Where have I been?
Waiting for divine inspiration to fill my fingers with beauty and love.
...I've gotta run. I didn't pay for these muffins.
28.10.04
21.9.04
Just now a person on inline skates zipped past me, making way down the aisle so quickly I couldn't make out their sex, which is most unfortunate since the skater wore very short shorts and I would have appreciated the opportunity to let my mind drift.
Stranger than the asexual skater is that she (or possibly he) garnered no attention from the other train passengers. No one, not this business man, not that mother, nor her two children, even bothered to glance from their respective newspapers and teen magazines. (The business man reads the teen magazines.)
I think in most of America, mass transportation is a bit of a freakish activity in itself,
the sort best reserved for bums whose shopping carts provide insufficient shelter from occasional rain,
and for single, horny mothers, caught in a devil’s cycle of poverty too severe to allow the purchase of adequate numbers of rubbers,
and for overachievers who drink heavily with such regularity and precision, certain governments have, in the name of public good, revoked their license to drive.
Mass transportation is far from the main stream. Even mentioning you happened to use the front bumper of a cross-town bus to prop your foot while you tied your lace is cause for all manner of suspicion,
not the worst of which is that you are some sort of hippie communist type who refuses to keep body hair at moderate lengths.
In my limited experience in America, it is easier to be a man with one testicle than a man without car.
An aside:
I really don't know what it is like to have just one ball, really, but being uni-balled is the sort of erroneous fact (like claiming to be Jewish) that I like to let slip in rooms filled with complete strangers.
I think it helps people regard me in a sympathetic light, which is especially important when you drink from a flask.
But yes, without doubt, it is easier to be a man with one ball than with no car.
Consider the following:
A girl calls her mom and tells her she met this guy named…
“…‘Joey.’ he’s very sweet when he drinks, and he tells good jokes when he’s sober, Mom. I think I really like him.”
“Oh, yes, there is just one thing. He only has one ball. His sister shook him off a ladder when he was seven. He snagged his Sack of Mexican Candy on a rung.
They tried to save the ball. They put it on ice, but before they made it past the nurse station it had shrank so severely that the doctors feared disrupting the atom it was orbiting.
Mom, what should I do? Does, dad have both his balls?”
“Honey, honey. If he’s a nice boy, and he sounds just delightful, who cares how many balls he has. In college I dated Jim Hanson, and he had three balls.
Well, at least, that’s what he told me.
Of course, later I learned it was actually a malformed twin and broke it off immediately, but that was so different, Jenny.
I mean… twins!
In my day girls weren’t raised that way.
or…
“Oh yes, there is just one thing… He doesn’t drive.”
“Honey what kind of bum are you hauling around.
Now you listen here Jenny, we’ve been through this with your sisters and we are not going through this again. You girls bring any more of those darkies round here…”
“But mom, he’s Jewish.
“Let me talk to your father.”
Stranger than the asexual skater is that she (or possibly he) garnered no attention from the other train passengers. No one, not this business man, not that mother, nor her two children, even bothered to glance from their respective newspapers and teen magazines. (The business man reads the teen magazines.)
I think in most of America, mass transportation is a bit of a freakish activity in itself,
the sort best reserved for bums whose shopping carts provide insufficient shelter from occasional rain,
and for single, horny mothers, caught in a devil’s cycle of poverty too severe to allow the purchase of adequate numbers of rubbers,
and for overachievers who drink heavily with such regularity and precision, certain governments have, in the name of public good, revoked their license to drive.
Mass transportation is far from the main stream. Even mentioning you happened to use the front bumper of a cross-town bus to prop your foot while you tied your lace is cause for all manner of suspicion,
not the worst of which is that you are some sort of hippie communist type who refuses to keep body hair at moderate lengths.
In my limited experience in America, it is easier to be a man with one testicle than a man without car.
An aside:
I really don't know what it is like to have just one ball, really, but being uni-balled is the sort of erroneous fact (like claiming to be Jewish) that I like to let slip in rooms filled with complete strangers.
I think it helps people regard me in a sympathetic light, which is especially important when you drink from a flask.
But yes, without doubt, it is easier to be a man with one ball than with no car.
Consider the following:
A girl calls her mom and tells her she met this guy named…
“…‘Joey.’ he’s very sweet when he drinks, and he tells good jokes when he’s sober, Mom. I think I really like him.”
“Oh, yes, there is just one thing. He only has one ball. His sister shook him off a ladder when he was seven. He snagged his Sack of Mexican Candy on a rung.
They tried to save the ball. They put it on ice, but before they made it past the nurse station it had shrank so severely that the doctors feared disrupting the atom it was orbiting.
Mom, what should I do? Does, dad have both his balls?”
“Honey, honey. If he’s a nice boy, and he sounds just delightful, who cares how many balls he has. In college I dated Jim Hanson, and he had three balls.
Well, at least, that’s what he told me.
Of course, later I learned it was actually a malformed twin and broke it off immediately, but that was so different, Jenny.
I mean… twins!
In my day girls weren’t raised that way.
or…
“Oh yes, there is just one thing… He doesn’t drive.”
“Honey what kind of bum are you hauling around.
Now you listen here Jenny, we’ve been through this with your sisters and we are not going through this again. You girls bring any more of those darkies round here…”
“But mom, he’s Jewish.
“Let me talk to your father.”
20.9.04
At first it seemed I had just happened to pick the car that all the cool kids liked. But upon a closer inspection that involved little more than eerily, slowly spinning my head 360 degrees, I understood the train was packed, yes, to the gills, with school children behaving in a carefree manner afforded by a lack of adult interference. They laughed at jokes whose punch lines I could not quite make out, talked about this one’s new girlfriend, and what not . Three pretty, modish girls not more than fifteen stood below, right outside my window, smoking suspiciously and watching with silent awe a particularly chunky girl roll down the hill from Old Town, lumbering to catch the train, her scooter wedged in her chubby armpit.
