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Friday, April 09, 2004
10:52 am
The car exuded this smell and it wasn't clear where the smell was coming from. Exhaust pipes were outside. His face was inside. His nose maybe smelled the air conditioning vent gone foul from some seclusion in a cave-like parking condition, tainted with a seed of someone's airborne mucus or a bacterium or just plain old mold. Who knew about the origins of car stink?
He better be paying attention now. Sudden braking almost plowed him into a station wagon of eighties-make, done over with Star Wars decals. The original series. A peeling Vader sticker glared at his errant eyes.
No time like the present to pay attention.
He saw, in the distance, that her house still stood. The terrace had been covered over with a long elastic tarp, the sort for circuses or fumigation, or off-season. From this span, the wooden shingles burned faint yellow in the daylight-savings sunset.
The driveway was empty.
He turned slowly, hunched down in his seat a little. His eyes couldn't help but look towards the mailbox...its flag unraised, of course. But it used to stand upright like a red soldier. A little curved off to one side, a soldier with a limp. The metal was peeling off its dark black paint.
Slow parking, idling up to the overgrown bushes. A gentle application of the parking brake.
Soon he had already found himself wandering in the front door. At some point previous, the key, the smashing of the window, the covert operation. The smell was similar. Was it the smell of abandonment? But it happened even with items unabandoned, like his car. Was it the smell of spiritual abandonment? That faint biological taint? Did it know, when it spread its wings, how people had already departed?
Fourteen steps up the old carpet, kicking up small puffs of dust. He held the staircase's railing, smooth, grooved. The paintings used to greet him at the top of these stairs - one of the piazza, one of the big bowl of fruit with a single fly perched on it. She always called them reproductions, and at that age he had misunderstood and thought they were somehow birthed by another set of paintings. He saw living still-lifes, mysterious pieces of art haunted by their own purpose. He had named them Father and Mother, a long line in a family tree of paintings that had extended perhaps as far back as grandma herself.
If he sat in that big fruit bowl, next to the single fly, he would be able to rest his arms on the giant pear and his legs on the cushioned bunch of grapes, and rest his ear close, and they would speak to him. They would tell him of the whole family line, of the original story. The parts grandma never told.
The parts about grandpa.
Of course, this is how the world of children goes.
The wall was bare, now.
At the top of the stairs, he ran his hand over the old plaster. His fingers left a small smudge. The streak was a small line, a brief curl.
He continued down the hall on auto-pilot. Before long he was back in the room at the farthest end, and he closed the door behind him. He crept to the far corner, the barren wood floor, where the bed used to stand. An electric blanket underneath had its own nest of wires and purred its own heat, and under that protection he'd sleep a magical sleep. Eyes further and further away.
He laid down on the bare wood, curled in a small ball.
He smelled the floor. Full grain. Dust crept in his nose.
He sneezed, again and again.
He wiped his own nose, and tucked himself in.
He laid there, for a while. Maybe the rest of the day. Then he got up, brushed the dust off his shirt and pants. He centered his glasses on his head, wiped them clean.
He descended the stairs, locked the door.
And he drove away.
11:12 am
The car exuded this smell and it wasn't clear where the smell was coming from. Exhaust pipes were outside. His face was inside. His nose maybe smelled the air conditioning vent gone foul from some seclusion in a cave-like parking condition, tainted with a seed of someone's airborne mucus or a bacterium or just plain old mold. Who knew about the origins of car stink?
He better be paying attention now. Sudden braking almost plowed him into a station wagon of eighties-make, done over with Star Wars decals. The original series. A peeling Vader sticker glared at his errant eyes.
No time like the present to pay attention.
He saw, in the distance, that her house still stood. The terrace had been covered over with a long elastic tarp, the sort for circuses or fumigation, or off-season. From this span, the wooden shingles burned faint yellow in the daylight-savings sunset.
The driveway was empty.
He turned slowly, hunched down in his seat a little. His eyes couldn't help but look towards the mailbox...its flag unraised, of course. But it used to stand upright like a red soldier. A little curved off to one side, a soldier with a limp. The metal was peeling off its dark black paint.
Slow parking, idling up to the overgrown bushes. A gentle application of the parking brake.
Soon he had already found himself wandering in the front door. At some point previous, the key, the smashing of the window, the covert operation. The smell was similar. Was it the smell of abandonment? But it happened even with items unabandoned, like his car. Was it the smell of spiritual abandonment? That faint biological taint? Did it know, when it spread its wings, how people had already departed?
Fourteen steps up the old carpet, kicking up small puffs of dust. He held the staircase's railing, smooth, grooved. The paintings used to greet him at the top of these stairs - one of the piazza, one of the big bowl of fruit with a single fly perched on it. She always called them reproductions, and at that age he had misunderstood and thought they were somehow birthed by another set of paintings. He saw living still-lifes, mysterious pieces of art haunted by their own purpose. He had named them Father and Mother, a long line in a family tree of paintings that had extended perhaps as far back as grandma herself.
