The group at Billiard Bar
Monday, April 18, 2005
Thursday, April 14, 2005
Recognition
She stood there, still like an icicle
Cold and unwavering, holding her breath
As he passed by
She had recognized him from afar
Far back from the trenches of
The past
And she sighed. Seeing a tangible
Form of him that so casually trailed
Through her mind so many times
It was like a dream. Was it really him?
Yes. Of course it is.
But she knew he did not recognize her.
Clutching her purse in one hand.
Squeezing the basket full of groceries
in the other.
She waits and lets his presence wash over her.
See me? She silently screams. Let my face
fall into place in the puzzle of your mind
And recognize me. Take that instant and
Sigh with surrender, and smile.
Tell me how much you've missed me.
And then we'll walk through the dairy and
cereal aisle and realize we both like 1% and
Captain Crunch. Let's get married.
But no, my fear grips me. You're a bit ahead of me now
Looking at the grapes. You look over your shoulder.
And see a girl picking lemons.
You think, Hey that girl sorta looks like......what's her name?
Even pessimism creeps into my hopeful thoughts.
And that's all. You turn back to your goddamn grapes.
Look how my mind has wrapped and twisted
Your presence into a wave of yearning and expectation
Only to crash onto the fragile sands of my hope
There's probably a girlfriend or a wife waiting
For you to bring home the groceries for dinner
And doesn't appreciate the kisses you offer before bed
So long ago, so long ago, but was it that long?
How could my memory fade so easily in your head
While your face was always present for me, clear and crystal
Yearnings of a madwoman, yearnings of a stalker
Sigh. This is silly. If I were normal, I could just walk
Up to you and start a conversation, end with an invitation
But I am an icicle, cold and unwavering
Cold and unwavering, holding her breath
As he passed by
She had recognized him from afar
Far back from the trenches of
The past
And she sighed. Seeing a tangible
Form of him that so casually trailed
Through her mind so many times
It was like a dream. Was it really him?
Yes. Of course it is.
But she knew he did not recognize her.
Clutching her purse in one hand.
Squeezing the basket full of groceries
in the other.
She waits and lets his presence wash over her.
See me? She silently screams. Let my face
fall into place in the puzzle of your mind
And recognize me. Take that instant and
Sigh with surrender, and smile.
Tell me how much you've missed me.
And then we'll walk through the dairy and
cereal aisle and realize we both like 1% and
Captain Crunch. Let's get married.
But no, my fear grips me. You're a bit ahead of me now
Looking at the grapes. You look over your shoulder.
And see a girl picking lemons.
You think, Hey that girl sorta looks like......what's her name?
Even pessimism creeps into my hopeful thoughts.
And that's all. You turn back to your goddamn grapes.
Look how my mind has wrapped and twisted
Your presence into a wave of yearning and expectation
Only to crash onto the fragile sands of my hope
There's probably a girlfriend or a wife waiting
For you to bring home the groceries for dinner
And doesn't appreciate the kisses you offer before bed
So long ago, so long ago, but was it that long?
How could my memory fade so easily in your head
While your face was always present for me, clear and crystal
Yearnings of a madwoman, yearnings of a stalker
Sigh. This is silly. If I were normal, I could just walk
Up to you and start a conversation, end with an invitation
But I am an icicle, cold and unwavering
Tuesday, April 12, 2005
Here I am
Hmm...I've been called alot of things before. And recently I was called a racist, a liar, as well as being referred to as ignorant of the Vietnamese culture all in one unsuspecting morning when all I wanted to do was eat my cereal in peace.
Oh, please, don't make me gag, Anonymous Poster. But to clear some things up, Am I any of those things you so vehemently tag me as?
Sure, why not? (Even though it was not my intention to do so.) If it's the persona I'm taking when writing than that's my right and it's your right to call me that but with such hostility? Did I possibly stub your toe in a past life...or maybe hit you in the face with a dodgeball when we were in gym class in elementary school? If so, I apologize, I just don't know my own strength...
And referring to your lung cancer comment. Oh, man, I wish. Do you know how many more presents and money packets would be sent my way if that were the case. I'd probably get a sweet settlement from the tobacco companies too....Geez...You have no idea.
Oh, please, don't make me gag, Anonymous Poster. But to clear some things up, Am I any of those things you so vehemently tag me as?
Sure, why not? (Even though it was not my intention to do so.) If it's the persona I'm taking when writing than that's my right and it's your right to call me that but with such hostility? Did I possibly stub your toe in a past life...or maybe hit you in the face with a dodgeball when we were in gym class in elementary school? If so, I apologize, I just don't know my own strength...
And referring to your lung cancer comment. Oh, man, I wish. Do you know how many more presents and money packets would be sent my way if that were the case. I'd probably get a sweet settlement from the tobacco companies too....Geez...You have no idea.
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Bronze
Sometimes she reflects on herself and the things that have made impressions, footprints and scars on her life.
She reminisces about some theory she can't quite remember the name of or who thought of it...but that they had discussed in class one day about the theories of human psyche development...one in particular about how we are constantly changing and we are different people placed in one solitary body. How who we were ten minutes ago has undergone numerous changes and now ten minutes later you are a different being. This brings comfort to her mind...
The theory rings true to her as she lays by the pool and thinks of who she is in this moment. The girl in the fuschia bikini and swimming shorts lying on the plastic lawn chair bronzing in the beating sun and feeling the beads of sweat form on her smooth skin and the contact of the plastic lining on her body. She'll probably have imprints on her thighs and stomach. She revels in the weight of the cigarette smoke filling her lungs contrasted with the lightheaded dizziness in her head that puts her into an almost hypnotic state. But she isn't a chain smoker. She only does it on occasion when the situation deems fit and today in the deliciously lazy afternoon of nothingness, a few cigarettes aren't only a spontaneous pleasure, but a neccessity to raise the bar of relaxtion.
She turns over and continues reading her book which she is drinking in like an alcoholic to vodka because she had been on a literary hiatus for some weeks now for lack of time to go to the library. This novel was particulary enjoyable because the author had an uncanny style of writing similar to her own and she internally aspired to have her own thoughts binded in a tangible form like this and maybe somewhere along the road in the future, some stranger would be sitting in their lounge chair next to the fire with her book in hand thinking exactly what she was thinking at this moment...That's damn good writing. She couldn't discern which was more enticing--the thought of other people's praise as validation or a final conclusion to her own lost journey for value and self-worth?
The next few days of nothingness were like gold flecks in a watering pan. She took one glance at the passing clouds and closed her eyes and pushed all thoughts of the impending cease of all of this by the end of week when she would be tossed back into the mundane life in Dallas where she would be back behind the cash register where no one knew her name, but only her feigning smile.
She reminisces about some theory she can't quite remember the name of or who thought of it...but that they had discussed in class one day about the theories of human psyche development...one in particular about how we are constantly changing and we are different people placed in one solitary body. How who we were ten minutes ago has undergone numerous changes and now ten minutes later you are a different being. This brings comfort to her mind...
The theory rings true to her as she lays by the pool and thinks of who she is in this moment. The girl in the fuschia bikini and swimming shorts lying on the plastic lawn chair bronzing in the beating sun and feeling the beads of sweat form on her smooth skin and the contact of the plastic lining on her body. She'll probably have imprints on her thighs and stomach. She revels in the weight of the cigarette smoke filling her lungs contrasted with the lightheaded dizziness in her head that puts her into an almost hypnotic state. But she isn't a chain smoker. She only does it on occasion when the situation deems fit and today in the deliciously lazy afternoon of nothingness, a few cigarettes aren't only a spontaneous pleasure, but a neccessity to raise the bar of relaxtion.
She turns over and continues reading her book which she is drinking in like an alcoholic to vodka because she had been on a literary hiatus for some weeks now for lack of time to go to the library. This novel was particulary enjoyable because the author had an uncanny style of writing similar to her own and she internally aspired to have her own thoughts binded in a tangible form like this and maybe somewhere along the road in the future, some stranger would be sitting in their lounge chair next to the fire with her book in hand thinking exactly what she was thinking at this moment...That's damn good writing. She couldn't discern which was more enticing--the thought of other people's praise as validation or a final conclusion to her own lost journey for value and self-worth?