16.9.04
5.9.04
What a grand universe. Here I am in a Texas town so small they don't even have a post office, and I recieved a job offer for a bar in Muenchen. My biggest source of stress (had I allowed) is now nonexistant. I knew was going to work somewhere in Munich. I knew that much. You don't see many headlines reading: Dumb yankee starves to death in Eurpean capital. But still, anyone who thinks you can just roll into town and fill an empty position in some bustling Irish pub has probably applied for the job the same day one of the employees broke both legs after falling off a ladder, which is convinient, but you can't keep bank that kind of fortune.
Now, once again, it seems that the gods have paved my path. It could fall through at some point, but in the mean time I am free to let my mind solve other problems, like how to burn wet leaves.
The rain has stopped, back to work.
Now, once again, it seems that the gods have paved my path. It could fall through at some point, but in the mean time I am free to let my mind solve other problems, like how to burn wet leaves.
The rain has stopped, back to work.
I am officially on the road. Bags are packed. I have no home. I have no key chain. I have no pillow. I fly out the thirteenth of September, heading for Muenchen. I have been dreaming of my return to that continent for so long I suspect that upon arrival I shall be suddenly overcome with the feeling of being in a deep sleep.
You see what I did there, huh? See dreaming of Europe... in a deep sleep. That's good stuff folks, and it's that kind of light-hearted writing that you are going to find more of on this blog now. Those days of whining about this dead dog or this lost love or this smashed car or that mole on my lower back that I had removed but still itches- those days are over.
You see what I did there, huh? See dreaming of Europe... in a deep sleep. That's good stuff folks, and it's that kind of light-hearted writing that you are going to find more of on this blog now. Those days of whining about this dead dog or this lost love or this smashed car or that mole on my lower back that I had removed but still itches- those days are over.
26.7.04
16.7.04
He used to move mountains.
And now he can not even move his head from his hands.
He cries regularly.
Are these the same tears from long ago?
They taste the same.
He wondered...
If he took himself to a country church
and raised his hands above his head,
letting the tears flow freely down his gray puffy cheeks
would firery elders still gather round and marvel,
exclaiming quietly amongst themselves,
"What a sensitive soul this young man has."
"Yes, such a soft heart."
Could he yet package his sadness as
good old-fashioned righteousness?
And now he can not even move his head from his hands.
He cries regularly.
Are these the same tears from long ago?
They taste the same.
He wondered...
If he took himself to a country church
and raised his hands above his head,
letting the tears flow freely down his gray puffy cheeks
would firery elders still gather round and marvel,
exclaiming quietly amongst themselves,
"What a sensitive soul this young man has."
"Yes, such a soft heart."
Could he yet package his sadness as
good old-fashioned righteousness?
15.7.04
8.7.04
28.6.04
26.6.04
They rode the Holy Roller coaster with the best of them. It's a wild ride. For those of unfamiliar with the Pentecostal arena let me explain. It begins as a crisis moment when you feel utter joy, a feeling so high, of such elation, you would think the creator of the universe is giving your soul a bear hug.
As the intensity of the moment begins to fade in time, you must struggle to maintain the zeal, even while it dwindles into a mild contentment. If you lived in a vacuum, apart from the effects of time, insulated from the tapping hammer of reality, if you could remain beneath the juniper tree, locked inside the cloister, kneeling on the mat, praying to the east, you might be just fine.
Sure at first you approach the world with a zeal and boldness. But eventually, you must return to Monday morning, and there you we are forced to break the gaze, awake from the moment, and the hypnotist returns to his day job as you are left with the residue of bliss, which is not necessary a bad thing, but against the church's weight of personal guilt and eternal fear, it is not quite sufficient.
One reads the bible in the morning; one prays to start the day. Makes a conscious effort to watch one's thoughts, to watch less TV, devote more time and money to the church. But gas for the engine is always burning. Therefore, like a vampire craving virgin blood, the Pentecostal returns to the sacrificial altar to plead the blood of Mary’s son, like a junkie craving the New Wine. A fix to get you by until the next Sunday.
Sometimes these fixes are elusive. These are called ''dry spells". They are cured by what some country preachers refer to as ''gully washers."
As the intensity of the moment begins to fade in time, you must struggle to maintain the zeal, even while it dwindles into a mild contentment. If you lived in a vacuum, apart from the effects of time, insulated from the tapping hammer of reality, if you could remain beneath the juniper tree, locked inside the cloister, kneeling on the mat, praying to the east, you might be just fine.
Sure at first you approach the world with a zeal and boldness. But eventually, you must return to Monday morning, and there you we are forced to break the gaze, awake from the moment, and the hypnotist returns to his day job as you are left with the residue of bliss, which is not necessary a bad thing, but against the church's weight of personal guilt and eternal fear, it is not quite sufficient.
One reads the bible in the morning; one prays to start the day. Makes a conscious effort to watch one's thoughts, to watch less TV, devote more time and money to the church. But gas for the engine is always burning. Therefore, like a vampire craving virgin blood, the Pentecostal returns to the sacrificial altar to plead the blood of Mary’s son, like a junkie craving the New Wine. A fix to get you by until the next Sunday.
Sometimes these fixes are elusive. These are called ''dry spells". They are cured by what some country preachers refer to as ''gully washers."
25.6.04
My Fly
The first time I saw him, he was sunning his underbelly on one the window panes that line the front of a particular downtown coffee shop. Behind him traffic bustled through green lights and the sidewalk teemed with people working their way down sidewalks, beneath the glare of the city’s scape.
I thought the whole image worth capturing, set my newspaper down, and quickly put a lens onto my camera. I moved in close enough to get a good frame, but just before I clicked the shutter, the little guy took off.
