tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20024369799380267182024-03-13T03:12:14.695-07:00notes from the small pond-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.comBlogger35125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-51750063481960358482012-10-05T09:23:00.005-07:002012-10-05T09:23:59.902-07:00Any Given Tuesday on Chestnut Street<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
In jail there’s no friends and no real enemies either. Just
fellow occupiers of space and time. So you get along. Or you don’t. But even when
it looks like violence or oppression or coercion from the outside looking in,
the reality is that the violence or oppression or coercion is just a particular
tool or guidebook or road map for getting through the string of days, however
long, until the days finally, eventually, inevitably end, one way or another.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, after a few weeks in, when Smut says to Jack,
“Hey, you know we’re related,” and when Jack replies, “Huh?” the relationship is
commenced.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How’re we related?”<br />
“Your great-grandpa.” <br />
“What about him?”<br />
“Was my dad.”<br />
“Bull.”<br />
“Swear to God.”<br />
“Bullshit.”<br />
“Doesn’t matter if you don’t believe me, the truth is the truth whether you
believe it or not.”<br />
“My great-grandpa died a long time ago.”<br />
“And I was born even longer ago….I’m his bastard.”<br />
“…You got that right.” Head spinning, heart pounding.<br />
“You got anything?”<br />
“Course not, Dude. We’re in jail.”<br />
“Well, if you do, remember, we’re blood.”<br />
“Bull.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Months later Smut shows up on Jack’s doorstep, an <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Incredible Hulk</i> lunchbox full of pills. <br />
“So, this is how the white folks live…”<br />
“I guess. Come in.”<br />
“Came to help out my blood,” tapping his lunch box, winking.<br />
“Come on in. Let’s go upstairs.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack’s brother observing, wary and knowing, the familiar
dusk of denial enveloping. “Hey,” he calls, rising hesitantly from his
Cheerios. <br /> </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Just giving my buddy here the nickel tour of the place,” as the two of them climb
the stairs.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the bedroom, Smut parcels out pills. Small and white,
evil benevolence. Jack clutches several and, as he draws them toward his mouth,
his brother pushes open the bedroom door, sees what he sees and leaps into Jack
like a cobra, seizing his clutched fist in his own, pulling him to the floor in
a collapse of elbows and knees and noise.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Cool it, Man!” Smut yells, his close-cropped, gray-black
hair beading with sweat, his large glasses fogging. “At least it ain’t heroin!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The brothers struggle on the floor, Jack spending all his
strength on keeping his fist closed around the pills, as his brother pins it to
the floor, vainly attempting to pry it open. “Drop ‘em, Jack!” he yells, “Drop
‘em!” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But he doesn’t, and when his brother eases minutely, to see
what Smut is up to, Jack immediately jams the pills into his mouth and swallows
them. His eyelids flutter.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
His brother climbs to his feet as Smut—this perfect stranger
standing in the same bedroom he and Jack shared as kids—peers down at Jack, who
sits slumped over, breathing heavily and slowly, quickly sliding into his familiar cocoon.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He must not be adjusted to it yet,” Smut says. And as he
finishes his sentence, Jack’s brother’s right fist slams directly against the
meaty, pork-chop of his jaw. There’s a flash of light in Smut’s head and then
nothing. Jack’s brother stands over him, panting. Still out of breath from his
struggle with Jack.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack’s brother scoops up Smut in his arms like a
dangling bag of rocks. He carries him, like a man carrying a drunken bride, out
of the bedroom, down the stairs, out the front door, across the sidewalk and
into the street, where he drops him like a bundle of shingles. Smut lies there,
crumpled and unmoving. Groaning sounds come out of this mouth. His jaw swells like there's a balloon in his mouth. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jack’s bother leaves Smut in the street. He returns to the
house, climbs the stairs, heads into the bedroom where he confirms Jack is
still breathing. Next, he collects Smut's’s lunchbox, opens it. There are eleven
bottles of various pills. He opens each lid and spills the contents of each
bottle into the lunchbox and closes it. He shakes it. It sounds like a maraca.
Satisfied, he bounds out of the room, down the stairs, out the front door and
onto the street where Smut is up on his elbows, considering an attempt to raise
himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Cars veer around him, looking. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As Jack’s brother approaches, Smut's eyes widen and as he
works to get to his feet, Jack’s brother kicks him hard in the ass and he
sprawls into the street again, whimpering. Jack’s brother
raises the lunch box full of pills over his head and smashes it with all his
strength on the street. The lid separates from its thin hinges and a blizzard
of white pills spill and roll in the street.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>A car, and then another rolls by, gawking, crushing pills to dust.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“There you go, Pal,” Jack’s brother says, stepping over Smut’s outstretched form. “Enjoy your medicine.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before heading in the front door, Jack’s brother takes one
more look. There’s Old Smut, with whom he either does or does not share blood,
on his knees in the street, sweeping drug dust into his hands, crying.</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
# # #</div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-56760823341480930852012-05-03T07:59:00.002-07:002012-05-03T08:01:04.067-07:00Fade to Black<span style="font-family: Calibri;">One of my favorite idiomatic factoids regarding the
“inherent hopefulness of being” (forgive me, I know.) is a sort of philosophy
disguised as a word-play/semantic game. Here it is—you’ll surely recognize it: <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“Black is not a color, but the absence of color.” Or, even
better: <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Darkness is the absence of
light.” I love that.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">At some deep level, this makes excellent and hope-inducing
sense. The concept that “darkness is the absence of light” implies that the
default position, the natural state of reality, is light. Not dark. So, it
ain’t so much about the light cutting through, painfully penetrating the
darkness, but rather, the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">natural </i>state<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">—</i>is light, the absence of which, is not
natural at all. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And yes, my physicist
friends and their astrophysicist/microphysicist brethren will contradict this
point with telescopic evidence of deep space and sub-atomic photography, where
blackness and emptiness are the oceans to the observable islands of pinprick
galaxies and unimaginably tiny matter. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course this is beautifully factual, as the evidence
provides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And the presence of such
“infinite” blackness doesn’t wrankle my light-based sense of reality in the
least. We share an underwhelming understanding of the concept of “infinite.”