The next few days of nothingness were like gold flecks in a watering pan. She took one glance at the passing clouds and closed her eyes and pushed all thoughts of the impending cease of all of this by the end of week when she would be tossed back into the mundane life in Dallas where she would be back behind the cash register where no one knew her name, but only her feigning smile.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Meatball War
My father had been having a very tiresome morning.
It didn't help that my mother kept pestering him about things that were neither here nor there which made it just empty air transforming into lead weights dropping into his ears. And yet his bottomless well of patience helped him keep his hands steady on the steering wheel and his right foot not too heavy on the pedal.
"....and when are you going to clean out the back shed? And then the grass? I could probably feed all the cows in India with all the tall grass growing wild back there..."
"I'll get to it when I get to it."
I had been hearing their constant back and forth trivialities since I was young and it had become commonplace now. I'd learned to zone them out and tune into my internal radio or listen to the melodious voice of Joseph Fiennes as his perfect English accent falls from his lips.
"And I don't want you going over to George's anymore. All they ever do is talk you into playing cards and you don't even know how to play poker! Don't you know that's the only reason why they want you over there?-- To take all of our money!"
"Yes, dear, it's a conspiracy between George and his wife to see us on the streets because they have nothing else better to do." My father said this in his monotone voice, dripping with sarcasm.
My father was always a calm man, never really raising his voice with mom or any of us kids. But when he got upset you can tell with his eyes and his pensive silence that could crack concrete.
"Don't you get smart with me, mister. You're not going and that's that."
He always let my mother win even though he'd probably find a way to go to George's anyhow while conning my mother into making George a custard pie, too. He always had magic tricks.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Hong Kong Supermarket and my mother said she'd be over at the tofu shop and me and dad were supposed to go buy some bread at the bakery.
As we walked side by side, daughter and father, I could tell he was glad to be away from my mother even for just a few minutes. In the little strip of vendors, there was a bustle of people doing their Sunday shopping.
I asked dad, "Should we buy $1.00 or $2.00 worth of bread?" And realized he had wandered off to one of the neighboring vendors. I decided two bucks and quickly paid the baker and went to find my father.
His salt and pepper hair stuck out in the crowd in front of the Vietnamese fast food place. I realized that there was a sort of verbal argument going on. And it was being led by my father.
"All I want is one meatball! Why can't I buy what I want? You have plenty of meatballs there, just let me buy one for a $1.00!" I stared in a twisted ball of embarassment and shock, letting my eyes flick back and forth to see if anyone around looked familiar but luckily they were all strangers.
The old woman behind the counter had a stern face, small eyes, and powder white skin as if she'd pressed her face in a vat of flour. She might have been beautiful when she was younger but now she just looked like a bitter old hag who wouldn't sell a meatball to my father.
"We have a $2.00 purchase minimum. You have to buy two for two dollars."
My father huffed and I could see his eyes turn a red hue. He was pretty upset. But my embarassment seemed to have melted and I was enjoying watching my father's battle.
"$2.00! What if I was a hungry man on the street with just one dollar and needed something to eat?! Would you still make me buy two dollars worth. You old woman, you don't know anything! Where's the manager? I know you're not the manager. Tell the manager to come out here!!"
The old woman rolled her eyes and called out to the back for the manager who was a young man. Maybe her son?
Dad leaned on the counter and pointed to the pile of meatballs. "I want a meatball. Just one. N0t two. Not three. Not a half. One for a dollar! But this old hag won't sell me one. What kind of business are you running here?"
Hmm...does dad really like these meatballs this much? And I know he had three dollars in his hand, not just one. I stood placidly behind him wondering if people were wondering how embarassed I was feeling when in reality, I was happy my dad was doing this. I also didn't know how to speak Vietnamese so I coudln't chime in.
Finally the exasperated manager gave into my father's reasoning and packed up one meatball to go and took my father's crumpled dollar.
Even though he hadn't been in many confrontations in his life, he was walking away weary from this battle yet, my triumphant dad held his head high with his trophy meatball held tightly between his hands.
It didn't help that my mother kept pestering him about things that were neither here nor there which made it just empty air transforming into lead weights dropping into his ears. And yet his bottomless well of patience helped him keep his hands steady on the steering wheel and his right foot not too heavy on the pedal.
"....and when are you going to clean out the back shed? And then the grass? I could probably feed all the cows in India with all the tall grass growing wild back there..."
"I'll get to it when I get to it."
I had been hearing their constant back and forth trivialities since I was young and it had become commonplace now. I'd learned to zone them out and tune into my internal radio or listen to the melodious voice of Joseph Fiennes as his perfect English accent falls from his lips.
"And I don't want you going over to George's anymore. All they ever do is talk you into playing cards and you don't even know how to play poker! Don't you know that's the only reason why they want you over there?-- To take all of our money!"
"Yes, dear, it's a conspiracy between George and his wife to see us on the streets because they have nothing else better to do." My father said this in his monotone voice, dripping with sarcasm.
My father was always a calm man, never really raising his voice with mom or any of us kids. But when he got upset you can tell with his eyes and his pensive silence that could crack concrete.
"Don't you get smart with me, mister. You're not going and that's that."
He always let my mother win even though he'd probably find a way to go to George's anyhow while conning my mother into making George a custard pie, too. He always had magic tricks.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Hong Kong Supermarket and my mother said she'd be over at the tofu shop and me and dad were supposed to go buy some bread at the bakery.
As we walked side by side, daughter and father, I could tell he was glad to be away from my mother even for just a few minutes. In the little strip of vendors, there was a bustle of people doing their Sunday shopping.
I asked dad, "Should we buy $1.00 or $2.00 worth of bread?" And realized he had wandered off to one of the neighboring vendors. I decided two bucks and quickly paid the baker and went to find my father.
His salt and pepper hair stuck out in the crowd in front of the Vietnamese fast food place. I realized that there was a sort of verbal argument going on. And it was being led by my father.
"All I want is one meatball! Why can't I buy what I want? You have plenty of meatballs there, just let me buy one for a $1.00!" I stared in a twisted ball of embarassment and shock, letting my eyes flick back and forth to see if anyone around looked familiar but luckily they were all strangers.
The old woman behind the counter had a stern face, small eyes, and powder white skin as if she'd pressed her face in a vat of flour. She might have been beautiful when she was younger but now she just looked like a bitter old hag who wouldn't sell a meatball to my father.
"We have a $2.00 purchase minimum. You have to buy two for two dollars."
My father huffed and I could see his eyes turn a red hue. He was pretty upset. But my embarassment seemed to have melted and I was enjoying watching my father's battle.
"$2.00! What if I was a hungry man on the street with just one dollar and needed something to eat?! Would you still make me buy two dollars worth. You old woman, you don't know anything! Where's the manager? I know you're not the manager. Tell the manager to come out here!!"
The old woman rolled her eyes and called out to the back for the manager who was a young man. Maybe her son?
Dad leaned on the counter and pointed to the pile of meatballs. "I want a meatball. Just one. N0t two. Not three. Not a half. One for a dollar! But this old hag won't sell me one. What kind of business are you running here?"
Hmm...does dad really like these meatballs this much? And I know he had three dollars in his hand, not just one. I stood placidly behind him wondering if people were wondering how embarassed I was feeling when in reality, I was happy my dad was doing this. I also didn't know how to speak Vietnamese so I coudln't chime in.
Finally the exasperated manager gave into my father's reasoning and packed up one meatball to go and took my father's crumpled dollar.
Even though he hadn't been in many confrontations in his life, he was walking away weary from this battle yet, my triumphant dad held his head high with his trophy meatball held tightly between his hands.
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Rain Puddle
I am a constant confusion.
A contradiction of my reflection.
