tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2344823755421959652024-03-08T17:05:14.787-08:00Approaching WoodhillThis title has zero significance.<br>
I just thought it sounded literary and snobby.Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.comBlogger27125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-67171685396878004482012-03-18T23:59:00.004-07:002012-03-19T00:00:04.971-07:00In My Own Way<p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(250, 250, 250); "></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >Love like comparison to summer days</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >and broken hearts like heavy, hurting chests</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >make no sense to me.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >Love was reading her favorite book and</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >trying to figure her out in every line.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >Love was sending random greeting cards--</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >"Get well soon" even though she wasn't sick.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >Heartbreak was having to set my own alarm</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >since she wouldn't be getting up before me anymore.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >Heartbreak was smiling and lying to the cashier</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >about why I was returning so many things.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >Beating hearts and crying rivers? Spare me.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >Love and heartbreak are more about</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >buying groceries for another person</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >than they are about poetic sentiment.</span></p><p></p>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-67654406843519460812012-03-18T23:59:00.001-07:002012-03-18T23:59:27.838-07:00Hopes and Dust<div><span >At a gas station halfway between here</span></div><div><span >and where everyone wants to be one day,</span></div><div><span >A maid lives off the dirt and petrol fumes</span></div><div><span >kicked up and blown by those chasing dreams.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >A couple and a dog stopped one Tuesday.</span></div><div><span >"Fill 'er up," they drunkenly told the maid.</span></div><div><span >On half a tank, they sped off with the hose.</span></div><div><span >The dog toppled out and they laughed away.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >No one came after that to the station.</span></div><div><span >Just a scar on the long road, useless now,</span></div><div><span >and the maid sat alone with the lost dog,</span></div><div><span >looking to the far-off horizon lights.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >"That's where they all go," she said to the dog,</span></div><div><span >"Being selfish and forgetting us fools</span></div><div><span >who think now is a place for tomorrow."</span></div><div><span >The dog sniffed the dirt and made mud of piss.</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >"It's my turn," she said to the dog. "I'm sorry."</span></div><div><span >She locked it in the station and drove off,</span></div><div><span >leaving behind "safe" and "happy" for her</span></div><div><span >own "what if"s and "I need"s, and the dog starved.</span></div>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-83867655319168351732012-03-18T23:58:00.000-07:002012-03-18T23:59:04.392-07:00When It's Broken In<div><span >This couch</span></div><div><span >And these chairs</span></div><div><span >Will hold me when I am proud to own them</span></div><div><span >When they are new and I build and buy the world around me</span></div><div><span >The status of success</span></div><div><span >Treasures of hard work</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >And they'll get the wine stain of a good party</span></div><div><span >And soak the sperm and juices of a conquest</span></div><div><span >And the sweat of lying alone in summer heat</span></div><div><span >And the vomit after stumbling (again) to my empty home</span></div><div><span ><br /></span></div><div><span >This couch</span></div><div><span >And these chairs</span></div><div><span >Will be thrown out when I am not proud to own them</span></div><div><span >When they are old and the world has beaten and bought me</span></div><div><span >The toys of bachelor excess</span></div><div><span >Myopic artifacts of a sold fate</span></div>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-1767015245268013972012-03-18T23:57:00.002-07:002012-03-18T23:58:25.513-07:00Fighting on the Homefront<p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; text-align: -webkit-auto; background-color: rgb(250, 250, 250); "></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >We were drunk on box wine</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >and we cheers-ed our spigotted cardboard over and over,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >salute and "here's to X" and nostrovia</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >Because why not? It's a celebration.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >And every time, in a choir, GWB's "mission accomplished"</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >And the local kids we hired to play the night?</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >They got in on the drinking too.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >Because why not? Aren't they American too?</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >And, y'know kids, eventually one puked on the other's amp,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >But after the fight, they played Sweet Home Alabama for us</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >While they spat blood into the hay between verses</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >Then, a tire fire sorta happened, and "aw what the hell, sure"</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >We all danced and drank, sucking in that black smoke,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >and out came the syrup and the football</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >and the "two of these'll put your head right"</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >Because why not? We did what we were supposed to,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >praying (and drinking) hard here</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >and dying (and dreaming) hard there.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span ><br /></span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >And then I saw somebody's wife (can't say who)</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >slipping her gold off into those cute little apple-bottoms</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >and she bounced around the fire,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >popping whatever was dropped in her hand</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >smoking whatever hit her nostrils</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >and swallowing whatever burned good,</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >cause I guess she felt her fight was over.