And most physicists—scientists and artists of any discipline worth their salt
agree that: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“what we know is
infinitesimal compared to what we don’t.”</i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>You might add: “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what we experience
is infinitesimal compared to what we don’t.”</i> As such, the potential for the
abundance of light is…well, infinite.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">So…I agree that what we can see out there in greater outer
space, and down there in the sub-atomic landscape, is dark…giving the
impression that darkness is the norm. But I know from my own life, my practical
living experience—all 47 years of it—that what is observable, knowable, even,
is but a tiny representation of the larger truth beneath what senses can
observe, much less what we’re able to articulate. Try explaining to a stranger how
much you love your wife. Or child. Or Mother. Or golden retriever. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Words quickly fail. As do senses. As does
intellect. …When we utter the word “infinite” we are mentioning the presently
unknowable. And not knowing something doesn’t make it untrue any more than
knowing something necessitates its truth. At one point in our history, we
“knew” the Earth was flat. And generations of mariners behaved accordingly.
What we think we know is as discombobulating as what don’t think we know. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lots of room for light.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">…When my youngest son was a toddler he somehow escaped his
car seat, which was securely strapped into the backseat of our sea-foam green
Taurus station wagon. I was driving, my wife in the passenger’s seat. No one
else in the car. In the middle of a left turn at the intersection of Carlton
Avenue and 14<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup> Street, the driver’s side back door flew open, my
son clinging like a barnacle to the door handle, his legs dangling a few inches
off the pavement, the sound of rolling tires, horrifying. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Instantaneously, my wife’s mouth opened in a scream and she
exploded into the backseat like a torpedo, her body stretched over the
seatback, feet on the dashboard, arms reaching, grabbing, then purchasing.
Thankfully, she wasn’t wearing her seatbelt. I pulled the car over next to
Skutevik’s and sat there, hunched over the steering wheel, listening to my wife
gasping, my son slowly whimpering, casual traffic passing, heads turning.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“How did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>
happen!?” my wife screamed, cried, begged to know.<br />
“No idea,” I replied.<br />
“Well, how’d he get out?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">“How’d you catch him?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">The distinction between light penetrating the darkness and
darkness stabbing into the light.<o:p></o:p></span></div>-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-33148246667065475882012-03-08T14:26:00.001-08:002012-03-08T14:26:18.182-08:00Those Brilliant Greeks<span style="font-family: Calibri;">(to a moderate clapping rhythm: 4/4 time)<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Moderation, that’s the key.<br />
Greeks come by it, naturally.</strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Germans, Congolese, Croats, Celts—<br />
Mo-der-a-tion ain’t modest for anyone else.</strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>In the Klan I come from, no one knows<br />
What “equilibrium” is, what the Greeks propose:</strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>“A little of this, a little of that—nothing extreme,<br />
that’s where it’s at!”</strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>So back-and-forth we thrash and howl,<br />
like the Bankrupt Greeks, by tooth and jowel</strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>we love, then hate, then fight, then kiss<br />
then spend, then save, then hit, then miss.</strong></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><strong>Moderation, that’s the key,<br />
stings like compromise, at least for me.<o:p></o:p></strong></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">-par<br />
3/2012<o:p></o:p></span></div>-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-55148246898756550722012-01-17T09:34:00.000-08:002012-01-17T09:34:40.455-08:00Croatian Dream<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Who is that Croatian girl</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Who
visits me in my dreams?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">What’s the name of that girl I see</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Whenever
the yellow moon beams<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Through my window, winter night,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Through my dreaming skull,<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Who is that Croatian, green-eyed girl,</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"> Whose whispering voice does lull<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">…me back to dreaming, back to black,</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">Takes me, loves me, takes me back<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">To paradise.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Calibri;">-par<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br /></div>-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-11610697824923917352011-09-09T12:21:00.000-07:002011-09-09T12:27:34.107-07:00Keeping up with the JonesOut-killing the killers,<br />
out-thrilling the thrillers, <br />
out-drinking the drinkers<br />
out-popping the pillers;<br />
<br />
Out-loving the lovers,<br />
out-hating the others,<br />
out-waiting the waiters,<br />
out-brothering the brothers.<br />
<br />
Exhausted and bored,<br />
gas pedal floored,<br />
mess with the bull,<br />
get yourself gored.<br />
-par<br />
9 2011<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-29806219749038820292011-08-10T13:31:00.000-07:002011-08-24T09:52:17.947-07:00Family Fun at Valley Fair 1995Driving home from Valley Fair, August, 1995, about 1:00AM, kids conked out and sprawled: a couple in side-by-side, sucker-sticky car seats, one more next to them, asleep against the window, and the oldest, the daughter, fast asleep in the back of the Seafoam Green Taurus station wagon. No such thing as seat belts. Pearl Jam moans on the radio and bugs explode on the windshield like black bullets. Army worms seethe in the trees.
<br />"Can you find something else?"
<br />"I like this song--reminds me of Seattle."
<br />"we've never been there."
<br />"So?"
<br />"...Can we find something else?"
<br />
<br />Forty minutes later, deer, several of them, appear in the headlights, grazing just off the shoulder, their heads jerking up, fixed on the stabbing white beams.
<br />"Jesus!" he says, adjusts his posture, blinking.
<br />"What was that?" she whispers, jumped awake.
<br />"Just deer. They're everywhere. Like running the gauntlet."
<br />"You want me to drive? You look tired."
<br />"I'm alright for a while. Have to get gas. You can drive after that, if you want."
<br />
<br />The moon pours over the parking lot like a yellow, touchless pond. Music in the overhead awning over the gas pumps, Muzak-Meets-Carousel. A perverted version of "Benny and the Jets."
<br />"I've got to get something to drink," she says, stretching, flexing in the moonshadow, her limbs angled gracefully, hair down, a little in her face, in her eyes, veiled, dark eyebrows.
<br />"Go ahead, take your time. I'll be in to pay in a minute."
<br />He watches her walk away and his mouth waters like it always does. She walks like she lives in her body, joyful, but wary, not merely inhabiting it. Like an animal. He watches her pull open the door. She looks back at him and smiles. His mouth waters again. He smiles back.
<br />"Fucking beautiful," he says, then looks into the car, the four miniature him-and-hers sleeping there, chests and abdomens rising and falling in unison.