Striving for eclecticism.
The rush in my head
Takes me there
But pulls me back.
I accept my visitor status
In your world.
Doesn't that make
You weep.
I'm also an anachronism
In my own universe.
Doesn't that make
You laugh.
Multi-talented in ways
Your mother would not
Approve of but I was never the
One for pillow talk
Don't try to pigeonhole me.
Or mold, break, crush, bend
Me into your
Safe, square categories.
My left foot is in
The trash can
And my right is in
The rain puddle...
A contradiction of my reflection.
Striving for eclecticism.
The rush in my head
Takes me there
But pulls me back.
I accept my visitor status
In your world.
Doesn't that make
You weep.
I'm also an anachronism
In my own universe.
Doesn't that make
You laugh.
Multi-talented in ways
Your mother would not
Approve of but I was never the
One for pillow talk
Don't try to pigeonhole me.
Or mold, break, crush, bend
Me into your
Safe, square categories.
My left foot is in
The trash can
And my right is in
The rain puddle...
Tuesday, March 22, 2005
Scratch-Offs
Hmm...I wonder what numba that Break the Bank scratch-off ticket be on. Probably dey done sold all the winners already. Look like Miss Redhead gone buy all of 'em noways.
"Could I get the rest of those Break the Banks, please. Thanks"
Dang, lady, get out the way so I can buy my winners, please, shoo. Oh, I'm sho glad that nice register lady is here today. I thank that the owner's daughter. She remind me of my own lil' gal, Chaleene. Oh Chaleene, if she can see me now. Her ol' pops wastin' his Social Security check on some scratch-offs. Well, if I ain't gonna lose it here, I'ma lose it on the boat over in w'ouisiana. Or on some tv dinners at the sto'. And I always gotta buy me some honey buns for dessert. Maybe I buy me some new razors today. This ol' salt and pepper scene on my face gettin tired.
Only two more people left in front o' me. My poor black, ashy legs can't stand this standing! Let's look over dese winnas I already done scratched off. Two dollars on Coyote Cash....five dolla's on Bingo (man, dat Bingo sho is fun...which reminds me that I gotta tell Zoo I ain't goin to the Bingo tourney this weekend..ooh-wee he sho gone put up a fuss.)
What's this? Awe, why can't people have the right amount of money in dey pockets before they buy something. Who this fool thank he be? Lookin on the floor for some stray change. Oh alright, the regista gal gone let him slide this time. Man, I would told that fool to leave his driver's license and a slap in the face...and tell him to better his manners straight befo he come in dis sto' again. Alright, just one more customa.
Dang, Mrs. Wally from the funeral home. I dint even recognize her from behind. Surprising cause that sho is a big behind..hahaha...some thick hamhocks, I tell ya what! Oh, lord, forgive me. I know, I just know, she gone buy all the winners up now. She always seem to muster to buy at least a hundred dolla worth a tickets. Ooooh, her living room must be scattered with the scratch card shavings...they probably get mixed up in the ashes urns of those cremated folks, sho nuff. If I done known Mrs. Wally was in front of me I woulda brought my sitting chair in line and maybe a beer.
That reminds me of what I gotta do befo my fishin trip this weekend which is why I gotta tell Zoo I can't make it to no silly Bingo tourney. Skeet done already bought the bait and extra fishin line. Just left me with the beer and sandwiches. Now what kinda sandwiches we ate last time? Was it Spam..? Or maybe liverwurst. Hell, if I know. I just bring bologna and mustard this time.
Finally, that Mrs. Thick Hamhocks done finally got all her tickets. I hope she don't win nothing. Always flaunting her money in front of everyone's noses. With all them fancy jewels she be wearin to church ever'eh Sunday and them big toes stuck in her shiney Mizrahi heels. Only reason I know its Mizrahi cause Chaleene done told me. Dat just aint somethin an ol' black man should know.
"Hi, Mr. Sam. What can I get for ya today?"
I squint my eyes cause I can't barely see the names on the tickets but my blood sho is bubbling to start scratchin something good. I better buy some extra so I can scratch on the boat this weekend when I go fishin.
"Could I get the rest of those Break the Banks, please. Thanks"
Dang, lady, get out the way so I can buy my winners, please, shoo. Oh, I'm sho glad that nice register lady is here today. I thank that the owner's daughter. She remind me of my own lil' gal, Chaleene. Oh Chaleene, if she can see me now. Her ol' pops wastin' his Social Security check on some scratch-offs. Well, if I ain't gonna lose it here, I'ma lose it on the boat over in w'ouisiana. Or on some tv dinners at the sto'. And I always gotta buy me some honey buns for dessert. Maybe I buy me some new razors today. This ol' salt and pepper scene on my face gettin tired.
Only two more people left in front o' me. My poor black, ashy legs can't stand this standing! Let's look over dese winnas I already done scratched off. Two dollars on Coyote Cash....five dolla's on Bingo (man, dat Bingo sho is fun...which reminds me that I gotta tell Zoo I ain't goin to the Bingo tourney this weekend..ooh-wee he sho gone put up a fuss.)
What's this? Awe, why can't people have the right amount of money in dey pockets before they buy something. Who this fool thank he be? Lookin on the floor for some stray change. Oh alright, the regista gal gone let him slide this time. Man, I would told that fool to leave his driver's license and a slap in the face...and tell him to better his manners straight befo he come in dis sto' again. Alright, just one more customa.
Dang, Mrs. Wally from the funeral home. I dint even recognize her from behind. Surprising cause that sho is a big behind..hahaha...some thick hamhocks, I tell ya what! Oh, lord, forgive me. I know, I just know, she gone buy all the winners up now. She always seem to muster to buy at least a hundred dolla worth a tickets. Ooooh, her living room must be scattered with the scratch card shavings...they probably get mixed up in the ashes urns of those cremated folks, sho nuff. If I done known Mrs. Wally was in front of me I woulda brought my sitting chair in line and maybe a beer.
That reminds me of what I gotta do befo my fishin trip this weekend which is why I gotta tell Zoo I can't make it to no silly Bingo tourney. Skeet done already bought the bait and extra fishin line. Just left me with the beer and sandwiches. Now what kinda sandwiches we ate last time? Was it Spam..? Or maybe liverwurst. Hell, if I know. I just bring bologna and mustard this time.
Finally, that Mrs. Thick Hamhocks done finally got all her tickets. I hope she don't win nothing. Always flaunting her money in front of everyone's noses. With all them fancy jewels she be wearin to church ever'eh Sunday and them big toes stuck in her shiney Mizrahi heels. Only reason I know its Mizrahi cause Chaleene done told me. Dat just aint somethin an ol' black man should know.
"Hi, Mr. Sam. What can I get for ya today?"
I squint my eyes cause I can't barely see the names on the tickets but my blood sho is bubbling to start scratchin something good. I better buy some extra so I can scratch on the boat this weekend when I go fishin.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Goodbye
He watched as Heather (....or was it Helen?) get dressed and fix herself up in front of the full-length mirror on his door. She matted her freshly coated lips on a tissue and glanced at him over her shoulder. "This was fun, but I gotta go now. I'll leave my number."
Gavin shifted in bed and thought, Did she wear that much make-up last night?
He looked on in disgust as she scribbled her digits on his mirror with the tube of lipstick she had just finished using.
Why do chicks always do that? It's fucking annoying to have to clean up that shit. I think I'm out of Windex too. Fuck.
She bent over and kissed him on the lips and walked out of the apartment. Finally. Another weekend gone by. Another pile of credit card receipts. Another headache. Another crushed cigarette pack, its contents eating away at his lungs. Another forgotten name and another number to clean off of his mirror.
If he had a notch on his bedpost for every girl he had had in that room, he would have a pile of sawdust by now.
He looked at his tired face in the mirror and decided he was tired of this. Let's get some breakfast.