</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >Mission accomplished, right?</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >And she grabbed that man from the Wal-Mart</span></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><span >Because why not? It's a free country.</span></p><p></p>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-54666583220457760612011-07-25T23:40:00.001-07:002011-07-25T23:40:35.149-07:00Across The Wall<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; "><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">A boy ran from the town into the stuck cold night.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">They said he disappeared, melted into the frost.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Vanished like smoke when the full moon swallowed him up.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">His face was never seen again,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">but many years later, his bones were.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He had found final rest in a high clearing,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">left sitting against a tree and staring out--staring past The Wall.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The Wall had separated his land from the rest of all land,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and it had always been there, built or not.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Across The Wall there was nothing, just the long and cold forever.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">As his chest burnt with escape , he looked out at The Wall.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Across, almost lost in shadow, a quicksilver flash,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">where no one and no thing should be,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">he noticed something noticing him,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">like a fate lost; like a soul to be found.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">"Hello," he said, not more than a whisper.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The night snatched the words from his lips and returned silence.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Then. As if asking to be forgotten, he almost missed it--</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">soft on the wind, carried as God over The Wall,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and like a symphony in a second: "Hello."</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">In that hollow pitch, between only themselves,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">they spoke and laughed and said things they never had.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">"Who built this wall?"</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">"You did."</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">"I thought you did."</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The sun stayed down while they breathed into each other,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">yet the tundras thawed in their evermore night.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The world bloomed unseen in the shadows around them</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">while they continued to speak and speak,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">both too afraid to move and too afraid to move closer.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Then, the black above began to itself crack</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and the other said "I must go, but I will return,"</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">"To here?"</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">"To you." Even from far off, he saw the smile.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He promised he would wait. And he did.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He quietly sat under a tree in the clearing,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Looking past all things to where his dreams would return,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Over The Wall,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Beyond himself,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">And he didn’t move again until they buried him.</p></span>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-22271350775861191672011-06-18T07:51:00.001-07:002011-06-18T07:51:24.359-07:00Tonewood 6/18/2011<p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Chapter I<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The old man, whose thick knuckles were like crumbling brick, had killed the small boy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The boy’s body hung from the boughs of the tallest oak in the glen—the one with roots like skeletal fingers snatching at the soil in big bony handfuls.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A summer breeze shuffled the leaves and the body swung lightly in the wind as the boy’s dead cheeks puffed like ripe blueberries.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He hung from a thin, tight length of guitar string which left purple rings around his neck from the vain struggle.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The boy had lasted only about twenty seconds before he went quiet.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When he finally stopped kicking, the old man listened to the hushing-rushing of rubbing green leaves above with a smile and a hand-rolled cigarette.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Sunlight dropped through the leaves like warm honey onto the dirt.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Go on,” the old man said to the four boys who had silently watched him kill their friend.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Go get your daddies,” he said in a voice that was sincere and calm.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If not for the hanging blue boy, whose lifeless knees scraped against the tree bark in dead sway, the boys might have regarded the old man’s voice with the same warmth and affection they did of their own grandfathers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Even still, something charming was yet left in his smile as he encouraged them.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I mean it, boys,” he said as he squeezed the tobacco down and licked the edges of the cigarette paper.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Don’t touch ‘im hanging there, he’s mine now, but go on and get your daddies.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And maybe you should get an officer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I’ll wait here, I promise.