<br />
<br />A dirty blue pickup truck with white trim slants into the parking lot and screeches to a stop at the adjacent pump. Four young men pile out, drunk and laughing, one of them shouting a riot of obscenities into the sky, aimed at no one in particular. His elbow bleeds generously.
<br />
<br />In a moment, he realizes that the other three boys are bloody as well, none of them as copiously as the one with the injured elbow, but all have blood on their clothes and are decorated with a various assortment of lacerations, bruises and cuts. They gather next to the truck's gas tank and pull out their wallets, their voices down a notch, but still loud and echoing off the brick of the convenience store. They negotiate gas funds and one of them, seemingly the driver, clutches the cash in his fist and raises it over his head as he slams the nozzle into the gas tank.
<br />
<br />"Money!" he yells, "it's a hit! Don't give me that do-goody-good Bullshit!" The others cheer in affirmation and commence to fall about the parking lot, wrestling and jousting--the one with the elbow surprisingly aggressive with his mates.
<br />
<br />"Take it easy!" one of them complains. "It's me for Christ's sake..."
<br />The one with the elbow laughs, derisively. "I know, I know," he says. "Fucking pussy."
<br />
<br />In the car, one of the kids, the youngest, wakes with a start, "Mom!"
<br />He bends into the open window and attends to his son. "Take it easy, Buddy. Go back to sleep," and the child relaxes, but his eyes remain open, bright, attentive.
<br />
<br />The tank filled, he returns the nozzle to its place and draws out his wallet from his back pocket as he walks toward the store to pay, just aware of the young men from the blue truck watching him.
<br />
<br />His wife exits as he enters and he reflexively kisses her as they pass, the inside of his cheeks salivating. She smiles and holds out her cup and straw.
<br />
<br />"Want a drink?" She asks. "Diet Coke."
<br />He leans toward the straw and she jerks it away at the last moment, leaving him lurching forward, lips pursed, like a sunfish grabbing at a worm.
<br />
<br />She laughs softly and apologizes, sliding the straw between his lips. "Take it," she says. "You can have the rest."
<br />"No, I just wanted a sip."
<br />
<br />"Nice ass." The guy with the bleeding elbow, out of nowhere behind her, facing him, the other three following gamely.
<br />
<br />He watches her eyes widen and her lips draw straight. From her face, he moves his eyes to meet those of the guy with the elbow, which now, angled in a V in order to hold the door, drips from it's downward apex, like a leaking drain pipe.
<br />
<br />The two men regard one another. He feels strangely out of place and out of character. In another time and venue, this moment would naturally pile into the next and the next and the next--all following a certain logic and form--culminating with a stimulated exhaustion, post-violence. But this--here and now--too old for fighting in parking lots, too out-numbered to take a chance, too compromised with wife and four kids in tow...his mind reels. Tastes bile high in his chest, like heartburn. Fear spreads in his blood, like dye.
<br />
<br />Over the shoulder of the elbow guy, the others stand in Back-Up mode, two of them smiling like barnyard felines, the other strangely solemn. Beyond them, in the station wagon, the blond heads of his two older children stirring, looking out the windows, waving.
<br />
<br />"C'mon," she says to him. "Let's go."
<br />He moves his eyes back to her face. She is resolved. Time to move.
<br />"Go ahead, I still have to pay for the gas."
<br />"I'll be in the car."
<br />
<br />As she walks to the car, passed the guy with the elbow, he turns his head and follows her with his eyes, squinting, which she feels, intuitively, a familiar humiliation. She walks on, self-consciously, stiffly, defensively. The others, mimicking their leader, watch her walk, too.
<br />
<br />When the guy with the elbow turns back toward him, smiling garishly, he's met with a pounding blow to his throat, collapsing his windpipe. He clutches his neck, like a man choking and staggers backward, against the rough brick of the convenience store, his eyes wide, his knees buckled and shivering, his elbow running with blood.
<br />
<br />One of the others, the solemn one, leaps to the side of the stunned man and holds him up, screaming, "Are you okay?" The guy with the elbow shakes his head, No.
<br />
<br />One of the others, the one who'd been singing Pink Floyd two minutes earlier, says, "You're fucking dead, Dude" stepping toward him, slowly, his fists raised like a boxer.
<br />
<br />"I'm not here to fight you losers. I'm just buying gas. You and your idiot friend over there are the ones looking for trouble."
<br />
<br />"And I guess we found it!" he shouts and lunges, throwing a wide and heavy right hand that would have been a real problem, had it connected. But the mix of alcohol, adrenaline and emotion conspire to compromise accuracy and he misses his target entirely, who, sidestepping clumsily himself, trips off the curb and sprawls into the parking lot, surprisingly noisily, he thinks.
<br />
<br />"Start the car!" he yells in the direction of the station wagon, pulling himself up off the blacktop.
<br />
<br />"Stop it!" she's screaming and behind that shrill sound, he hears the collected voices of his children in various degrees of distressed screaming.
<br />
<br />"Just start the fucking car!" he shouts, turning toward the men, the guy with the elbow, still not recovered and still attended to by the one. The other two now make their way toward him, the first--the one who'd taken the swing--leading. In an instant, the second of those two, makes an arching, flanking movement and heads toward the station wagon. The engine revs.
<br />
<br />"Hey!" he yells at the flanking man, who briefly turns in acknowledgment, then returns his attention to the car, picking up speed, starting to jog.
<br />
<br />Swiveling his head from the jogging flanker to the oncoming, arms-raised boxer, he progresses backward toward the running car and as the three are about to converge at the station wagon's front bumper, he darts to his left, intercepting the flanker's path, tackling him to the ground in a violent thrashing of legs and arms.
<br />
<br />"Roll up the windows and lock the doors!" he yells and he can hear the electric windows abiding, hears the locks engage. "Good," he whispers.
<br />
<br />His momentum had carried him almost completely over the flanker and he struggles to maintain his position on top of him, knowing it would be seconds before the boxer made his way to them.