His phone rang and he let the machine pick it up. It was his friend Madeliene. "Hey, stupid, its me, Maddie. Pick up. I'm bored. Ok ok, no doubt you're with another one of your skanks. Man, you should be ashamed of yourself or at least ashamed of all the diseases you've probably racked up by now. Yucks! Anyhow, I'm gonna put a sign on your door for all those poor souls that say, "Beware of wolves in sheep-skin condoms. Call me later."
(to be continued)
Gavin shifted in bed and thought, Did she wear that much make-up last night?
He looked on in disgust as she scribbled her digits on his mirror with the tube of lipstick she had just finished using.
Why do chicks always do that? It's fucking annoying to have to clean up that shit. I think I'm out of Windex too. Fuck.
She bent over and kissed him on the lips and walked out of the apartment. Finally. Another weekend gone by. Another pile of credit card receipts. Another headache. Another crushed cigarette pack, its contents eating away at his lungs. Another forgotten name and another number to clean off of his mirror.
If he had a notch on his bedpost for every girl he had had in that room, he would have a pile of sawdust by now.
He looked at his tired face in the mirror and decided he was tired of this. Let's get some breakfast.
His phone rang and he let the machine pick it up. It was his friend Madeliene. "Hey, stupid, its me, Maddie. Pick up. I'm bored. Ok ok, no doubt you're with another one of your skanks. Man, you should be ashamed of yourself or at least ashamed of all the diseases you've probably racked up by now. Yucks! Anyhow, I'm gonna put a sign on your door for all those poor souls that say, "Beware of wolves in sheep-skin condoms. Call me later."
(to be continued)
By Train
On a particularly insignificant day, the 8:17 A.M. train out of Sydney pulled out of platform 7 on time and with a full cabin. The whistle blew once, twice and the newly oiled wheels went from a slow turn to a speedy buzz. The train headed north.
An old man sat in row 67 alone. No one knew that he had also purchased the seat next to him so he wouldn' t have to bother with a stranger sitting next to him. There was a time when that seat was taken by his wife, Matilda, who had died two weeks ago. He had many memories of he and Matilda taking summer trips by train and he knew he would miss the thrill of the ride. This would be the last train ride he would ever take.
This thought weighed heavily on his mind.
(to be continued)
An old man sat in row 67 alone. No one knew that he had also purchased the seat next to him so he wouldn' t have to bother with a stranger sitting next to him. There was a time when that seat was taken by his wife, Matilda, who had died two weeks ago. He had many memories of he and Matilda taking summer trips by train and he knew he would miss the thrill of the ride. This would be the last train ride he would ever take.
This thought weighed heavily on his mind.
(to be continued)
Monday, March 07, 2005
Singular Descriptive
I wouldn't call myself a stalker, per se.
But I guess I would classify some of my actions...on some occasions...stalker-esque, if you will. But I bet all of us have their own secret-stalker-behavior. I just know it.
Don't get me wrong. I'm just like you. Normal. And for those who say "What's normal?" No one's normal." Well, bullshit. You know the difference between Normal Jack that carries the mail and Crazy Delilah who gets arrested twice a week for shoplifting....or loitering...or solicitation...whatever it is, she's always back on the corner by next weekend with the same pink curlers in her hair and cigarettes and dirty tissues spilling out of her purse. But anyhow, I'm normal. But am I crazy for knowing that if I had to choose between either getting a cup of coffee with Normal Jack or Crazy Delilah, I'd choose the latter? Go figure. (But wouldn't you want to be able to say, "Yea, I can't make it for lunch, I'm having coffee with Delilah the prostitute." Imagine how much more fun life would be if everyone had a singular descriptive at the end of their name. Hmm..mine would be "Indie the Thinker"...."Indie the Observer"..."Indie the Witty"...or "Indie the Stalker"..haha that would be festive, wouldn't it?
There I was, at my window, sitting in front of my computer but more looking out to the street. I wondered where Mr. Ping was. He usually opens the fruit stand promptly at 8:00 A.M. But it was already 8:09. I'd give it another ten minutes before calling the police. That's just the type of considerate slash concerned citizen, I am. That reminds me that I need to buy more plums for my bowl. The ones in it now are all smushy. I don't particularly like to eat plums, I just like the way a fruit bowl looks on my breakfast table. And plums give such a striking color to the amalgamation. It's the aesthetics that are important.
Mom called again this morning and asked whether or not I had a boyfriend yet. Geez. She's always breathing down my back about that but when I do introduce her to someone, she freaks out and says they're gonna beat me. She says she has a sixth sense for wife-beaters. But anyhow, I'm 35 and still no hopeful prospects. There's always Pete down the hall but he always smells like Slim Jims and wears mocassins. I could never ultimately end up with a man who wears mocassins. It's just a thing of mine.
Parry called last night and wanted to go take a run around the park this afternoon. Parry is my twin brother. He's great and probably one of the funniest people I know, but he doesn't do it on purpose. Those are the best comedians--when the humor just comes natural. Last time we were sitting on a park bench and all these white pigeons were huddled on the grass pecking at seeds. And Parry asks, Why did someone put all those white tennis shoes in the middle of the park? He's a genius.
But I guess I would classify some of my actions...on some occasions...stalker-esque, if you will. But I bet all of us have their own secret-stalker-behavior. I just know it.
Don't get me wrong. I'm just like you. Normal. And for those who say "What's normal?" No one's normal." Well, bullshit. You know the difference between Normal Jack that carries the mail and Crazy Delilah who gets arrested twice a week for shoplifting....or loitering...or solicitation...whatever it is, she's always back on the corner by next weekend with the same pink curlers in her hair and cigarettes and dirty tissues spilling out of her purse. But anyhow, I'm normal. But am I crazy for knowing that if I had to choose between either getting a cup of coffee with Normal Jack or Crazy Delilah, I'd choose the latter? Go figure. (But wouldn't you want to be able to say, "Yea, I can't make it for lunch, I'm having coffee with Delilah the prostitute." Imagine how much more fun life would be if everyone had a singular descriptive at the end of their name. Hmm..mine would be "Indie the Thinker"...."Indie the Observer"..."Indie the Witty"...or "Indie the Stalker"..haha that would be festive, wouldn't it?
There I was, at my window, sitting in front of my computer but more looking out to the street. I wondered where Mr. Ping was. He usually opens the fruit stand promptly at 8:00 A.M. But it was already 8:09. I'd give it another ten minutes before calling the police. That's just the type of considerate slash concerned citizen, I am. That reminds me that I need to buy more plums for my bowl. The ones in it now are all smushy. I don't particularly like to eat plums, I just like the way a fruit bowl looks on my breakfast table. And plums give such a striking color to the amalgamation. It's the aesthetics that are important.
Mom called again this morning and asked whether or not I had a boyfriend yet. Geez. She's always breathing down my back about that but when I do introduce her to someone, she freaks out and says they're gonna beat me. She says she has a sixth sense for wife-beaters. But anyhow, I'm 35 and still no hopeful prospects. There's always Pete down the hall but he always smells like Slim Jims and wears mocassins. I could never ultimately end up with a man who wears mocassins. It's just a thing of mine.
Parry called last night and wanted to go take a run around the park this afternoon. Parry is my twin brother. He's great and probably one of the funniest people I know, but he doesn't do it on purpose. Those are the best comedians--when the humor just comes natural. Last time we were sitting on a park bench and all these white pigeons were huddled on the grass pecking at seeds. And Parry asks, Why did someone put all those white tennis shoes in the middle of the park? He's a genius.
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Roughdraft
I lay there as the puddle of blood began to spread wider and wider around my body. My lungs felt as if someone were squeezing them tighter and tighter. But then they let them go, and I was able to inhale again, only to be met with a tighter grip of cold, clammy hands.
Man, I should have thought this through a little better…
The warm liquid seeping from my body was contrasted against the cold chill that began to envelope me from the inside out.
I listened carefully, but there was nothing. Not a sound. One of those eerie silences when things are too silent, when you know something has to be making it that quiet. But nothing pounced from behind the corner and nothing burst through the back door. Just pure silence at its best. Or, had I gone deaf in the last moments of my life?? Or was this the moment of clarity they all speak of right before you pass..?