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His thin cheeks stacked up like a heap of unsorted paper when he smiled and, for an unknown reason, they all instantly trusted him when he smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The old man stared into each of the four boys’ faces as he sat still beneath the tree.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then, they each nodded and left without a word, not looking back, knowing with certainty the man would not leave.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">They each stumbled through the glen silently.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They kicked pinecones into the brush and stepped over the stretched umbilical roots of the old oak glen.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was hot in July as they walked and their sweat sealed their shirts to their skinny ribs.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Their shoes were dusted in dry dirt when they emerged from the shaded caves under the canopies of the old oaks and they each went home without saying more than their rounds of good-bye’s and see-ya’s, spending the rest of their individual walks staring at their toes and trying not to remember how their friend’s face looked as he choked and made noises like a wet, empty balloon being slapped against concrete.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Each of their mothers were uniformly (and each with a unique twist on the following formula) lamenting about the scope and breadth of their domestic career while indulging in a “well-earned and fully-deserved” glass of wine (or a mojito) as remuneration for their day’s toil and labor, sipping their spirits while resting in the shade of a patio as three o’clock chimed from the town’s bells.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Each boy told their own mother with quiet honesty (“come on and spit it out”) that they were playing in the old oak glen (“I told you not to play there!”) and they had done something they shouldn’t have (“did you play with those stray dogs again?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">fleas!</i>”) and that the old man from the fountains found them in the glen (“who?”) and there was an accident (“…what kind of accident?”) and now their friend was dead and the old man had killed him and was waiting.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Each mother seized their boy close to their bosom in shock, screaming out about the horror of the murder, yet secretly thanking god that it wasn’t their boy hanging from the trees.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then they screamed “careful, don’t make me spill this!” as they nodded to the glass in their other hand.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">All the while, the dead boy’s mother drank on and finished without even an interruption.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When a nice breeze whistled through her fence and onto her patio, she took pleasure in the cool refreshing wind that leapt along her open sundress and exposed breasts, thanking god for the same breeze that had, a minute before, slid past the hanging ankles of her own dead boy.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The mothers who still had their boys coddled them from (no) threat in locked top-floor rooms until the pound of patriarchal boots stepped through the front door and echoed up the ivory banisters.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The mothers exploded from their locked rooms, keeping their boys hostage inside, and frantically screamed at their husbands, relating the calm toe-watching story from the boys through the required filter of fear, terror, and blame.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Each husband listened with boredom and placating quips, “what is it now, honey?” as they got a glass of water to fight the summer heat.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They each withstood the barrage of bitter vitriol from their til-death-do-we-part until their spouses burst with panic and got to the point—the hanging body of a boy in the glen.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Immediately, each husband swore to their wives that they would go that instant to the glen and get the body out of the tree before anyone else arrived so no one would see it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“And,” they each said as their chests swelled with proud courage, “I’m going to deal with that old man, deal with him how he should be dealt with,” each resolutely declared.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They grabbed their hats and stormed out of the home, but not before finishing their glass of water and taking five minutes to sit down after their long day of work and take off their shoes, briefly, and plead their wives to make them just a little bite of something because the glen was far away and they had had nothing since lunch.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">When the men each stumbled into the glen at dusk, they found their familiar-face-but-misplaced-name neighbors huddled in a small circle in the clearing before the tallest oak where the old man sat.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They each silently watched the old man as he stared with quiet passion at a dark patch of ground covered in small splintered and scattered shards of polished wood.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The boy’s body, whose pale skin was now beginning to blend into the velvet night rising out of the ground, still hung in the tree, yet none of the fathers looked at the dead son enveloped in shadow.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The old man’s gnarled knuckles delicately adjusted the fragments of polished wood on the ground, a touch left and an imperceptible nudge up, as if balancing the pieces together to once more form something whole.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The form of the slivers became clear as the moon peeled the streaked sky away and revealed the bulbous bottom, long thin shaft at the center, and knobbed head shape: this collection of scrap was once a guitar.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Five curly strings were laid ritually next to the pieces, nylon and wrapped steel glittering in the silver mercurial light.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The missing sixth string was, as they all knew, in use.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The wind hushed-rushed through the trees and the blue night shivered itself into every man as the silence held them rapt, watching the old man’s precise movements above the organological corpse.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Finally, he stood and surveyed the split skeleton of the guitar, sighing finally and sitting heavy upon the roots of the tree.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I suppose you’re all here to take me for what I’ve done,” the old man said.