<br />
<br />With only his his lower left leg still on top of the flanker, he bends his knee so that it rests, momentarily, on the flanker's chest. Using his knee as a balancing fulcrum, he raises up, depressing the man's solar plexus. He hears air expelling. The flanker rolls to his left side to avoid the knee pressure on his chest and as he does, he grapples for purchase on anything to give him advantage: a wrist, an arm, the crotch. Before he succeeds, a handful of gravel is thrust into his face and as he screams, rocks and sand are shoved deeply into his mouth, his tongue pressed down by the force. As he inhales, gravel and dust flow into his windpipe and he chokes, and coughs in a seizure of panic. His hair is gripped as if to be scalped, his head yanked back and he swallows rocks and dirt. More gravel is caught up from the parking lot and raked into the flanker's eyes, tearing the skin of his face. He tries to scream but his lungs are nearly empty; he continues to inhale small gravel.
<br />
<br />"Stay away from the car."
<br />
<br />By now the boxer is on them and he kicks wildly at his head. He blocks the kick, partially, but the weight of it throws him off the flanker, entirely and he uses the momentum to roll to the rear of the car where he can use the station wagon as a barrier.
<br />
<br />Inside the car the children scream, he only now hearing it. However, one child, his oldest son, autistic and beautiful, looks up at him through the window glass from his place where he's kneeling on the back seat.
<br />
<br />The boxer is on him again and he runs away, circling the car as if playing a game. As he passes the flanker on the ground still coughing and choking helplessly, he stomps the man's knee, viciously twisting the heel of his boot as he makes contact. The flanker wails like a siren.
<br />
<br />"Get away from the car."
<br />
<br />As he circles the Taurus the second time, he makes direct eye contact with his son, his yellow hair straight and perfect. "My little lemon," he whispers at him through the glass. "Open the door."
<br />
<br />The boxer, enjoying the role of pursuer, changes direction in an attempt to gain a step or two, and as he passes the rear door where the yellow-headed son is positioned he hears the door lock unengage. At this, the two men stop in their tracks and look at each other, for the first time, really. The boxer slowly reaches for the door handle.
<br />
<br />With an explosion of kinetic energy, he sprints toward the boxer, who, momentarily taken aback, gives way to the charge--an intuitive reaction to things charging. Finding himself directly in line with the now unlocked door, he simply opens it, slides in next to his lemon-headed son and locks the door.
<br />
<br />"Go."
<br />
<br />With the exception of his silent son, the car interior is a shrieking hiss of terror. The Ford bounds forward, tires spinning, back end fishtailing as it rounds the gas pumps and exits the parking lot onto the frontage road just as two squad cars, lights flashing, glide by them into the lot.
<br />
<br />"Should I stop?" she screams above the din.
<br />"Just drive," he says and she does. "And everyone stop screaming now." And eventually, they do.
<br />
<br />Five miles later, he climbs over and takes his place in the passenger seat beside his wife. She is angry and scared and beautiful. He looks at her face as she drives, silently. His mouth waters.
<br />
<br />"I'm sorry," he says.
<br />"Un-fucking-believable" she says.
<br />"I know."
<br />
<br />Fifty miles later he drifts in and out of sleep. In the midst of a lucid dream he feels himself smile, feels her watching him.
<br />
<br />"What's so funny?" she asks, her voice tender, if not altogether calm.
<br />"Siphoning is a lot easier way to get free gas."
<br />
<br />-par
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-16269721406729838312011-07-20T12:07:00.000-07:002011-07-20T13:06:18.805-07:00Declaration of IndependenceWhen, in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for a person to dissolve the psycho-spiritual binds that have connected him with his particular sense of reality, then...well...then...well then all hell breaks lose. It breaks loose and takes root, like some thorn-filled, evil-blown pollen, in the hearts of those of us, for whom, the distinction between Good and Evil is at first absolute, then subjective and finally, absolutely subjective.<br /><br />There comes a time, in the course of those aforementioned Human Events, often a time of despair or fear or pain, sometimes in a time of joy or reverence, when our individual sense of evil and good is so intensely personalized, so intensely subjectified, that we're forced to reckon with it, identify it, call it what it is, and after that...troublingly, explain it. Why the evil? Why the pain? Why the addiction? Why the loss? Why the fear, the loneliness, the despair, the broken heartedness? Why? <br /><br />And, often the answer to this asking is an opportunity for the ever-pressing presence of darkness to pulse through the cracks in our inherent optimism and blacken our thinking...which, of course, is the foundation of our reality. ...so we end up like flock of backwards-hat-wearing college sophomores, asking: "Who the hell is in charge?" "Who is holding the rudder?" "What kind of existence is this if, throughout it, our experience is plagued with pain, heartache, injustice, madness--and at the end of it we die?" And, "...as for life in the next plane, an afterlife...Why? If there's someone in charge, holding the rudder, steering this ship, why are all these bad things happening and why do we have to suffer through this life to get to the good stuff and why does Charlie Sheen and Kim Kardashian get to be ga-zillionaires while I get to work in the coal mine...and for that matter, why does my sweet, sweet mother get to die, choking on cancer-filled phlegm, while this-or-that child-killer gets to live the life of Riley, writing books, appearing on talk-shows..." AND SO ON....<br /><br />And some of us remain in that sophomoric malaise all the days of our lives, our brows knitted in consternation and cynicism, even as we breathe our last.<br /><br />Which sucks. The ultimate heartbreak: No faith. No hope. No truth. Ouch.<br /><br />In the end, love can/will/does conquer evil. Love conquers fear and pain and addiction and heartache and loneliness and hopelessness...and all that is black. But the battleground remains strewn with the corpses of those whom the darkness has taken—or more accurately, the battleground remains strewn with the corpses of those whose lives have been given to the darkness. I think that’s more accurate: We GIVE our lives to the darkness, it does not TAKE our lives from us. …<br /><br />Love remains the fundamental creative power of the universe. But not everyone taps into it. This archetypical “LOVE,” not unlike the more earthly, human-to-human, garden variety love, is, by nature, reciprocal and born of intimacy. Real and selfless intimacy. And intimacy, as we know so well, absolutely demands exclusivity. It's not okay in our earthly relationships to be truly intimate with whomever we happen to run into in the grocery store. Indeed, such intimacy, not to be confused with sex, is by it's very nature, impossible.