If he sat in that big fruit bowl, next to the single fly, he would be able to rest his arms on the giant pear and his legs on the cushioned bunch of grapes, and rest his ear close, and they would speak to him. They would tell him of the whole family line, of the original story. The parts grandma never told.
The parts about grandpa.
Of course, this is how the world of children goes.
The wall was bare, now.
At the top of the stairs, he ran his hand over the old plaster. His fingers left a small smudge. The streak was a small line, a brief curl.
He continued down the hall on auto-pilot. Before long he was back in the room at the farthest end, and he closed the door behind him. He crept to the far corner, the barren wood floor, where the bed used to stand. An electric blanket underneath had its own nest of wires and purred its own heat, and under that protection he'd sleep a magical sleep. Eyes further and further away.
He laid down on the bare wood, curled in a small ball.
He smelled the floor. Full grain. Dust crept in his nose.
He sneezed, again and again.
He wiped his own nose, and tucked himself in.
He laid there, for a while. Maybe the rest of the day. Then he got up, brushed the dust off his shirt and pants. He centered his glasses on his head, wiped them clean.
He descended the stairs, locked the door.
And he drove away.
11:12 am
Thursday, April 08, 2004
It's another day, and another month for rip-offs. I got a speeding ticket for pacing traffic, plus my girlfriend's car broke down a day after it was "repaired." On top of this, I ate at a Chinese restaurant where I was charged 20% on top of my bill, without my knowledge. I discovered the "addendum" when I logged onto my bank account. Very nice. Then when I called to complain, I logged back onto my bank account and found another duplicate charge from the restaurant. Wells Fargo will be looking into it if the transaction goes through.
Is it something about April and people being assholes? It's not my fault if whatever drives you drives you. Just keep it out of my face.
Is it something about April and people being assholes? It's not my fault if whatever drives you drives you. Just keep it out of my face.
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
A 20-minute short story. (i.e., one that I wrote in 20 minutes)
Mirror
Tuesday, March 30, 2004 – 2:11-2:31 am
I looked in the mirror. Before this, I was puffy, large, clearly an enlarged man, an overweight man, an expanded man, an experiment in biological whimsy. Now, I was a normal man, one besieged gently by slight weight problems dangling off himself, just little taunting bits of flesh being vestigial and superfluous. You could see, underneath, a nice smile, a tight chin, and a fighter’s profile. To himself, he was different. With thirty pounds to account for the process.
I knew that I had a physical obsession with mirrors. That man in the reflection was unknown to me in a very real sense now, and being alone for seven hours staring at it, my final conclusion was that the mirror-man was staring at me for different reasons than I was staring at it. He was looking at himself with a challenging glance, a humorous snarl, a toothy affectation that wasn’t present on his own face. He could feel the difference. He was clearly frowning, according to his cheek muscles, and that bastard in front of him, oh yes, he was very clearly grinning. Wasn’t he? That lip was upturned in a way that couldn’t be belied. Asking for a hand to punch the glass.
Ever since that weight was lost, each morning became a longer glance. Six seconds would suffice at the fat self, a quick reminder that he was alive, not about to die this morning, teeth not too fuzzy. Zippers zipped. The glances got to a state of longer duration at five pounds. His eyeballs drifted, off his main eye-to-eye contact and down the frame, to points ignored for a good period of epochs. So many that if you were to subscribe to the belief that one’s presence of witnessing an object brought that object into existence, these places would long since have withered into legend and lore. I now saw those places again, dared to cross the straits and saw my profile and let it hang. And at ten pounds, I stared some more.
It wasn’t that he was falling in love with me. He’d stare like a good doctor, a family member, a friend. It was hard to explain. I knew after fifteen pounds that I was no longer going in to stare at him; he was going in to stare at me. That’s how he became different. And I was no longer his twin.
I wanted to continue enhancing this effect, by whatever means possible. I would starve myself for full days, water fasts in a darkened apartment. He wouldn’t answer the phone. He waited, hoping to see the figure in the mirror one last time before the end of the day, and he wanted it to be good and sweet, without mercy or forgiveness.
At thirty, at last, the process was complete. The skin hung loose and angry, and even the eyes were of a different color. He was dressed differently than me; his arms had different types of hairs. His nails, different proteins. His lips, curled.
His eyes were cold.
I didn’t return his gaze, even when he stared at me. This day, in the mirror, I didn’t look back.
What to say as a preamble? Days followed. He withdrew to his bed, and dreamt. I grew despondent and unplugged my phone, threw out my clothes, shattered my TV. I didn’t realize what he meant to me. He felt the same way. They couldn’t reconcile, however. So they didn’t even try to fake a hello. The rest of the weight loss was habit, please understand. The stay in the hospital was even therapeutic. After all, he came to visit. Would he have done otherwise if I hadn’t been so extreme in my behaviors? He came right up to me, looked me in the eyes once again, and there was a form of apology. We made silent differences, and I left him in the hospital bed, and I went home. He knew why I visited.