No big loss. I settled back into my comfy chair, took a sip of coffee, and straightened my paper, which was when I saw the fly resting on my shoulder. Without thought, I brushed him off. He flew a foot into the air, then returned to my shoulder. Once again, I swatted, but, once again, he returned.
This exchange went on with increasing vigor until I exhausted all the energy that first cup of coffee had given and came close to giving up on ridding myself of him.
Then the barista walked past. Remembering women had enough difficulties with me,I saw no need to add “he has flies” to that list.
Nonchalantly, I shooed. Predictably, the fly returned, and just stared at me. I stared right back at him. Of course flies don’t blink, but I stared anyways.
He looked like your common fly, except for the tiny iridescent streaks of red and blue and green where light separated as it passed through his translucent wings.
The thing that really caught my eye was this fly’s behavior. He wasn’t all fidgety like most. He sat still as a tie tack, almost serene.
I decided to reason with him.
I want to point out that I didn’t think reason would be effectual really, but swatting hadn’t been either, and I just figured that before resigning myself to the filthy advances of the coffee shop’s only fly, I should at least talk him.
I leaned in real close so as to not arouse the concern of any of the other patrons and whispered, “What’s you’re problem, man?”
Unfazed by my breath on his back, he didn’t move a muscle, except for those that caused his little fly belly to expand and contract rapidly as he took his little fly breaths, something I hadn’t noticed in keeping my usual distances.
“I can’t just have you hanging around here. It’s not cool.”
He just stared at me with his little fly eyes. I leaned in closer and squinted. I thought for a second he was batting lashes at me, but, naturally, he had none.
“You’ve got a whole city here.”
He kept looking at me. And his eyes weren’t little, really, at least not for a fly.
“Alright. Whatever. Hang out.”
I sipped my coffee, read for a while, then went outside for some fresh air and a cigarette. I came back in, sat in my comfy chair, straightened the paper, and noticed the fly still sat still, there on my shoulder.
“You are a cool little fly, aren’t ya?”
Then the barista looked up from a mop: “Are you talking to yourself, Johnny?”
“Not anymore.”
The first time I saw him, he was sunning his underbelly on one the window panes that line the front of a particular downtown coffee shop. Behind him traffic bustled through green lights and the sidewalk teemed with people working their way down sidewalks, beneath the glare of the city’s scape.
I thought the whole image worth capturing, set my newspaper down, and quickly put a lens onto my camera. I moved in close enough to get a good frame, but just before I clicked the shutter, the little guy took off.
No big loss. I settled back into my comfy chair, took a sip of coffee, and straightened my paper, which was when I saw the fly resting on my shoulder. Without thought, I brushed him off. He flew a foot into the air, then returned to my shoulder. Once again, I swatted, but, once again, he returned.
This exchange went on with increasing vigor until I exhausted all the energy that first cup of coffee had given and came close to giving up on ridding myself of him.
Then the barista walked past. Remembering women had enough difficulties with me,I saw no need to add “he has flies” to that list.
Nonchalantly, I shooed. Predictably, the fly returned, and just stared at me. I stared right back at him. Of course flies don’t blink, but I stared anyways.
He looked like your common fly, except for the tiny iridescent streaks of red and blue and green where light separated as it passed through his translucent wings.
The thing that really caught my eye was this fly’s behavior. He wasn’t all fidgety like most. He sat still as a tie tack, almost serene.
I decided to reason with him.
I want to point out that I didn’t think reason would be effectual really, but swatting hadn’t been either, and I just figured that before resigning myself to the filthy advances of the coffee shop’s only fly, I should at least talk him.
I leaned in real close so as to not arouse the concern of any of the other patrons and whispered, “What’s you’re problem, man?”
Unfazed by my breath on his back, he didn’t move a muscle, except for those that caused his little fly belly to expand and contract rapidly as he took his little fly breaths, something I hadn’t noticed in keeping my usual distances.
“I can’t just have you hanging around here. It’s not cool.”
He just stared at me with his little fly eyes. I leaned in closer and squinted. I thought for a second he was batting lashes at me, but, naturally, he had none.
“You’ve got a whole city here.”
He kept looking at me. And his eyes weren’t little, really, at least not for a fly.
“Alright. Whatever. Hang out.”
I sipped my coffee, read for a while, then went outside for some fresh air and a cigarette. I came back in, sat in my comfy chair, straightened the paper, and noticed the fly still sat still, there on my shoulder.
“You are a cool little fly, aren’t ya?”
Then the barista looked up from a mop: “Are you talking to yourself, Johnny?”
“Not anymore.”
17.6.04
But such is my life. I knew from early on it was a bit more than it was all cracked to be.
My mother always told me I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up. For a few years my grand ambition was to be a garbage man.
I’d run out to the end of the drive twice a week when I heard them rumbling down the street. I became somewhat friendly with them. They’d say hello to the curious gaping white boy.
I’d wave goodbye vigorously as they drove away, amazed that they were allowed to stand on the back of a moving truck.
My parents seemed supportive of my career, buying me a Tonka garbage truck for my third birthday.
They said I could be anything I wanted, and I believed them for a while.
I had my first inkling that life wasn’t so simple when I went to my mother and told her I wanted to be a puppy dog when I grew up.
You can’t be a puppy, Johnny.
I thought I could be whatever I wanted?
Well, you can’t be a puppy.
And that was just the beginning.
My mother always told me I could be whatever I wanted when I grew up. For a few years my grand ambition was to be a garbage man.
I’d run out to the end of the drive twice a week when I heard them rumbling down the street. I became somewhat friendly with them. They’d say hello to the curious gaping white boy.
I’d wave goodbye vigorously as they drove away, amazed that they were allowed to stand on the back of a moving truck.
My parents seemed supportive of my career, buying me a Tonka garbage truck for my third birthday.