<br /><br />So, we can choose intimacy. We can choose light and love. What we can't choose is circumstance. So those ready to cry foul, ready to argue that those wrongly accused, those innocents abused, those for whom suffering is an abomination to the concept of justice--I say to them: you are confusing love with circumstance. ...which are only distantly related and absolutely not synonymous. <br /><br />Every addict, every liar, every killer, rapist, child molester, etc., as well as every innocent victim always has a choice, whatever the circumstance, we all have a choice, up until I stab that vein, tell that lie, pull that trigger, hate that hater, fail to forgive that sinner, dismiss that offender, etc. The compulsion to choose darkness may SEEM irresistible, but that’s a lie. We all know folks who DO resist. We all know folks who DO choose life, light, love...And to pretend our addictions, compulsions, pains, injuries, victimizations are stronger, more important, than the next guy’s…that’s just arrogance.<br /><br />Fact is, evil, like love, is a choice. Life, or lack thereof, is a mere consequence.<br /><br />-par-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-15918546594089168152011-07-08T12:07:00.000-07:002011-07-08T12:29:59.472-07:00The Less Popular Side of GraceGrace, as everyone knows, is that "gift received, undeserved." While this understanding is useful, indeed, it is also limiting and, ultimately, deceiving.<br /><br />Unfortunately, we've come to know grace as something that "blesses" us...and we leave it at that. We're thankful for it, the same way we're thankful for any gift that we receive. Further, we reserve a special kind of thankfulness in cases of grace precisely because we recognize that we don't deserve it, haven't earned it. ...In 21st century American culture (among others), the primary ethos around "receiving gifts" is to have somehow "earned" it. We get gifts at Christmas only if we've been good all year and have made Santa's Good List. ...if we get a lump of coal in our stocking, presumably, we've little creeps. And so on. <br /><br />So, it is understandable when we receive measures of grace, we feel thankful, forgiven, blessed, etc. Essentially, this dimension of grace, for the receiver of it, is passive. We simply GET it. We simply RECEIVE it--sort of by definition of what have learned grace to be.<br /><br />But another, critical element of grace is it's transformative nature. That is, Grace not only blesses us, but Transforms us, changes us. Makes us different. But only if we want that. ...But, without the transformational element of grace, grace itself is shortchanged. ...a large piece of the value of a gift received is in the opening of the gift and the USING of the gift, once opened. ...yes, an unopened package under the Christmas tree is still a gift. But the gift, opened and used...now THAT gift has the power transform the receiver of the gift. <br /><br />In seventh grade, when I received my new, Getzen Eterna (Doc Severenson Model) trumpet, I was very much transformed as a trumpet player. The old, hand-me-down Conn was dented, uninspiring, limiting and just not cool. This new horn was impressive, whacked with potential, intimidatingly shiny (much to the chagrin of Kris Koneitzko)...it helped me to be a better player because I wanted to play it more, wanted to show it off (along with my High C). It was confidence inducing. <br /><br />If I'd have left it wrapped up under the tree...well, you get the point.<br /><br />So...when you identify a bit of grace in your life. Challenge yourself to fully engage it. Change. Transform. Grow. It's why grace is given in the first place.<br /><br />-par-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-31637728452041738682011-06-27T14:05:00.000-07:002011-06-27T14:25:44.621-07:00Copper Hair BlowingHis copper hair now blowing,<br />his mind no longer knowing,<br />eyes no longer showing<br />recognition, pain or love.<br /><br />In my lap his head hangs heavy<br />as my heart breaks like the levee<br />holding back the tears of every<br />painful secret known and kept.<br /><br />I will miss you, copper friend,<br />selfless, loving to the end,<br />our forevers we will spend<br />loving, remembering you.<br /><br />("Go slow, Willie. Go slow...")<br /><br />-par-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-2141690488067703802011-04-15T08:00:00.000-07:002011-04-15T08:15:50.851-07:00This Promise Sweet (for Mike and Jess)This promise sweet, we duly make,<br /> This wondrous day, we do forsake<br />All counterfeit loves, to favor ours,<br /> This one, our own, reflects the powers<br />Of the Love of Loves, whose boundless care<br /> We pray to emulate, long to share.<br /><br />-par<br />4 15 2011-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-42959738917457599472011-03-04T14:05:00.000-08:002011-03-04T14:07:34.238-08:00Whenever the Monsters ComeWhenever the monsters come, they come, <br />directly to my head.<br />Whenever the monsters say my name, <br />they fill me full of dread.<br />Whenever the monsters show their fangs, <br />I shudder in my bed<br />And whenever the monsters never leave<br />I pray that I’d be dead.<br /><br />Whenever the angels come, they come, <br />directly to my heart.<br />Whenever the angels sing my name, <br />they tear my fear apart.<br />Whenever the angels show their faces, <br />I awaken with a start<br />And whenever the angels always leave, <br />my prayers my fears do thwart.<br /><br />-par<br /><br />1 6 2011-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-71358826292512446242011-02-18T11:05:00.000-08:002011-02-18T12:11:13.203-08:001974My dad's Honda Trail 90.<br />Cuddles on the back.<br />Mrs. Thompson's Little League baseball team.<br />Dennis Horn's crack of the bat.<br /><br />Greg Leno "acting" like fireworks<br />in the front yard, 4th of July.<br />Mom in her cut-offs, smoking Pall Malls, laughing,<br />classic as apple pie.<br /><br />Hockey on the back yard ice rink.<br />Scalloped potatoes and ham.<br />Carol Burnett on Saturday nights,<br />First Communion at Panger's with Pam.<br /><br />...recognition of Life-Perfect in fracture,<br />Suspension of disbelief.<br />Constructing foundations for coping, deceiving, <br />investment for payment in grief.