In my left hand was the long, sharp blade of the kitchen knife. My fingers barely gripping the rubbery handle..my numbing digits were trembling. The tip of the blade which wasn’t stained glistened against the afternoon sun shining through the window. The knife that had in the past cut so many onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, oranges, blocks of parmesan cheese….
In my right hand, I still clutched the Ice Cream Drumstick I had been craving for so bad after lunch. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to take a bite. The fall had caused most of the nuts to drop to the floor into the pond of scarlet. My mind trickled to the thought of how big the market would be for this vampiric dessert. How many vampires are there in Texas...? But then fell away as I realized I wouldn’t be alive to see the business plan through…but then again the thought wouldn’t have occurred to me if I hadn’t been laying in the pool of blood. If that isn’t the dandiest catch-22, I don’t know what is. Maybe if I gather up all my strength I'd be able to write at least the segmentation of the market in blood next to my body...oh how my professors would be so proud...
Man, I should have thought this through better.
It’s strange the things you think about at the brink of death. The impending doom makes you reflect. I wish it didn’t.
Like how I thought that maybe I should have straightened my hair today, maybe used a little hair gel, to look a little more presentable. But now the paramedics will have to deal with yet another homely looking body. Geez. And it probably would have helped to be wearing something a little more stylish. My plaid sleepy pants and polar bear t-shirt. What was I thinking?
What WAS I thinking?
I blinked a few times. I began seeing flecks of light floating in front of my face and I was worried mosquitoes were already flying around my decaying carcass.
Whose going to be at your funeral? [who said that?]
Everyone has that thought of what if they died, who would miss them. That’s a really narcissistic thought, but I’m 97.5 % sure that every single human being has that thought cross their mind at least once in their lives. If only we could all stage our death and then as we’re being lamented about in our casket layered with cakes and cakes of unnecessary make-up but your perfectionist self wouldn’t see it any differently….you suddenly pop up in an upright position while your Aunt Mae was about to put the carnation on your legs slick and shiny from the panty hose. You jump out of your casket and say with enthusiasm--
Thanks everybody, but I just wanted to see how many people would come and let me tell ya, you people exceeded my expectations. Thank you. Thank you. Lorna, how ya doin? Uncle Bob, always a pleasure. Jesse from college, wow, now that’s a shocker, wow. Alright, how about all the guys untuck their shirts and all the gals wipe away their running mascara and let's get this party started…and let’s have a piece of that cake too. Chocolate, my fav, yum!
But would it make any difference. Would knowing that information really cause a resurrection of yourself and would that version necessarily be better?
I should have thought this through.
But no. People don’t do that. They just hide away in their thoughts the yearning of the attendance of their impending funeral. We all just want to think that people care about us or at least the people who we cared about knew and that was enough to make them show up anyhow.
What are you going to miss? [who is that speaking?!]
That was the next thought that came to my mind. I thought of all the zigzagging and jumps as my tiny brain cells began their last race around.
The way Dad always left his keys in the door.
The way Mom cooked---goddamn, her famous custard tarts.
Bowling and getting drunk with my big sister and friends.
Watching my little brother and sister grow—seeing the mere shadows of the amazing people they were going to inevitably become.
The feeling of a thought being born in my head and the how I always think to write it down but I always get lazy and think I’ll remember, but then feeling it slowly slipping away.
How I loved reading and finishing novels and how perfectly the words lit up as bright sunlight hit the pages at the perfect angle.
When in the middle of the city, I saw a beautiful African woman balancing what seemed to be a heavy box on top of her head without a care in the world.
The complete calm you get when you’re standing in front of a painting in a museum—drowning in the artistic ambiance.
Taking a really good drag from a sweet cigar.
Oh, my life was pretty good. I guess this is it. Man. Everything seems so clear when it’s already too late. I guess that’s the essence of hindsight. Wait…wait…here comes something else.
What do you wish?
I wish I had done more..and hesitated less.
Man, I should have thought this through a little better…
The warm liquid seeping from my body was contrasted against the cold chill that began to envelope me from the inside out.
I listened carefully, but there was nothing. Not a sound. One of those eerie silences when things are too silent, when you know something has to be making it that quiet. But nothing pounced from behind the corner and nothing burst through the back door. Just pure silence at its best. Or, had I gone deaf in the last moments of my life?? Or was this the moment of clarity they all speak of right before you pass..?
In my left hand was the long, sharp blade of the kitchen knife. My fingers barely gripping the rubbery handle..my numbing digits were trembling. The tip of the blade which wasn’t stained glistened against the afternoon sun shining through the window. The knife that had in the past cut so many onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, oranges, blocks of parmesan cheese….
In my right hand, I still clutched the Ice Cream Drumstick I had been craving for so bad after lunch. I hadn’t even gotten a chance to take a bite. The fall had caused most of the nuts to drop to the floor into the pond of scarlet. My mind trickled to the thought of how big the market would be for this vampiric dessert. How many vampires are there in Texas...? But then fell away as I realized I wouldn’t be alive to see the business plan through…but then again the thought wouldn’t have occurred to me if I hadn’t been laying in the pool of blood. If that isn’t the dandiest catch-22, I don’t know what is. Maybe if I gather up all my strength I'd be able to write at least the segmentation of the market in blood next to my body...oh how my professors would be so proud...
Man, I should have thought this through better.
It’s strange the things you think about at the brink of death. The impending doom makes you reflect. I wish it didn’t.
Like how I thought that maybe I should have straightened my hair today, maybe used a little hair gel, to look a little more presentable. But now the paramedics will have to deal with yet another homely looking body. Geez. And it probably would have helped to be wearing something a little more stylish. My plaid sleepy pants and polar bear t-shirt. What was I thinking?
What WAS I thinking?
I blinked a few times. I began seeing flecks of light floating in front of my face and I was worried mosquitoes were already flying around my decaying carcass.
Whose going to be at your funeral? [who said that?]
Everyone has that thought of what if they died, who would miss them. That’s a really narcissistic thought, but I’m 97.5 % sure that every single human being has that thought cross their mind at least once in their lives. If only we could all stage our death and then as we’re being lamented about in our casket layered with cakes and cakes of unnecessary make-up but your perfectionist self wouldn’t see it any differently….you suddenly pop up in an upright position while your Aunt Mae was about to put the carnation on your legs slick and shiny from the panty hose. You jump out of your casket and say with enthusiasm--
Thanks everybody, but I just wanted to see how many people would come and let me tell ya, you people exceeded my expectations. Thank you. Thank you. Lorna, how ya doin? Uncle Bob, always a pleasure. Jesse from college, wow, now that’s a shocker, wow. Alright, how about all the guys untuck their shirts and all the gals wipe away their running mascara and let's get this party started…and let’s have a piece of that cake too. Chocolate, my fav, yum!
But would it make any difference. Would knowing that information really cause a resurrection of yourself and would that version necessarily be better?
I should have thought this through.
But no. People don’t do that. They just hide away in their thoughts the yearning of the attendance of their impending funeral. We all just want to think that people care about us or at least the people who we cared about knew and that was enough to make them show up anyhow.
What are you going to miss? [who is that speaking?!]
That was the next thought that came to my mind. I thought of all the zigzagging and jumps as my tiny brain cells began their last race around.
The way Dad always left his keys in the door.
The way Mom cooked---goddamn, her famous custard tarts.
Bowling and getting drunk with my big sister and friends.
Watching my little brother and sister grow—seeing the mere shadows of the amazing people they were going to inevitably become.
The feeling of a thought being born in my head and the how I always think to write it down but I always get lazy and think I’ll remember, but then feeling it slowly slipping away.
How I loved reading and finishing novels and how perfectly the words lit up as bright sunlight hit the pages at the perfect angle.
When in the middle of the city, I saw a beautiful African woman balancing what seemed to be a heavy box on top of her head without a care in the world.