They said I could be anything I wanted, and I believed them for a while.
I had my first inkling that life wasn’t so simple when I went to my mother and told her I wanted to be a puppy dog when I grew up.
You can’t be a puppy, Johnny.
I thought I could be whatever I wanted?
Well, you can’t be a puppy.
And that was just the beginning.
1.6.04
“The perception of beauty is a moral test.” -Thoreau
I settled in front of my trusty external frame backpack and begin to methodically, carefully fill it with rolls of clothes, filling the empty nooks with precious goods: the steak knife, the cork from that bottle of Chianti, a crumpled pack of Galois Bleus, those cheap disposable razors, my tattered Bible, and such.
I extinguished my cigarette, pressing the hot yellow butt into ground, burning a neat hole through the plastic floor of the tent.
I thought of taking the knife and cutting out the tent’s entire floor. I’d like to see the two of them shagging there then, slapping against the wet mud, arousing the interests of the German beetles and army ants that inhabit the underworld of the Thalkirchen Campingplatz.
Being out-numbered, tempered with fear, I resisted disemboweling the tent.
As I crawled from the tent, I could see, in the corner of my eye, a mass huddled around a camp fire, eight Irish blokes still sloshing Spaten even as the sun broke clear of the Eastern tree line. I could feel their moonshine eyes considering the final demise of the village demon, at last exorcised. If Isabel was among them, I could not make her out from the other blurry, flickering silhouettes, at least not without turning my head.
I strapped on my backpack, slung my broken-zipper sleeping bag over my shoulder, and started off, cool as I could, heading for the trail that leads to the river. Then, I walked the path that ran along the bank, through the forest, towards the Wawirtschaft Biergarten.
In the eye of a storm, I walked along with all my life at my back, on my back, hanging on my shoulders.
Slowly, the gray skies won over the clear morning sun,
The horizon stayed orange, but the clouds above gently defied and a soft rain fell, plucking the slow river, marking concentric circles that expanded on the water before disappearing into the current.
I observed the drizzle from beneath the eave of the forest's canopy, the branches stretching towards the sky like twisted roots towards an old river.
I walked along, considering the pain of losing my first love, and the rain against the dawn, and the river through the forest.
Never had I mourned a greater loss, and yet even this blind fool knew that moment was beautiful. Damned. Beautiful. Alive.
Soon, though, I’d forget this take. For, the storm soon blew me from its eye, and I found shelter in the Biergarten, washing dishes for minimum wage, room, and board.
I settled in front of my trusty external frame backpack and begin to methodically, carefully fill it with rolls of clothes, filling the empty nooks with precious goods: the steak knife, the cork from that bottle of Chianti, a crumpled pack of Galois Bleus, those cheap disposable razors, my tattered Bible, and such.
I extinguished my cigarette, pressing the hot yellow butt into ground, burning a neat hole through the plastic floor of the tent.
I thought of taking the knife and cutting out the tent’s entire floor. I’d like to see the two of them shagging there then, slapping against the wet mud, arousing the interests of the German beetles and army ants that inhabit the underworld of the Thalkirchen Campingplatz.
Being out-numbered, tempered with fear, I resisted disemboweling the tent.
As I crawled from the tent, I could see, in the corner of my eye, a mass huddled around a camp fire, eight Irish blokes still sloshing Spaten even as the sun broke clear of the Eastern tree line. I could feel their moonshine eyes considering the final demise of the village demon, at last exorcised. If Isabel was among them, I could not make her out from the other blurry, flickering silhouettes, at least not without turning my head.
I strapped on my backpack, slung my broken-zipper sleeping bag over my shoulder, and started off, cool as I could, heading for the trail that leads to the river. Then, I walked the path that ran along the bank, through the forest, towards the Wawirtschaft Biergarten.
In the eye of a storm, I walked along with all my life at my back, on my back, hanging on my shoulders.
Slowly, the gray skies won over the clear morning sun,
The horizon stayed orange, but the clouds above gently defied and a soft rain fell, plucking the slow river, marking concentric circles that expanded on the water before disappearing into the current.
I observed the drizzle from beneath the eave of the forest's canopy, the branches stretching towards the sky like twisted roots towards an old river.
I walked along, considering the pain of losing my first love, and the rain against the dawn, and the river through the forest.
Never had I mourned a greater loss, and yet even this blind fool knew that moment was beautiful. Damned. Beautiful. Alive.
Soon, though, I’d forget this take. For, the storm soon blew me from its eye, and I found shelter in the Biergarten, washing dishes for minimum wage, room, and board.
28.5.04
Once again the car was loaded with the possessions that hadn’t gone in the garage sale. Two book boxes, a clothes-stuffed external frame backpack, my Canon, a portfolio, and Gigi- the dancing schnauzer.
The lights of Austin shriveled into the dense morning fog as I headed down the high way towards the grand city of Houston.
I was heading to my grandmother’s to deposit most my things into her attic. I decided against leaving Gigi in the attic. I’d leave her with my friend June. Abandon might be a better word. I wasn’t planning on returning for her. It didn’t seem fair to the girl or the dog after as much time as I knew would pass.
I was going back on the road. Heading to Chicago for a bit of bar work and photography. Then to New York to pay my respects to the Brave New World? Dublin to see the Wawi gang? Then sell kilims in Istanbul? Then Jerusalem for some Islamic studies? What do I know? I would love to have taken Gigi with me but I didn’t need the extra 17 pounds of weight in my backpack and she wouldn’t fit into my camera bag.
My journey was supposed to start this morning. I had said my goodbyes, had my going away parties. Yesterday, I had called June to arrange a drop off time for Gigi. She wasn’t home, so I left a message and lay down to take a nap, sharing the pillow with my Gigi.