<br /><br />-par<br />2 2011-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-16411968178408025252011-02-01T13:35:00.000-08:002011-02-01T13:49:43.990-08:00JeremyJeremy<br /><br />Sweet, sweet, beautiful boy,<br />what made you make that choice?<br />What compelled you?<br />What hell befell you?<br />Who's was that lying voice?<br /> <br />Who convinced you hope was lost,<br />that your life would be the cost,<br />for peace like you never dreamed.<br />That liar's voice that seemed<br />was exactly that, a "seeming."<br /> <br />Get on with your dreaming.<br /> <br />Rest in peace, sweet boy.<br /> <br />-par<br />9 2010-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-22059547392934623662010-12-07T08:53:00.000-08:002010-12-07T08:54:42.441-08:00The Possibility LoomsCould I possibly be any busier?<br />Could I possibly be more bored?<br />Could I possibly be any more confused about<br />What the hell I’m here for?<br /><br />If “all things are possible” is true,<br />Then I guess there’s still a chance<br />That I could be more busy and could be more bored<br />Than I am in this circumstance.<br /><br />But, Man I hope that ain’t true.<br />I hope like hell it just ain’t.<br />Cuz, if it’s true there’s no end to this rut that I'm in,<br />I may have to start sniffing paint.<br /><br />-par<br />12 2010-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-22962113190924938532010-08-30T12:25:00.000-07:002010-08-30T12:36:48.588-07:00SilenceSilence<br /> <br />I guess you think it's Golden.<br />I guess you think it's nice.<br />I guess you you think it's peaceful, lovely,<br />audible eidelweiss.<br /> <br />But me, I just can't stand it.<br />I'd rather hear you scream.<br />I'd rather hear my bones break, shattering,<br />than quietly kneel and seem.<br /> <br />So, please, say something, sometime.<br />Say anything you want.<br />Say anything you feel or think,<br />only stillness taunts.<br /><br />-par<br />8 2010-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-9636701194173657502010-07-23T08:56:00.000-07:002010-07-23T09:00:01.850-07:00controlI blame the walleye. Nearly five pounds of fresh walleye…On Wednesday, while shopping at Super One for tartar sauce, Panko Japanese breading and lemons, my blood sugar tumbled down, like an avalanche. Having wrestled with blood sugar issues for nearly thirty years, one might think I’d have figured it out by now. I haven’t. About the time I think I’ve got it licked, it climbs out of its hole like a long, black snake and clamps on, thrashing and coiling, until I inevitably find a way to choke it back. <br /><br />It’s temporary. The constancy of the battle is exhausting. If giving up was an option I’d have done so long ago. I ain’t proud. <br /><br />In the aisle next to the frozen vegetables—no where near the lemons—I finally realized what insulin-dependent diabetics the world over know as the moment of clarity, the epiphanic instant where the brain finally connects, however briefly, with the real-world outside the cranium, blood glucose somewhere south of 45 mg/dl and dropping.<br /><br />“You finding everything alright, Sir?” <br />“Under control, Bud.” Epic lie. <br />“You sure?” The kid is relentless.<br />“Yup. …Just can’t remember…”<br />“Do you have a list?” His eyes are wide. Whatever he’s reading on my face, is foreign. <br />“Of course, I do, Bud,” I say. “But I was supposed to…” <br /><br />Next, I’m swimming. The floor is my lake. The dirty tile is cool and smooth and I feel myself giggling a little. My shirt is filthy, my necktie ruined. Beneath the giggling is a reptile anger, a penetrating, dull understanding that it’s happening again, lost control in a lifetime of trying. Swear words come out of my mouth.<br /><br />“Sir, I think your son is here.”<br />“Huh?”<br /><br />“Dad, drink this.”<br />“I don’t need that.”<br />“Drink it, Dad.”<br />“I don’t--”<br />“Drink it right now, Dammit.”<br /><br />Then my wife is there. Familiar, frightened look in her eyes, worried. Kills me. She deserves more. Better. Lopsided deal…<br /><br />“I’m FINE!” I shout and lie. The louder the shout, the bigger the lie.<br />“Honey,” she says. “Remember, you promised you’d do whatever I said, whenever I said it, no matter what.”<br />“I remember.”<br />“Then drink this. Now.”<br /><br />I do. Hatefully. It’s an admission of all gone wrong. Lost control. Again. Story of my life.<br /><br />Cops everywhere. Deputies. Ambulance guys. The delicate choreography of dogmatic professionalism and human compassion is humbling. Inspiring. They’re young. And smart. And good. <br /><br />“You’re coming around now, Sir. I don’t think we’ll need an I.V.”<br />“Yes, I’m feeling much better. It’s like magic….Ironic that what’ll kill me in the long run saves me in the short run.”<br />“You mean glucose? It isn’t going to kill you.”<br />“Already is...”<br /><br />I sign the stuff that needs to be signed. Shake the hands of the young men who spend their work days doing good stuff. <br /><br />“Take care, guys. Thanks, again.”<br />“No sweat. Take care now. Make sure you eat something.”<br />“I’ll do that,” I say and, as I walk through the parking lot toward my wife’s waiting car, it occurs to me that more than an hour has gone by since I first entered the store. Time flies when you’re semi-conscious. <br /><br />“People are good,” I say to my wife. <br />“They are,” she agrees and kisses me. <br />“And, you are beyond good,” I add.<br />“I am,” she agrees, winking, and kisses me again.<br /><br />As we drive off, I roll down the window and close my eyes, the summer wind warm and buffeting. It smells like my childhood. Big Lake. Swimming with Wade and Jeff. My dad roofing the house. Old Dutch Potato Chips. Peanut M&Ms. <br /><br />“I love the smell of summer,” I say.<br />“Me too,” she answers.<br /><br />As we pull into the driveway, she looks hard at my face, something dawning on her, something big.<br /><br />“Did you get tartar sauce?” she asks. And I hold up the bag, successfully.<br />“Lemons, tartar sauce and Panko.” I say. “Totally under control.”-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-62155598757250040632010-06-03T07:42:00.000-07:002010-06-03T07:44:31.835-07:00RareRare<br /><br />Rare is the swimming in my head.<br />Buzzing bees, spinning bed,<br /><br />Whenever you touch me, kiss my hair.<br />Rare as magic, light as air.<br /><br />Rare is the pressure in my heart.<br />An elephant standing. God’s impart,<br /><br />Whenever you say, “I love you, Dear,”<br />Rare as forever. Familiar as fear. <br /><br /><br />-par<br />5 24 2010-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-87653900952734930522010-05-07T12:34:00.000-07:002010-05-07T12:51:21.845-07:00Why do I live here?Nursery Rhyme 5 2010<br /><br />Rain, Rain, go away.<br />Come again some other day.<br />And as for your brother, Snow,<br />Tell him, Stay Clear the month of May!