The complete calm you get when you’re standing in front of a painting in a museum—drowning in the artistic ambiance.
Taking a really good drag from a sweet cigar.
Oh, my life was pretty good. I guess this is it. Man. Everything seems so clear when it’s already too late. I guess that’s the essence of hindsight. Wait…wait…here comes something else.
What do you wish?
I wish I had done more..and hesitated less.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Give Green Foam a Chance...
Today promised to be a good day.
The winter chill in the air hung gelatinous-like that morning as the mist caused fat drops of dew to burden innocent blades of grass. When you think you'll almost overdose from so much freshness. I had left my bedroom window open to let the cool air balance the warmth enveloping me from my heavy blanket.
Was that right? I squinted my eyes, but my poor vision still couldn't make out the blurry red digits on the clock. I finally rationalized that I had to sit up, so I did to grab the clock to place it about six inches from my nose to finally make out the time-- 5:27 A.M. Damn...hate it when I forget where I put my glasses....and double-damn, why is it so damn early?
But I could hear the sounds of my mother and father in the living room already preparing for the day.
---The whirring of the blender as my mother made us fresh juice. Not sweet tropical concoctions you'd like to see in a pineapple shaped glass with a cheesy mini Hawaiian umbrella sticking out of it. No, she liked to create these thick green cocktails of bitter vegetables and fruits that my mother was certain would extend our life spans for at least another 38.45 years. She meant well and it made us all feel like we were healthier, and to say the least...we were all 'regular' as can be.
---The crackle of the morning paper as my father skimmed the sports pages. His occasional clearing of the throat even though it wasn't necessary at all. And the shuffling of his house shoes against the worn down shag carpet to see if the neighbor was letting its dog poop on our lawn. "I'll catch that son of a bitch, one of these days, goddamit." This was his morning prayer.
---And the low hum of the Buddhist monks tape playing in the background...the somber bells chiming....the incense slowly wafting into my room beckoning me to wake up...
I heard my mother's small feet coming closer and closer to my room. Maybe if I tried real hard, I could fall back to sleep and she would give me another hour or so to dream. Or I could fake it...but she would know. I closed my eyes and I held on tight to my sleep for just a second longer before I finally had to let go of its soft, comforting hand.
"Indie...Indie wake up. Here's your juice." I opened my eyes half way and saw my Fosse mug brimming with green foam. A clear straw sticking out like the broken stern of a ghost ship slipping beneath the unwelcoming murkiness of a swamp.
"Thanks..mom...just..." I yawned for added effect,"...put it over on the table and I'll drink it when I wake up."
"Indie, you're waking up now. We have to get the day started. Lots to do. And drink your juice before it starts to change color...you won't want to drink it when it's brown." She put the cup on my table and walked out the room.
Hmm...I thought to myself. My tolerance level wouldn't really change if I was drinking green foam or brown foam....it's pretty much the same to me. I shrugged and decided it best to just get up and shower.
+++++++++++++++++++
My mother and father owned a little convenience store/deli. They also served Chinese fast food there and so that morning we had to stop by Mr. Hawkins Wholesale Butchery to pick up some things. I sat in the crowded mini-van we three shuttled around in. My father with his Hollywood Casino baseball cap made out of jean prominently displayed on his head. His favorite story was of him winning five hundred dollars at the slots. "I sat on that damn stool for four hours! I swear my butt cheeks were ingrained in that son of a bitch!" He was also wearing the sweater grandma had knit him for Christmas two years ago--the one with the hunter in khaki shorts shooting the duck in the sky...a sad creature with a broken neck suspended in red yarn.
My mother seemed to always wear the same thing when in fact she just bought the same outfits in mass quantities. My favorite was her blue and green tropical two piece (it came in both pants and skirts). She would use this as the base and then layer accordingly as the weather deemed fit. Today, since it was a chilly morning, she had on two sweaters and her large itchy red jacket.
A normal child would be abhorred at the fashion indescretions my parents were prominently displaying in public. But I had gotten to the point where I thought it was adorable. Embarassment was obsolete now. I loved my parents and I was happy for them, who cares if they wouldn't be showing up on anyone's Best Dressed List. Those are for pretentious yuppies anyhow. Its good when you get to the point where that war-craved teenager fascade of "you" against "them" melts away and you can finally appreciate your parents for just being human.
"Indie, you stay in the car. Let the engine keep running to keep it warm." Dad pulled into the delivery driveway of Hawkin's and I always was worried Dad would back up into one of those dividing poles, but he never did. I always admired him for that.
My parents climbed out of the vehicle and walked into the warehouse and I sat there in silence and wondered how many sad unknowing pigs were being slaughtered in that vestibule right now. All that squealing...crunching...bashing. But I saw a couple of men in white frocks, hair nets, and goggles walk by and wondered how sanitary could it really be with all that blood and gore. Would Upton Sinclaire be rolling in his grave or resting peacefully?
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Mom and Dad started getting hungry so we decided to go eat at this Vietnamese Pho restaurant my father's friend had just opened up. The building had been previously owned by five different other owners, none of them lasting for more than six months. This one had been opened for about a month now and everyone in the neighborhood was counting down. We walked into the building. A not-so friendly petite woman directed us toward a table near the window. We sat there and my mom and dad spoke in Chinese.
"Where's Frank? Do you think he's cooking? Maybe he's not even here in the mornings...maybe he comes in the evenings..."
"You should ask...ask that lady. But she might not even know...she's just a waitress..I don't like the looks of her."
The lady sauntered over and took our order.
Before she left my dad asked her in Vietnamese if the owner, Frank, was there. She said he was in the back and would go get him.
My father nodded in triumph. Dad told mom to get him some Vietnamese newspapers to read while they waited which he thought were on a table next to the cash register. Mom walked over there but came back with the 5-pound telephone book instead.
"There's no newspapers over there. Here, read the phone book."
My dad didn't even bat an eyelash. He merely placed the yellow bible in front of him, raised his glasses, and flipped to the coupons. "Look 10 bucks off an oil change. Tell me when the waitress isn't looking and I'll rip it out."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
The winter chill in the air hung gelatinous-like that morning as the mist caused fat drops of dew to burden innocent blades of grass. When you think you'll almost overdose from so much freshness. I had left my bedroom window open to let the cool air balance the warmth enveloping me from my heavy blanket.
Was that right? I squinted my eyes, but my poor vision still couldn't make out the blurry red digits on the clock. I finally rationalized that I had to sit up, so I did to grab the clock to place it about six inches from my nose to finally make out the time-- 5:27 A.M. Damn...hate it when I forget where I put my glasses....and double-damn, why is it so damn early?
But I could hear the sounds of my mother and father in the living room already preparing for the day.
---The whirring of the blender as my mother made us fresh juice. Not sweet tropical concoctions you'd like to see in a pineapple shaped glass with a cheesy mini Hawaiian umbrella sticking out of it. No, she liked to create these thick green cocktails of bitter vegetables and fruits that my mother was certain would extend our life spans for at least another 38.45 years. She meant well and it made us all feel like we were healthier, and to say the least...we were all 'regular' as can be.
---The crackle of the morning paper as my father skimmed the sports pages. His occasional clearing of the throat even though it wasn't necessary at all. And the shuffling of his house shoes against the worn down shag carpet to see if the neighbor was letting its dog poop on our lawn. "I'll catch that son of a bitch, one of these days, goddamit." This was his morning prayer.
---And the low hum of the Buddhist monks tape playing in the background...the somber bells chiming....the incense slowly wafting into my room beckoning me to wake up...
I heard my mother's small feet coming closer and closer to my room. Maybe if I tried real hard, I could fall back to sleep and she would give me another hour or so to dream. Or I could fake it...but she would know. I closed my eyes and I held on tight to my sleep for just a second longer before I finally had to let go of its soft, comforting hand.
"Indie...Indie wake up. Here's your juice." I opened my eyes half way and saw my Fosse mug brimming with green foam. A clear straw sticking out like the broken stern of a ghost ship slipping beneath the unwelcoming murkiness of a swamp.