I awoke when June called back some moments later. Her name flashed on the caller i.d. if my telephone. I watched it ring, until it finally stopped. In those moments, while it rained against the empty apartment's window, I decided to take Gigi with me to Houston. I’d be there for a week anyway. There was not any reason I just could not take her with me, and then bring her to June just before I flew out. My parents were never particularly thrilled with having the dog around. They had no reason to be. They already had seven grandchildren that don't bark at strangers. But, hey, I could impose; it’s only a few days, right? I lay back down with Gigi. Mine for another week.
Now it was just me and the road, the dog and the dawn. The big horizon pressed my foot into the gas and I was in perfect peace. I had concerns in Austin and cares in Houston, but I was no where in between, and that is a very peaceful place in deed. It was not until the bright lights of a small town traffic cop filled my rearview mirror that I returned to this three-dimensioned time-space configuration.
To some people getting pulled over by the police is simply a matter of inconvenience, simply a waste of 75 dollars, fifteen minutes, and higher insurance rates. But more some people, a face to face encounter with the law can be a bit more serious. They might have a few warrants in Comal County, and few in Travis County. They might not have been wearing their seat belt in protest of government’s interference in the private lives of men. They might have a registration sticker from a particular 1970 fast back that was totaled a couple a years back performing a messy U-turn. They might have opted to pay their light bill instead of their insurance. That’s not to mention the 800 dollars in unpaid parking tickets, which would surely get your car a boot if it were impounded with your arrest. Gigi would fall into the hands of the state until I raised my bail which could be God know when. I wouldn’t even be able to sit quietly in jail until time served paid off my social debts because Mammaw was expecting and would worry sick until she found me. Maybe all this helps explain why I don’t like cops very much.
As I pulled onto the shoulder, I tore off the registration sticker and pretended to unbuckle the safety belt I wasn’t actually wearing. While I dug through my trunk pretending to look for my insurance and registration the officer played with Gigi who was leaning out the passenger side window, wagging her tail, waiting anxiously to see what would happen next.
When the officer finally went to his car to run my numbers and I continued to rifle through the bags that stuffed my trunk I began to pray. God, please help me. I am almost out. Please let this pass. God please. I don’t want to go to jail again. Not now. This is the worst possible time. If you want to deal with me then deal with me I am waiting but please do not let me go to jail. I just want to leave town…”
The officer gave me a couple of warnings, rubbed Gigi’s head and sent me on my way.
I drove away raising my voice over the radio, to God in the heavens for his boundless mercy and infinite grace. As hockey as that might sound, I firmly believe if you’re going to beseech the creator of the universe to act on your behalf, the least you can do is offer thanks when it seems to occur. It’s only polite.
As I neared Houston the highway suddenly became clogged with brake lights. I was running smack into the worst hour of Houston traffic. I wasn’t in the middle of rush hour, but rather in the middle of the morning and the evening rush when the two overlap.
I decided to turn around and head back to the toll road. I made a U-turn going about 2 miles per hour, following closely behind an old blue hair who was closer to parking than driving. As soon as the turn around began to straightened out I gave the car some gas and began passing the old Buick one the right. Suddenly the lady cut over into my lane. I slammed the brakes on and turned my car sharp to the right, hearing my horn she did the same. As car slid towards the Buick I cut back to the left and my passenger door flew open. Keeping my eyes on the road as I navigated around the bumper, I leaned over and grabbed the door, shouting profanities at the offensive driving I was forced to endure.
I reached over to comfort Gigi, but she was not there beside me. I glanced over expecting to see her safely in the floor board but this was not the case. I turned and looked in the back seat wondering how she could have squeezed back there with the bags.
She was not there. I slammed on the brakes, looking in my rearview mirror, hoping I did not see Gigi being hit by a car, hoping I’d see her sitting on the side of the road looking bewildered and slightly mussed. I saw nothing. I put the hazards on and ran to the intersection.
I didn’t see Gigi anywhere. The moment of chaos was only for me to endure. There were no bystanders. No business women honking their horns, giving me help through charades as they waited for their light to turn green. It was as though nobody had seen anything.
Under the adjacent overpass, a tow truck driver waited. I ran to his window, and he looked from his map, startled, oblivious and of no help. Some city maintenance workers, hunched over their weed eaters, didn’t know anything ‘bout no dog. I scurried about the weeds again and again, jogged through a nearby neighborhood calling out to Gigi. The rain had become a little heavier. And the idea of my little dog flung from a moving car only to endure the cold polluted Houston rain. Then I noticed some giant yellow construction vehicles near the intersection that I hadn’t seen before.
I ran over to them, knelt down and looked under the massive machines. Nothing.
I went and looked closely behind the massive tires, peering into the tall weeds that pressed against them. No Gigi. The rain against my face masked the tears from the traffic passing ignorantly along. I ran to nearby businesses. No one had seen Gigi.
It was like some sort of doggie rapture. I went back and stood in the grassy median, calling and calling, to earth, to heaven until there was nothing left to do but return to my car, to the road, alone.
The lights of Austin shriveled into the dense morning fog as I headed down the high way towards the grand city of Houston.
I was heading to my grandmother’s to deposit most my things into her attic. I decided against leaving Gigi in the attic. I’d leave her with my friend June. Abandon might be a better word. I wasn’t planning on returning for her. It didn’t seem fair to the girl or the dog after as much time as I knew would pass.
I was going back on the road. Heading to Chicago for a bit of bar work and photography. Then to New York to pay my respects to the Brave New World? Dublin to see the Wawi gang? Then sell kilims in Istanbul? Then Jerusalem for some Islamic studies? What do I know? I would love to have taken Gigi with me but I didn’t need the extra 17 pounds of weight in my backpack and she wouldn’t fit into my camera bag.
My journey was supposed to start this morning. I had said my goodbyes, had my going away parties. Yesterday, I had called June to arrange a drop off time for Gigi. She wasn’t home, so I left a message and lay down to take a nap, sharing the pillow with my Gigi.