<br /><br />Why do we live here, <br />Do you suppose?<br />Long, sultry summers? <br />Mosquitoes?<br /><br />Army Worms, Zebra Mussels<br />thrill our senses...<br /><br />Hell-if-I-know, <br />I'm avoiding the census<br />and skipping town for<br />somewhere better,<br />where they don't have mosquitoes, <br />somewhere warm, less wetter.<br /><br />-par<br />5 2010-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-46493406891882782552010-05-06T12:19:00.000-07:002010-05-06T12:22:35.412-07:00Speck of Heaven (Happy Birthday Evan)Speck of Heaven<br /><br />Evan, Evan, Speck of Heaven,<br /> Third son, last born child,<br />Sixteen years have come and gone<br /> Since the world you entered mild.<br /><br />And the world is milder with you in it,<br /> A lovelier, better place.<br />Evan, Evan under heaven, your presence<br /> Proof of Grace.<br /><br />Son, my son, my precious son,<br /> May the years to follow be<br />Like specks of heaven, every one, <br /> The way you’ve been to me.<br /><br />-par<br />5.6.2010-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-7641449236445826622010-05-04T13:18:00.000-07:002010-05-04T13:21:15.849-07:00PrayerPRAYER<br /><br />What if it never works?<br />What if things stay the same?<br />What if the voice that kills and lies<br />Leaves the other voice weak and lame?<br /><br />What’ll become of me?<br />What’ll become of them?<br />What’ll become of Hope and Love and <br />Peace and Goodness then?<br /><br />Who’ll be left in charge?<br />Who will protect the innocent?<br />Who, among us, will rise above, <br />Fearless and beneficent?<br /><br />What will the earth look like?<br />Cold and spinning satellite.<br />What noise will the wind become?<br />Screaming and shrill through the night…<br /><br />I say, Let it work.<br />I say, Let it fail.<br />I say, in the end, the choice is small,<br />I either win, or I cry and wail.<br /><br />And prayer is not black magic.<br />Prayer isn’t making deals.<br />So, I don’t know what exactly prayer is,<br />But I know what it ain’t; and it feels<br /><br />Like talking.<br />Not begging.<br /><br />-par<br />5 2010-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-10625124064765496072010-04-23T13:07:00.000-07:002010-04-23T14:05:16.782-07:00Two Bad ThingsLost my face on Friday.<br />Don't know where or how.<br /><br />Lost my face, then lost my patience.<br />Can't find either now.<br /><br />So someone told me one time<br /> when something good gets lost,<br />it drags with it two bad, bad<br /> things... <br />Makes a hard thing feel more soft.<br /><br />So if you see it somewhere,<br /> my face, my missing face,<br />Pick it up and give it back,<br /> 'lest it be one of <br /> Two bad, bad things:<br /><br />My face. Your missing grace.<br /><br />-par<br />4 2010-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-44625833599885569912010-03-26T07:31:00.000-07:002010-03-26T07:34:24.115-07:00DentistDentist<br /><br />My teeth hurt like hell. <br />Novocaine don’t work. <br />Gimme some of that gas, like they used to.<br /><br />Wipe off that dentist smirk.<br /><br />Yes, I know you’re in charge.<br />I know you’re the boss.<br />I know you’re the Man-with-the-Plan.<br /><br />The twerp with complementary floss.<br /><br />I’ll see you in the parking lot.<br />After work when no one’s there.<br />I’ll introduce you to how pain works.<br /><br />Fear and submission lain bare.<br /><br />You’ll ask me not to hurt you.<br />And I won’t, not much, of course.<br />But a little bit of pain, a little bit of fear<br />And,<br /><br />Not an infinitesimal speck of remorse.<br /><br /><br />-par<br />3 2010-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-53448891230435296932010-03-18T09:04:00.000-07:002010-03-19T07:06:00.426-07:001992My daughter, who is six, plays school all summer long. She pretends she is the teacher. She pretends she is the student. Then she's the janitor, "Mr. Hawk," then the aide, the counselor, the substitute teacher, the visiting parent, the school board, the superintendent.<br /><br />I pretend with her.<br />She's good at it.<br />I suck at it.<br />She has fun. She imitates and dramatizes and throws her voice all over the room. She's everyone and everywhere at once. She loses herself in fits of situation: she's the teacher invoking a "time out," she's a classroom aide crouched over a struggling young reader. She's an administrator signing a document allowing the hire of more English teachers into the district. She's my hero.<br /><br />I play along, as always, doing my part to keep the magic going. I'm pretty good at it, but nothing compared to her.<br /><br />"Okay, Britta," she says in her teacher voice. "It's time to put things away now. It's almost Circle Time."<br /><br />I'm Britta, so I put away the pile of toys and turn off the booming radio and sit down with my legs folded as well as I can. I look and feel like an enormous goon, part of the daily humility lesson.<br /><br />"Okay, Britta," she begins. "Can you tell us a little bit about your summer, so far?"<br /><br />"Honey, I really--"<br /><br />"DAD!!"<br /><br />And, instantly, I'm Britta again. Schizophrenia.<br /><br />"Okay," I say. "So far this summer, I've watched it rain, listened to the furnace come on during the night, dug up frost-bitten bedding plants, had a broken neck, received several rejection letters, been bitten by a hornet and have failed to catch one fish."<br /><br />"So, are you enjoying your summer?"<br /><br />"I quit this game, Babe."<br /><br />"DAD!!"<br /><br />"I can't help it," I say. "My legs can't fold like this for so long. My toes are tingling."<br /><br />"Then you be the teacher," she says.<br /><br />"Forget it," I say. "I've been playing this too long."<br /><br />"Then what can we do?" she asks.<br /><br />"Let's get the boys and Mom and go fishing."<br /><br />"With worms?"<br /><br />"Nightcrawlers," I correct her. "Big, fat, squiggly, slimy, blind, mutated nightcrawlers."<br /><br />"What's <span style="font-style:italic;">mutated<span style="font-style:italic;">?"</span></span><br /><br />"Genetically altered. Screwed up. A mistake of nature." <br /><br />"Are you crabby, Dad?" she asks, finally dropping the teacher voice.<br /><br />"No," I say, as honestly as possible. "Just mutated."<br /><br />...In the boat, we sway over blunt waves. Three bobbers cling to three helplessly tangled lines, held by six hopefully taught arms, connected to the three best excuses for hope in my life. The bobbers dance on the dark water, mesmerizing.<br /><br />Some feet beneath the surface, three murdered earthworms , pierced and bloodless and drowned, drift lifelessly, awaiting their final humiliation.<br /><br />"Okay, class," the teacher voice begins. "Let's see if we can have ourselves some luck."