"Thanks..mom...just..." I yawned for added effect,"...put it over on the table and I'll drink it when I wake up."
"Indie, you're waking up now. We have to get the day started. Lots to do. And drink your juice before it starts to change color...you won't want to drink it when it's brown." She put the cup on my table and walked out the room.
Hmm...I thought to myself. My tolerance level wouldn't really change if I was drinking green foam or brown foam....it's pretty much the same to me. I shrugged and decided it best to just get up and shower.
+++++++++++++++++++
My mother and father owned a little convenience store/deli. They also served Chinese fast food there and so that morning we had to stop by Mr. Hawkins Wholesale Butchery to pick up some things. I sat in the crowded mini-van we three shuttled around in. My father with his Hollywood Casino baseball cap made out of jean prominently displayed on his head. His favorite story was of him winning five hundred dollars at the slots. "I sat on that damn stool for four hours! I swear my butt cheeks were ingrained in that son of a bitch!" He was also wearing the sweater grandma had knit him for Christmas two years ago--the one with the hunter in khaki shorts shooting the duck in the sky...a sad creature with a broken neck suspended in red yarn.
My mother seemed to always wear the same thing when in fact she just bought the same outfits in mass quantities. My favorite was her blue and green tropical two piece (it came in both pants and skirts). She would use this as the base and then layer accordingly as the weather deemed fit. Today, since it was a chilly morning, she had on two sweaters and her large itchy red jacket.
A normal child would be abhorred at the fashion indescretions my parents were prominently displaying in public. But I had gotten to the point where I thought it was adorable. Embarassment was obsolete now. I loved my parents and I was happy for them, who cares if they wouldn't be showing up on anyone's Best Dressed List. Those are for pretentious yuppies anyhow. Its good when you get to the point where that war-craved teenager fascade of "you" against "them" melts away and you can finally appreciate your parents for just being human.
"Indie, you stay in the car. Let the engine keep running to keep it warm." Dad pulled into the delivery driveway of Hawkin's and I always was worried Dad would back up into one of those dividing poles, but he never did. I always admired him for that.
My parents climbed out of the vehicle and walked into the warehouse and I sat there in silence and wondered how many sad unknowing pigs were being slaughtered in that vestibule right now. All that squealing...crunching...bashing. But I saw a couple of men in white frocks, hair nets, and goggles walk by and wondered how sanitary could it really be with all that blood and gore. Would Upton Sinclaire be rolling in his grave or resting peacefully?
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Mom and Dad started getting hungry so we decided to go eat at this Vietnamese Pho restaurant my father's friend had just opened up. The building had been previously owned by five different other owners, none of them lasting for more than six months. This one had been opened for about a month now and everyone in the neighborhood was counting down. We walked into the building. A not-so friendly petite woman directed us toward a table near the window. We sat there and my mom and dad spoke in Chinese.
"Where's Frank? Do you think he's cooking? Maybe he's not even here in the mornings...maybe he comes in the evenings..."
"You should ask...ask that lady. But she might not even know...she's just a waitress..I don't like the looks of her."
The lady sauntered over and took our order.
Before she left my dad asked her in Vietnamese if the owner, Frank, was there. She said he was in the back and would go get him.
My father nodded in triumph. Dad told mom to get him some Vietnamese newspapers to read while they waited which he thought were on a table next to the cash register. Mom walked over there but came back with the 5-pound telephone book instead.
"There's no newspapers over there. Here, read the phone book."
My dad didn't even bat an eyelash. He merely placed the yellow bible in front of him, raised his glasses, and flipped to the coupons. "Look 10 bucks off an oil change. Tell me when the waitress isn't looking and I'll rip it out."
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Saturday, February 19, 2005
A Penny for Your Thoughts....
...and a nickel for your troubles.
I've been away from my computer lately. Busy with the store and just trying to simmer in my own juices. Contemplating life.
Computers (though they are wonderful in their innate ways) causes me, I find, to just waste time. When I'm sitting in front of my monitor I contantly check my email when I know I just checked it five minutes ago. And I constantly read my friends' blogs and other websites, when I've already read entries five times. So I've decided to reduce my intake of my computer time due to the high productivity calories....not nutritious just filling. The creation of the Internet was both a godsend and a bane to society..or at least those are my thoughts.
And I'm on the verge of a new premise for a story that has been brewing in my brain. Hope it doesn't disappoint...
I've been away from my computer lately. Busy with the store and just trying to simmer in my own juices. Contemplating life.
Computers (though they are wonderful in their innate ways) causes me, I find, to just waste time. When I'm sitting in front of my monitor I contantly check my email when I know I just checked it five minutes ago. And I constantly read my friends' blogs and other websites, when I've already read entries five times. So I've decided to reduce my intake of my computer time due to the high productivity calories....not nutritious just filling. The creation of the Internet was both a godsend and a bane to society..or at least those are my thoughts.
And I'm on the verge of a new premise for a story that has been brewing in my brain. Hope it doesn't disappoint...
Monday, February 14, 2005
A Day by Any Other Name.....
So to break from tradition, I'm writing a more common blog entry because my muse has taken leave (at least for two weeks! I found the ticket stub to Hawaii on my dresser...and she didn't even invite me..the nerve!) and my inspiration seems to have dried up into a sickly purple-brown prune. And I can't stand the thought of someone stumbling onto my blog only to be greeted by that painting of my crabs. Crabs! That's no welcome mat!
I'm not even going to mention the fact that today is the day that will not be mentioned (wink wink you know what I'm talking about). Nothing special for me. Not this year. How sad. But that's life and I'm not going to worry about it. If it wasn't fated for me to be spoiled with rose petals, cheap red wine, and calorific Swiss chocolates, than I'm better for it. (And I can drink red wine 365 days a year! Thank you very much!) The world has brainwashed us into thinking that the amount of love we feel should be measured by how large that stuffed bear on your bed is, or how many roses your boyfriend was able to afford. That's twisted and delusional. That bear will end up dirty and tattered at the Goodwill store by next year and those roses began wilting the very second the florist cut their roots off....Pleasure and happiness is constantly fleeting.
On the other hand, the weather was real nice today, I tell ya what. One of those days where you want to go splash around in the creek and get all bronzed from the sun's kisses. Or sit on a rock and see if an unknowing fish will bite that shiny hook disguised in the slimy blood of a worm bait. Or sit in the middle of a meadow of sunflowers and contemplate why doing nothing can bring such contentment...
I on the other hand was not splashing around, or baiting a hook, or amongst any sunflowers of any sort. I was helping mom out at the old shop and it was like any other day except for the fact that instead of my customary "Have a nice day!" at the end of a transaction, I wrapped up with "Happy (day that will not be mentioned wink wink)!" Some of the highlights of today was when:
1. A man bought $5 worth of ginseng candy. Who buys that much ginseng candy? (BTW gross!)
2. A woman buys 8 cans of tuna fish. That's alot of dolphin safe cans. And she referred to saltine crackers as "cookies you eat the fish with."
3. A man came in looking awfully nervous because he didn't have a gift for his girlfriend for (the day that won't be mentioned) but I helped him pick something out nice and his nervous disposition melted away.
4. Four different customers came in and told me what a nice lady my mom was and that I was lucky to have such a kind lady as my mother. I already knew that :)
5. I finished my Su Tong novel and was disgusted at how he depicted women in it.
6. Learned that my mother lived in a big house with marble floors when she was in Vietnam but when she came to America, she was sewing sombreros for $2.75 an hour.
Later on in the day...
I got another rejection email from one of the places where I sent in one of my short story submissions. Boo-hoo. I feel like a dope. Like they don't get me. Come on, am I that complex? Maybe, maybe not. There's not enough petals on a daisy to play that game. I guess the market for short 'short stories' hasn't gotten it's spotlight yet. But the other day at Barnes & Nobles, I saw an anthology for the shortest short stories in the world and they were pretty much one-liners! Now if those got a real publishing deal, than surely....no, I'm not gonna jinx myself. The clammy veil of rejection easily wears away and only makes your eminent success that much sweeter. I guess all I can do is keep submitting...until my fingers break.