I don’t keep that window open. I don’t polish the glass. I don’t have mirrors in my house anymore. And we’re both fine with that.
Mirror
Tuesday, March 30, 2004 – 2:11-2:31 am
I looked in the mirror. Before this, I was puffy, large, clearly an enlarged man, an overweight man, an expanded man, an experiment in biological whimsy. Now, I was a normal man, one besieged gently by slight weight problems dangling off himself, just little taunting bits of flesh being vestigial and superfluous. You could see, underneath, a nice smile, a tight chin, and a fighter’s profile. To himself, he was different. With thirty pounds to account for the process.
I knew that I had a physical obsession with mirrors. That man in the reflection was unknown to me in a very real sense now, and being alone for seven hours staring at it, my final conclusion was that the mirror-man was staring at me for different reasons than I was staring at it. He was looking at himself with a challenging glance, a humorous snarl, a toothy affectation that wasn’t present on his own face. He could feel the difference. He was clearly frowning, according to his cheek muscles, and that bastard in front of him, oh yes, he was very clearly grinning. Wasn’t he? That lip was upturned in a way that couldn’t be belied. Asking for a hand to punch the glass.
Ever since that weight was lost, each morning became a longer glance. Six seconds would suffice at the fat self, a quick reminder that he was alive, not about to die this morning, teeth not too fuzzy. Zippers zipped. The glances got to a state of longer duration at five pounds. His eyeballs drifted, off his main eye-to-eye contact and down the frame, to points ignored for a good period of epochs. So many that if you were to subscribe to the belief that one’s presence of witnessing an object brought that object into existence, these places would long since have withered into legend and lore. I now saw those places again, dared to cross the straits and saw my profile and let it hang. And at ten pounds, I stared some more.
It wasn’t that he was falling in love with me. He’d stare like a good doctor, a family member, a friend. It was hard to explain. I knew after fifteen pounds that I was no longer going in to stare at him; he was going in to stare at me. That’s how he became different. And I was no longer his twin.
I wanted to continue enhancing this effect, by whatever means possible. I would starve myself for full days, water fasts in a darkened apartment. He wouldn’t answer the phone. He waited, hoping to see the figure in the mirror one last time before the end of the day, and he wanted it to be good and sweet, without mercy or forgiveness.
At thirty, at last, the process was complete. The skin hung loose and angry, and even the eyes were of a different color. He was dressed differently than me; his arms had different types of hairs. His nails, different proteins. His lips, curled.
His eyes were cold.
I didn’t return his gaze, even when he stared at me. This day, in the mirror, I didn’t look back.
What to say as a preamble? Days followed. He withdrew to his bed, and dreamt. I grew despondent and unplugged my phone, threw out my clothes, shattered my TV. I didn’t realize what he meant to me. He felt the same way. They couldn’t reconcile, however. So they didn’t even try to fake a hello. The rest of the weight loss was habit, please understand. The stay in the hospital was even therapeutic. After all, he came to visit. Would he have done otherwise if I hadn’t been so extreme in my behaviors? He came right up to me, looked me in the eyes once again, and there was a form of apology. We made silent differences, and I left him in the hospital bed, and I went home. He knew why I visited.
I don’t keep that window open. I don’t polish the glass. I don’t have mirrors in my house anymore. And we’re both fine with that.
Welcome Back!!!!
After a prolonged absence of many, many days, about 2 years, I'm back because I forgot my password and my email address. No longer. Now I am spouting more shit.
Since my extended absence, I:
1) Got laid off from Sony
2) Worked freelance and got scared
3) Worked briefly in NY for a spin-off of Maxim magazine, Maxim Goes to the Movies, which while being well-received may never get published again because the owner may sell the company to build England's largest forest of trees
4) Went on a buffalo hunt
5) Got re-hired by Sony
6) Lost weight
OK, so now we're square. I was recently published in the Wall Street Journal for a small series of observations on famous career changes. You missed the issue, but I'll post the text here soon.
Peace. Patient readers who have waited two years, I'm back with a vengeance!
After a prolonged absence of many, many days, about 2 years, I'm back because I forgot my password and my email address. No longer. Now I am spouting more shit.
Since my extended absence, I:
1) Got laid off from Sony
2) Worked freelance and got scared
3) Worked briefly in NY for a spin-off of Maxim magazine, Maxim Goes to the Movies, which while being well-received may never get published again because the owner may sell the company to build England's largest forest of trees
4) Went on a buffalo hunt
5) Got re-hired by Sony
6) Lost weight
OK, so now we're square. I was recently published in the Wall Street Journal for a small series of observations on famous career changes. You missed the issue, but I'll post the text here soon.
Peace. Patient readers who have waited two years, I'm back with a vengeance!