my face. Long time to think of. Make a man start remembering black and white instead of colors.
Me and the Old Sack, we sit up all day by these windows watching these marathon runners. They all in love with these little screechin’ beetles they hold up to their heads while they run, but they never bump into all these others. Like, almost, they hung up on some old clothesline like mama had and just getting’ pulled along on a track so they don’t even need to think about where they go. But where they go? The Old Sack says they don’t go nowheres, just like me an’ him, but I think they got homes and jobs and families and all that stuff to set places on fire with life. Yeah, I think everybody running to get to that fire life, that ugly beautiful real they live. That’s the stuff the Old Sack don’t have, I don’t have neither. We just kinda sit and watch all the hat-tippers and change-counters do their thing. Watch them boogie-woogie on Saturday night, shuffle all solemn-like on Sunday morn, off to apologize for barrel-housin’ like God was their man or woman. The Old Sack got a funny laugh when he see them walkin’ those days, like he’s gonna laugh all the breath out of him. We laugh good and hard Sunday morn, like we’s livin’ our fire life those times.
I’ve seen a whole batch of lifetimes run by these windows. Babies bounce off concrete still covered in that sticky, clear life their mommas give ‘em to slide along easy like those fancy cars that almost run ‘em over. Those ladies who got enough beauty to make God hisself change religions come every now and then, smelling something lovely like they gathered up all the goodness there is and wear it on them. Once, though, I seen one of them ladies get roughed up something nasty by two of those no-goods you see when you think of what a no-good look like. Made me think thoughts they say I shouldn’t, ‘bout the kind of revenge I shouldn’t be takin’, they say. The Old Sack calmed me down, though, and next we see an old gray man give this young green girl a bag of sweet candies. Me an’ the Old Sack get to talking and we decide there’s good and there’s evil and there’s somethin' in between them two, but we ain’t got no name for it.
See we play games in the drinking dark, that dark that just drink up everything in the world. Some nights we play chess in our heads or we play games of thinking of our black-n-white lives. My black-n-white life weren’t bad, but weren’t good either. My daddy never beat me, mama never did. Nobody yelled, but nobody loved. That’s what makes me think there’s somethin’ in between good and evil, almost like nothing, but like everything.
Like me an’ the Old Sack, here, we don’t got good, but we don’t got evil. What we got a lot of people might say is nothing, but my windows give us near everything. We gets the stink of life and death so bad it creeps into your bones, screams so loud you can’t hear anything. The whole damned world lines up nice and neat at my windows and comes in real polite-like. Yeah, we got everything.
I think I can leave my cell when I want, but I don’t try. These windows ain’t barred and the sunlight don’t have no qualms about makin’ himself at home in my world so I expect I got it pretty good and well right where I am. Can sit on my head and read a book if I want, I can love myself and hate everybody else. Thrice a day that big ole guard comes by and gives me my food. I eat it most the time. There’s about four hundred of us all told; I’ve never seen ‘em, but the Old Sack says he hears ‘em wailing in the middle of the night while I sleep. See I gotta sleep my good 10 hours a night or I start seein’ good inside out and bad upside down. Been in here now since hairs was on my face. Long time to think of. Make a man start remembering black and white instead of colors.
Me and the Old Sack, we sit up all day by these windows watching these marathon runners. They all in love with these little screechin’ beetles they hold up to their heads while they run, but they never bump into all these others. Like, almost, they hung up on some old clothesline like mama had and just getting’ pulled along on a track so they don’t even need to think about where they go. But where they go? The Old Sack says they don’t go nowheres, just like me an’ him, but I think they got homes and jobs and families and all that stuff to set places on fire with life. Yeah, I think everybody running to get to that fire life, that ugly beautiful real they live. That’s the stuff the Old Sack don’t have, I don’t have neither. We just kinda sit and watch all the hat-tippers and change-counters do their thing. Watch them boogie-woogie on Saturday night, shuffle all solemn-like on Sunday morn, off to apologize for barrel-housin’ like God was their man or woman. The Old Sack got a funny laugh when he see them walkin’ those days, like he’s gonna laugh all the breath out of him. We laugh good and hard Sunday morn, like we’s livin’ our fire life those times.
I’ve seen a whole batch of lifetimes run by these windows. Babies bounce off concrete still covered in that sticky, clear life their mommas give ‘em to slide along easy like those fancy cars that almost run ‘em over. Those ladies who got enough beauty to make God hisself change religions come every now and then, smelling something lovely like they gathered up all the goodness there is and wear it on them. Once, though, I seen one of them ladies get roughed up something nasty by two of those no-goods you see when you think of what a no-good look like. Made me think thoughts they say I shouldn’t, ‘bout the kind of revenge I shouldn’t be takin’, they say. The Old Sack calmed me down, though, and next we see an old gray man give this young green girl a bag of sweet candies. Me an’ the Old Sack get to talking and we decide there’s good and there’s evil and there’s somethin' in between them two, but we ain’t got no name for it.
See we play games in the drinking dark, that dark that just drink up everything in the world. Some nights we play chess in our heads or we play games of thinking of our black-n-white lives. My black-n-white life weren’t bad, but weren’t good either. My daddy never beat me, mama never did. Nobody yelled, but nobody loved. That’s what makes me think there’s somethin’ in between good and evil, almost like nothing, but like everything.
Like me an’ the Old Sack, here, we don’t got good, but we don’t got evil. What we got a lot of people might say is nothing, but my windows give us near everything. We gets the stink of life and death so bad it creeps into your bones, screams so loud you can’t hear anything. The whole damned world lines up nice and neat at my windows and comes in real polite-like. Yeah, we got everything.
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