I'm not even going to mention the fact that today is the day that will not be mentioned (wink wink you know what I'm talking about). Nothing special for me. Not this year. How sad. But that's life and I'm not going to worry about it. If it wasn't fated for me to be spoiled with rose petals, cheap red wine, and calorific Swiss chocolates, than I'm better for it. (And I can drink red wine 365 days a year! Thank you very much!) The world has brainwashed us into thinking that the amount of love we feel should be measured by how large that stuffed bear on your bed is, or how many roses your boyfriend was able to afford. That's twisted and delusional. That bear will end up dirty and tattered at the Goodwill store by next year and those roses began wilting the very second the florist cut their roots off....Pleasure and happiness is constantly fleeting.
On the other hand, the weather was real nice today, I tell ya what. One of those days where you want to go splash around in the creek and get all bronzed from the sun's kisses. Or sit on a rock and see if an unknowing fish will bite that shiny hook disguised in the slimy blood of a worm bait. Or sit in the middle of a meadow of sunflowers and contemplate why doing nothing can bring such contentment...
I on the other hand was not splashing around, or baiting a hook, or amongst any sunflowers of any sort. I was helping mom out at the old shop and it was like any other day except for the fact that instead of my customary "Have a nice day!" at the end of a transaction, I wrapped up with "Happy (day that will not be mentioned wink wink)!" Some of the highlights of today was when:
1. A man bought $5 worth of ginseng candy. Who buys that much ginseng candy? (BTW gross!)
2. A woman buys 8 cans of tuna fish. That's alot of dolphin safe cans. And she referred to saltine crackers as "cookies you eat the fish with."
3. A man came in looking awfully nervous because he didn't have a gift for his girlfriend for (the day that won't be mentioned) but I helped him pick something out nice and his nervous disposition melted away.
4. Four different customers came in and told me what a nice lady my mom was and that I was lucky to have such a kind lady as my mother. I already knew that :)
5. I finished my Su Tong novel and was disgusted at how he depicted women in it.
6. Learned that my mother lived in a big house with marble floors when she was in Vietnam but when she came to America, she was sewing sombreros for $2.75 an hour.
Later on in the day...
I got another rejection email from one of the places where I sent in one of my short story submissions. Boo-hoo. I feel like a dope. Like they don't get me. Come on, am I that complex? Maybe, maybe not. There's not enough petals on a daisy to play that game. I guess the market for short 'short stories' hasn't gotten it's spotlight yet. But the other day at Barnes & Nobles, I saw an anthology for the shortest short stories in the world and they were pretty much one-liners! Now if those got a real publishing deal, than surely....no, I'm not gonna jinx myself. The clammy veil of rejection easily wears away and only makes your eminent success that much sweeter. I guess all I can do is keep submitting...until my fingers break.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Monday, February 07, 2005
Mermaids in the Sea
It seemed so hard.
To admit to myself the feelings that had been boiling in my belly. It reminded me of the huge pots of water grandmother would put on the stove to boil the crabs or the crawfish for Sunday lunch. When I was barely able to reach my grandmother's waist, clinging to her dirty apron, and my hair was tied in long pigtails, I would imagine a Tom Thumb miniature version of myself trapped in a pot, climbing on top of the reddening shell of a blue crab, trying to get away from the boiling liquid, but getting sleepy from the hypnotizing heat never to wake again....or at least that's how I wished those crabs met their fate, in a warm, relaxing bath, getting drowsy and then pitch black--but no pain. But in retrospect, that was much too idyllic and naive of a thought. I wondered what was worse, to be a crustacean or a human. I guess they were both on par with each other.
The waves lapped their tongues onto the shore to taste the sand, only to repel backwards from the saltiness. I sat there on the large boulder that we used to play on when we were little girls. The innocent times of when the gray clouds were brought on because she and I were witches casting spells on evil demons (not because it was supposed to rain.) When grandmother would wake us up at the crack of dawn to look for buried chests of gold and jewels (not to dig for clams for that week’s dinner.) When the seagulls were our loyal messengers gathering for their next mission, (not because the old beachcomber was throwing out stale pieces of sourdough into the wind.) When we were mermaids in the sea...
I had thought the situation up and down and decided that there was no good way things could end up. Someone would be hurt. I was going to be the martyr because it was my own fault for prying...for getting in the way...And if there was ever a decision of whether the gun should be aimed at me or her, I would willingly place the barrel against my own temple, pull the trigger, and fall into her arms, no question, before she could even let out a breath. There were so many times when I wanted to tell her that, but I was afraid she would think me too self-righteous.
I pulled my shawl tighter against my shoulders and wondered where she was. Earlier that morning, I had hesitated as I let the phone ring into my ear. I wondered if she could tell that I had unsuccessfully finished dialing her number for an hour before I could muster the courage to press the last 7th digit. She picked up after the third ring tone and seemed a bit startled that it was me. I told her to meet me at our old place and she agreed without a question. I was glad for that. She never made things harder than they had to be. I thought it best that I be the one to tell her. To let her know all that was, all that would never be.
I saw a dark figure against the edge of the tide about a mile off. I waved and she waved back.
Before I knew it, we were sitting on the boulder side by side looking at the sinking sun like a broken pirate ship slipping beneath the waves. There was a golden silence. No "hello's" or "how ya doing's." Fluff like that was obsolete for old friends like us. So then I told her.
The words fell out of me. Each word painfully pulled from my lips. Bricks that fell from my tongue only to crush onto my toes leaving me to wince at each sting.
But it was the only way to purge these troubled feelings that had formed between us. And I knew that if the rift were to grow any larger, I would lose her forever. And usually, the times when the truth is hardest to admit, is when its most necessary, the only cure for the self-inflicted wounds that had so naturally appeared on my body.
After I finished, I searched her face for some semblance of a reaction but all I saw were her glassy eyes looking far off into the distance. Her long lashes fluttered as a breeze wrapped around us but she didn’t even shudder at the chill.
I wanted to shake her. Make sure that she understood that the only reason I was saying the things that I did was because I felt she deserved the entire truth.
I didn’t even consider the possibility of losing her even after telling her this truth. All I could think of was the “before”, the veil that she had been under, the unmoving stage curtain that never allowed the show to begin. Because for so long we had all been living on the surface, in some kind of fantasy, a castle in the clouds made out of goose feathers. And it seemed to have gone on so long that it had somehow transformed into this hideous concrete reality. But I wouldn’t let her live in make-believe fortresses or walk on brittle sidewalks any longer.
Finally she sighed.
“I’ve missed you. Not just lately. But for a long time now. So many things have changed and…” I could see her clawing for the right words like she always did, trying to make things sound so storybook, straight from a novel. But it only made her seem more vulnerable. “…and, I guess I should have known all along. I was just not letting myself see it. Isn’t it amazing? The way you can fool yourself into holding onto something that’s not there, believing in some invisible safety net when you’ve already hit the ground, broken and bleeding. The power of desire, delusion….make-believe.”
She finally looked at me, and of all things, she smiled. It was a heartbreaking smile that simultaneously conveyed her resolute passivity and invariable forgiveness. “In the end, we’re all just a bunch of insignificant fools.”
I wanted to break down into hysterical sobs. I wished she had slapped me and run off into the distance, never to be heard from again. Or scream at the top of her lungs that she despised me with all her heart and she couldn’t believe that I had the audacity to call her my friend. Needed her to show me some semblance of anger…to justify my actions as wrong-doings. I wanted to feel her hatred for me that matched my own self-loathing.
So we sat there in silence not knowing what the days ahead of us would hold. Absorbing the words that had been exchanged between us. Me, wishing mine had hurt her more, and not expecting hers to have cut me so deeply.
Friday, January 28, 2005
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