I awoke when June called back some moments later. Her name flashed on the caller i.d. if my telephone. I watched it ring, until it finally stopped. In those moments, while it rained against the empty apartment's window, I decided to take Gigi with me to Houston. I’d be there for a week anyway. There was not any reason I just could not take her with me, and then bring her to June just before I flew out. My parents were never particularly thrilled with having the dog around. They had no reason to be. They already had seven grandchildren that don't bark at strangers. But, hey, I could impose; it’s only a few days, right? I lay back down with Gigi. Mine for another week.
Now it was just me and the road, the dog and the dawn. The big horizon pressed my foot into the gas and I was in perfect peace. I had concerns in Austin and cares in Houston, but I was no where in between, and that is a very peaceful place in deed. It was not until the bright lights of a small town traffic cop filled my rearview mirror that I returned to this three-dimensioned time-space configuration.
To some people getting pulled over by the police is simply a matter of inconvenience, simply a waste of 75 dollars, fifteen minutes, and higher insurance rates. But more some people, a face to face encounter with the law can be a bit more serious. They might have a few warrants in Comal County, and few in Travis County. They might not have been wearing their seat belt in protest of government’s interference in the private lives of men. They might have a registration sticker from a particular 1970 fast back that was totaled a couple a years back performing a messy U-turn. They might have opted to pay their light bill instead of their insurance. That’s not to mention the 800 dollars in unpaid parking tickets, which would surely get your car a boot if it were impounded with your arrest. Gigi would fall into the hands of the state until I raised my bail which could be God know when. I wouldn’t even be able to sit quietly in jail until time served paid off my social debts because Mammaw was expecting and would worry sick until she found me. Maybe all this helps explain why I don’t like cops very much.
As I pulled onto the shoulder, I tore off the registration sticker and pretended to unbuckle the safety belt I wasn’t actually wearing. While I dug through my trunk pretending to look for my insurance and registration the officer played with Gigi who was leaning out the passenger side window, wagging her tail, waiting anxiously to see what would happen next.
When the officer finally went to his car to run my numbers and I continued to rifle through the bags that stuffed my trunk I began to pray. God, please help me. I am almost out. Please let this pass. God please. I don’t want to go to jail again. Not now. This is the worst possible time. If you want to deal with me then deal with me I am waiting but please do not let me go to jail. I just want to leave town…”
The officer gave me a couple of warnings, rubbed Gigi’s head and sent me on my way.
I drove away raising my voice over the radio, to God in the heavens for his boundless mercy and infinite grace. As hockey as that might sound, I firmly believe if you’re going to beseech the creator of the universe to act on your behalf, the least you can do is offer thanks when it seems to occur. It’s only polite.
As I neared Houston the highway suddenly became clogged with brake lights. I was running smack into the worst hour of Houston traffic. I wasn’t in the middle of rush hour, but rather in the middle of the morning and the evening rush when the two overlap.
I decided to turn around and head back to the toll road. I made a U-turn going about 2 miles per hour, following closely behind an old blue hair who was closer to parking than driving. As soon as the turn around began to straightened out I gave the car some gas and began passing the old Buick one the right. Suddenly the lady cut over into my lane. I slammed the brakes on and turned my car sharp to the right, hearing my horn she did the same. As car slid towards the Buick I cut back to the left and my passenger door flew open. Keeping my eyes on the road as I navigated around the bumper, I leaned over and grabbed the door, shouting profanities at the offensive driving I was forced to endure.
I reached over to comfort Gigi, but she was not there beside me. I glanced over expecting to see her safely in the floor board but this was not the case. I turned and looked in the back seat wondering how she could have squeezed back there with the bags.
She was not there. I slammed on the brakes, looking in my rearview mirror, hoping I did not see Gigi being hit by a car, hoping I’d see her sitting on the side of the road looking bewildered and slightly mussed. I saw nothing. I put the hazards on and ran to the intersection.
I didn’t see Gigi anywhere. The moment of chaos was only for me to endure. There were no bystanders. No business women honking their horns, giving me help through charades as they waited for their light to turn green. It was as though nobody had seen anything.
Under the adjacent overpass, a tow truck driver waited. I ran to his window, and he looked from his map, startled, oblivious and of no help. Some city maintenance workers, hunched over their weed eaters, didn’t know anything ‘bout no dog. I scurried about the weeds again and again, jogged through a nearby neighborhood calling out to Gigi. The rain had become a little heavier. And the idea of my little dog flung from a moving car only to endure the cold polluted Houston rain. Then I noticed some giant yellow construction vehicles near the intersection that I hadn’t seen before.
I ran over to them, knelt down and looked under the massive machines. Nothing.
I went and looked closely behind the massive tires, peering into the tall weeds that pressed against them. No Gigi. The rain against my face masked the tears from the traffic passing ignorantly along. I ran to nearby businesses. No one had seen Gigi.
It was like some sort of doggie rapture. I went back and stood in the grassy median, calling and calling, to earth, to heaven until there was nothing left to do but return to my car, to the road, alone.
27.5.04
I am waiting for the bus to leave the station. It’s on to the Drag that perimeters the university. It is a fun, smelly plate, teeming with taut-faced students slightly confused as to what they should do immediately post high school, and speckled with some coasts’ runaways and what not and so and on.
With every failure we lower the standard? I certainly hope not. For years I have wrestled with the things of this world, wrestled their unchecked effects. For the better part of year I imbibed at a reasonable pace, fewer hairy scotches. Not for self-will, mind you, but circumstance and economics.
Will the cleaner burning me keep his legs. I wallow in a thin pool of pleasure, holding my head beneath the surface then recovering it alternatively.