-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-24064711855316097682010-03-16T07:37:00.000-07:002010-03-16T14:27:25.094-07:00CowboySitting on the muddy ground, legs outstretched in front of him, the points of his cowboy boots aimed in opposite directions, the man's head lolled forward like a pearl on a string, moaning like a newborn calf.<br /><br />About fifty, and trying for thirty-five, the man had, from the looks of his clothes and the smell coming off him, recently exited the nearby <span style="font-style:italic;">"Country Cowboy Tavern and Dance Hall"</span> and somehow found his way to the parking lot, where, by design or fate, he collapsed against the side of my Jetta where he now sat weeping like a giant infant. <br /><br />In discovering him, initially thinking he was some wounded animal from his slumped, hulking shape and the noise he made, I was struck with a rush of fear, which quickly became annoyance as I neared him. He was an amazing sight. Part fake cowboy. Part inanimate, drunken object. I thought of poking him with a stick, but couldn't find one. I shoved him with my toe and he rocked, back and forth, like a child's punching bag--one of those plastic, balloonish things with sand in the bottom to keep it upright, decorated with Fred Flintstone or Casper the Friendly Ghost. <br /><br />I knelt down to see him better, to look into his face, and as I did, his eyes blew open wide, startled; he cowered, then went limp as if realizing it didn't matter who I was or what I'd do or anything else.<br /><br />"This is my car," I said. "You alright?"<br />He nodded in affirmation, bouncing his chin off his chest in exaggeration. The front of his embroidered shirt was damp with sweat or tears or spit or beer. His face was puffed and heavy. <br /><br />"This your car?" he said, still nodding largely, taking great gulps of air, like a child who's cried too long.<br /><br />I nodded back, though he wasn't looking and said again, "You gonna be alright?"<br /><br />"Oh, I s'pose," he sighed and put a hand under himself in a vain effort to rise up from the parking lot. He fell back, instantly, his body lumped and wadded like a damp piece of paper. <br /><br />I reached down to lift him, thinking more of my convenience than his grief; it was late and I had a hundred-something miles to drive.<br /><br />"Don't!" the man shouted, pulling his elbow away, causing him to lose his balance again and he slid, like a swimmer doing the sidestroke, entirely under my car. He lay there making chucking noises, crying or laughing, nonetheless refusing to move. I felt my compassion waning.<br /><br />There were other people in the parking lot, climbing into cars, finishing conversations, gunning engines, flicking on headlights. A few people noticed me standing awkwardly beside my car, but no one noticed the man on the ground, his pointy boots sticking out from under my car like the Wicked Witch of the East. Someone yelled "Goodnight!" from a neighboring parking space and eased off into the city. I imagined what he thought of me standing with my hand on my door handle, looking idly at the darkness between my tires.<br /><br />"What the hell.." I whispered to myself, the cowboy boots staring up at me, jesting. I grabbed hold of them, one in each hand and felt the flesh inside them grow tense as I pulled. I dragged him like a bag of sand until he was clear of my tires, his black denim jeans scratching loudly over the mud. It was a disconcerting batch of moments, each of them a singular instant, collected as if for an orchestrated purpose, like shitty ingredients in an Addam's Family recipe. <br /><br />When I dropped his legs I did so with vigor and his grunt of pain was the only evidence of his consciousness.<br /><br />"G'Night," I said and stepped over him, exhaling loudly, glad to be on my way toward away from him, away from the muddy parking lot, away from the night, altogether. Drunken idiots make me sad and angry and lonely all at the same time. As I set my foot down on the other side of his head, the cowboy lunged at me like a barracuda, biting into my ankle, growling like a demon as I tried desperately to shake him off, swatting at his head and screaming like anyone would.<br /><br />"Let go!" I yelled, jerking and spinning and hopping with all my might until, at last I freed myself, sprawling and tripping across the parking lot. "This is nuts!" I said then, mostly to myself, trembling with shock and anger, adrenaline coursing hard in my veins. I fumbled my keys out of my pocket and dropped them in a jangle at my feet.<br /><br />"Should'a just drove over my head and squashed me!" the man yelled, still unable to raise himself. He sounded better, less desperate, a bit of hope--even strength--in his voice. "Should'a just killed me under the car!" he bellowed and then thumped flat on his back again, his face to the sky, his chest heaving like a tranquilized animal. <br /><br />"Should've," I said back, my own voice a rattle, stepping over him again, climbing into my car, my eyes fixed on his, which darted like hornets, unseeing.<br /><br />As I drove away, the cowboy remained, an inky smudge in the vast, black parking lot, the high yellow lights shining down on him like planets or flashlights or eyes. As I watched him in my review mirror, he waved and taunted, flipped me off, his shadow long and incredible on the low sky.<br /><br />A hundred miles later, thick summer insects thumping like rain against my windshield, I couldn't stop checking the dark in my mirror, couldn't stop wishing I could.<br /><br />-parnell-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2002436979938026718.post-38985903593429732432010-03-09T07:00:00.000-08:002010-03-09T07:10:59.059-08:00Never Seen the Devil?Never Seen the Devil?<br />Never heard his song?<br />Never felt his frozen clutch<br />make weak which once was strong?<br /><br />Never tasted bile?<br />Deep at the back of your throat?<br />Never felt your own blood burn<br />'round your heart like a boiling moat?<br /><br />I'll tell you all a secret.<br />I'll show you where to look.<br />Introduce you to the Devil himself;<br />observe his evil book.<br /><br />The Devil's name's <span style="font-style:italic;">Addiction</span>,<br />comes to lie and steal and kill.<br />Adam and Eve's affliction;<br />from Eden, to booze, to pill.<br /><br />Kills you while you're smiling.<br />Eats you while you watch.<br />Chokes you as you feed him,<br />fangs poised at your crotch.<br /><br />So, swallow those pills, my brothers.<br />Swim in alcohol.<br />Fill your veins and drain your pains and hide<br />from those who call<br /><br />You back.<br />To life.<br /><br />-parnell<br />3/2010-parnellhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12348390536320796122noreply@blogger.com0