I remember a sign from the men’s dorm of a fundamentalist college:
So now I must decide which way to go, or rather I must decide to believe in strength to go, to not fall once again into the endless rut
that eternally grooves
at the weathered end of a gospel record.
No more crashing. No more burning. No more poisoned flights.
Besides, if I fall again there will be no rail of sentiment
with which to pull myself up.
I just had my first shot of wheatgrass chased
by the juice of an orange wedge.
I went for a pint of coffee at a hip all day and night coffee shop
here on the Drag. The baristas knew I was not one of the Kool Kids.
I asked for a regular coffee.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course want caffeine, that’d be like going to a bar and asking for an alcoholic beer.
Or going to a gas station and requesting “leaded”. Or maybe the exact opposite or whatever.
With every failure we lower the standard? I certainly hope not. For years I have wrestled with the things of this world, wrestled their unchecked effects. For the better part of year I imbibed at a reasonable pace, fewer hairy scotches. Not for self-will, mind you, but circumstance and economics.
Will the cleaner burning me keep his legs. I wallow in a thin pool of pleasure, holding my head beneath the surface then recovering it alternatively.
I remember a sign from the men’s dorm of a fundamentalist college:
You can lead a horse to water, and if he doesn’t drink, then submerge his head beneath the surface until it stops squirming.
So now I must decide which way to go, or rather I must decide to believe in strength to go, to not fall once again into the endless rut
that eternally grooves
at the weathered end of a gospel record.
No more crashing. No more burning. No more poisoned flights.
Besides, if I fall again there will be no rail of sentiment
with which to pull myself up.
I just had my first shot of wheatgrass chased
by the juice of an orange wedge.
I went for a pint of coffee at a hip all day and night coffee shop
here on the Drag. The baristas knew I was not one of the Kool Kids.
I asked for a regular coffee.
I don’t know what I was thinking. Of course want caffeine, that’d be like going to a bar and asking for an alcoholic beer.
Or going to a gas station and requesting “leaded”. Or maybe the exact opposite or whatever.
26.5.04
Jamie Schmidt turned to me, holding the yellow crayon in her hand, “Here, shove it up your butt.” Never in my life had such a proposition been presented me, not even had such an idea ever occurred to me. Stick the crayon into my butt? It was not until the end of the day while I waited in line with the other bus riders that the seriousness of it all sunk in.
Indignant, I dropped my backpack, marking my place in the single-file line.
“Ms. Criswell”, I said, my head craned back to meet her shoe leather P.E. teacher face, “Jamie told me to stick a crayon into my b-u-t-t.”
“Excuse me?”
“Jamie told me to stick a crayon into my b-u-t-t.”
“She did? Jamie’s not even here, Johnny”
Indeed, she had left with the other Kool kid bike riders/ walkers.
“She told me in music class.”
“That was four hours ago.”
The girl I love told me to stick a thick, from-the-eight-pack crayon in my butt and all I get is a lecture on timely tattling?
Ms. Criswell promised to talk to her about it, but I never really believed she would or did. I suspected Ms. Criswell party to the deep conspiracy against my well-being ever since she made my permanent square dance partner Michelle Kraft, who furiously picked her nose when she thought nobody was looking.
As I resumed my place in line for the long bus ride home, I resolved to not get bothered by all of this. I could turn the other cheek. After all, I was an anointed man of God, and had been for nearly a month.
Indignant, I dropped my backpack, marking my place in the single-file line.
“Ms. Criswell”, I said, my head craned back to meet her shoe leather P.E. teacher face, “Jamie told me to stick a crayon into my b-u-t-t.”
“Excuse me?”
“Jamie told me to stick a crayon into my b-u-t-t.”
“She did? Jamie’s not even here, Johnny”
Indeed, she had left with the other Kool kid bike riders/ walkers.
“She told me in music class.”
“That was four hours ago.”
The girl I love told me to stick a thick, from-the-eight-pack crayon in my butt and all I get is a lecture on timely tattling?
Ms. Criswell promised to talk to her about it, but I never really believed she would or did. I suspected Ms. Criswell party to the deep conspiracy against my well-being ever since she made my permanent square dance partner Michelle Kraft, who furiously picked her nose when she thought nobody was looking.
As I resumed my place in line for the long bus ride home, I resolved to not get bothered by all of this. I could turn the other cheek. After all, I was an anointed man of God, and had been for nearly a month.
Texas: Sail: "Call David at 325 388 4521 or email davidluc@earthlink.net to reserve your sailing adventure."
Texas: Sail: "Call David at 325 388 4521 or email davidluc@earthlink.net to reserve your sailing adventure."
The New York Times > International > Middle East >The New York Times begins the long process of explaining their atrocious march-to-war coverage. There were so many discrepcancies between the official Iraq line and numerous solid sources, a casual reader of foreign newspapers could have told you that the NYT should exchange their black ink for some brown, as 99 percernt of their front page coverage was but d.c.p.r.b.s.
"But we have found a number of instances of coverage that was not as rigorous as it should have been. In some cases, information that was controversial then, and seems questionable now, was insufficiently qualified or allowed to stand unchallenged. Looking back, we wish we had been more aggressive in re-examining the claims as new evidence emerged- or failed to emerge"
Note to Times: Yes, you must corraborate government sources. I know it makes your job a little more difficult, and your operation a little more expensive, but, hey, that's the price of writing history.
"But we have found a number of instances of coverage that was not as rigorous as it should have been. In some cases, information that was controversial then, and seems questionable now, was insufficiently qualified or allowed to stand unchallenged. Looking back, we wish we had been more aggressive in re-examining the claims as new evidence emerged- or failed to emerge"
Note to Times: Yes, you must corraborate government sources. I know it makes your job a little more difficult, and your operation a little more expensive, but, hey, that's the price of writing history.
25.5.04
Alvin, Texas
The Lewis Residence
Thursday, February 3, 1983
Having just gone to bed around 9:30 p.m., the Sharon and I were beginning to read when John came running into our room saying he had seen a vision of Jesus. We, his two older sisters included, were all stirred about this. We spent some time asking questions about the vision. After a period of time we all returned to our beds. A short time later we began to hear him crying again. We waited in the hallway for him to come out of his room, and when he did he said he had seen another vision of Jesus. This time Jesus was not a normal size, but rather so large only his face could fill the room.
I recalled the scriptures of I Samuel 3, where the lord was calling Samuel and each time he heard the voice of the Lord he would run to Eli and ask what was needed. Finally Eli realized it must the Lord calling to Samuel. Eli told Samuel that if he heard the voice again to ask the Lord what he wanted of him.
After the excitement died down and the girls quit their chatter, we once again returned to our beds. Things looked like they might return to normal.
Then John starts wailing and beating his bed. It’s a good thing we live I the country atmosphere without neighbors being very close because I know they would think we were beating our children.
John stops crying and comes running out of his room, throwing his arms around my waist. Jesus had appeared again. When John asked what he wanted of him, the Lord said he wanted him in the ministry and he also wanted him to heal people.
We put him bed with us this time, I went to sleep and John was still awake as was his mother. His mother asked him why he was staring at his hands. In a calm voice he replied, “Mom, the Lord told me he was putting healing in my hands.” He held up his hands, showing his mother the one red palm and the other having red splotches. He said his palms tingled but the splotches tingled more.
Once again John stayed home from school because it was late when all of this was over.
The Lewis Residence
Thursday, February 3, 1983
Having just gone to bed around 9:30 p.m., the Sharon and I were beginning to read when John came running into our room saying he had seen a vision of Jesus. We, his two older sisters included, were all stirred about this. We spent some time asking questions about the vision. After a period of time we all returned to our beds. A short time later we began to hear him crying again. We waited in the hallway for him to come out of his room, and when he did he said he had seen another vision of Jesus. This time Jesus was not a normal size, but rather so large only his face could fill the room.
I recalled the scriptures of I Samuel 3, where the lord was calling Samuel and each time he heard the voice of the Lord he would run to Eli and ask what was needed. Finally Eli realized it must the Lord calling to Samuel. Eli told Samuel that if he heard the voice again to ask the Lord what he wanted of him.
After the excitement died down and the girls quit their chatter, we once again returned to our beds. Things looked like they might return to normal.
Then John starts wailing and beating his bed. It’s a good thing we live I the country atmosphere without neighbors being very close because I know they would think we were beating our children.
John stops crying and comes running out of his room, throwing his arms around my waist. Jesus had appeared again. When John asked what he wanted of him, the Lord said he wanted him in the ministry and he also wanted him to heal people.
We put him bed with us this time, I went to sleep and John was still awake as was his mother. His mother asked him why he was staring at his hands. In a calm voice he replied, “Mom, the Lord told me he was putting healing in my hands.” He held up his hands, showing his mother the one red palm and the other having red splotches. He said his palms tingled but the splotches tingled more.
Once again John stayed home from school because it was late when all of this was over.
17.5.04
Often on these pages I have praised Patrick Buchanan for his critique of Neocons and of Globalization. So, I am compelled to castigate the WASP on his latest piece. Rather than celebrating the birth of the codification of "seperate is not equal", Buchanan seizes the anniversary of Brown V. The Board of Education as occassion to grieve the death of traditional America by a "liberal, secularist" Supreme Court.
He maintains that B. v. E. established the precedent of an activist judicial branch usurping the laws set down by elected representatives Buchanan says the Supreme Court rulings following desegration- abolition of organized prayer, Bible readings, the Ten Commandments, Easter pageants, and so on- are evidence of the Court's on going mission to de-Christianize public schools.
It seems pretty damn sad that a man as wise as Buchanan can come from a place so spiritually inept that he thinks a classroom whose door is locked to negros, yet filled with cleanly pressed white boys and white girls reciting morning prayers beneath a shiny cross is in anyway Christian. I pitythese old white men who cling to their symbols of Christianity when they have long lost its substance.
Note to Patrick Buchanan: A burning cross is not a symbol of Christianity.
He maintains that B. v. E. established the precedent of an activist judicial branch usurping the laws set down by elected representatives Buchanan says the Supreme Court rulings following desegration- abolition of organized prayer, Bible readings, the Ten Commandments, Easter pageants, and so on- are evidence of the Court's on going mission to de-Christianize public schools.
It seems pretty damn sad that a man as wise as Buchanan can come from a place so spiritually inept that he thinks a classroom whose door is locked to negros, yet filled with cleanly pressed white boys and white girls reciting morning prayers beneath a shiny cross is in anyway Christian. I pitythese old white men who cling to their symbols of Christianity when they have long lost its substance.
Note to Patrick Buchanan: A burning cross is not a symbol of Christianity.
12.5.04
Balkinization
This will be my last politcal post. When I started this blog, I needed an outlet in our march to war. There is nothing I can say that is not being articulated by better writers with more informed blogs. Some are linked to the right. Even the nightly news has finally moved beyond their euphoria of grief and seem to be covering the chasm between reality and the White House p.r.b.s. Of course, Koppel and Co. are 15 months and 15,000 dead Iraqiis too late.
So, in short, I will not stay the course.
This will be my last politcal post. When I started this blog, I needed an outlet in our march to war. There is nothing I can say that is not being articulated by better writers with more informed blogs. Some are linked to the right. Even the nightly news has finally moved beyond their euphoria of grief and seem to be covering the chasm between reality and the White House p.r.b.s. Of course, Koppel and Co. are 15 months and 15,000 dead Iraqiis too late.
So, in short, I will not stay the course.
7.5.04
5.5.04
29.4.04
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)