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No one responded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The men looked round, one to the other, each waiting for one of them to step forward and make the accusation, take action, do what must be done.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Who here is this boy’s father?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No one stepped forward.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">With a deep, melancholic grunt, the old man stood up, rubbed his knees, pulled out a pocket knife and cut the boy down while standing on his tip-toes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The body fell into the dirt with an unceremonious flop.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The old man had cut the knot on the bough, leaving the length of string still wrapped around the boy’s bloated neck, tautly extending behind the body and looking like the solitary wire of a poorly-made marionette or a fuse for a bomb.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He reached down to the body and heaved it up onto his shoulder, gripping with arthritic hands and visible strain, and then wearily stepped over the bony roots of the old oaks.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The men cleared the path for the old man and followed behind him as he exited the glen and walked to the boy’s never-again home.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Like a funeral procession, the old man walked from the glen to the town and the husbands all followed behind quietly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">It was neither fear nor wonder that kept them silent.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As they followed, each of them wondered this silence to themselves: why do we walk behind him without a word?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Why did none of us say a word in the glen, why did we not attack, why did we just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">watch</i> and why do we now just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">follow</i>?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But, the questions hung in their minds like steamed breaths hangs in winter air—ephemeral puffs that stretch out into nothing and wash away into the wind—and so, they trudged on behind the old man.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The boy’s dead head bobbed over the old man’s shoulder and his purple eyes watched the men pace behind, his bloated rosy cheeks and puffed eyes unblinking.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Without another breath in his lungs to ever come, he still managed to ask a question into the souls of every man staring into his bulbous, red-stained eyes: what will you do?</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The men turned their gazes down and looked at the old man’s clip-clopping shoes.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">On the terrace where the dead boy once lived, every house was dark and deathly still except for the shuffling of curtains from the pitch-black top floor windows where young, prisoner eyes squinted.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They stared into the pools of light under each drooping street lamp hoping to catch a glimpse of the old man and the mob<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Instead of a ferocious gang of proud men hauling the bloody body of the old man and coddling the wrung corpse of the boy, the old man led the taciturn horde closer and closer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">With each clip-clop flip-flop step (and with each step, a barely-audible wheeze from the burnt lungs of the old man), the distance between the body and the home (and the distance between the body and the body’s kitchen and yard and bed) steadily shortened.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Lattices of matron vehicles were parked outside of the boy’s house.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>All the lights were blazingly on, like a beacon on the dark lane.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A syrup of confused whispers dripped from the open windows: “what do we say?”, “how are we supposed to make her feel better?”, “what are we supposed to do?”, and “who was her boy again?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The old man dragged himself up the bricks to the front door of the home.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The men all immediately stopped following, keeping their distance.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They dared not step on the dead boy’s land.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They filed out from their procession and spread along the concrete between the lawn and the street, standing shoulder to shoulder to watch the old man.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He had not once looked back at the men following him, and gave the men behind only his back to watch as he knocked on the door.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The house dropped into the same oppressive silence that followed the mortal march, and a minute later, the door shuddered but did not open.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A woman on the other side looked through the gossamer curtains framing the small glass panes in the wooden door, her face veiled behind the curtains and safe in her sanctuary home.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Go away,” she yelled through the wood, a sob breaking her words.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The old man knocked again without opening his mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Don’t bring that to me!” she screamed, and within only a moment, every light in the house suddenly shut off.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The once flaming-yellow home was extinguished, and all at once, the old man fell into the dark with the body and no one to claim it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The night swept down upon him like water spilling over, and the sound of crickets and grinding heels accompanied the old man’s short, stabbing breaths.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He turned to face the men, shrouded in darkness but still lined on the walk, and then spoke to them once more: “What now?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Have I committed a crime against anyone now?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Have I wronged anyone?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They did not answer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A shuffle of feet roughed the hushed night.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You’re not welcome here any longer,” one finally said.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Take that with you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Was I ever welcome?” the old man asked back.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There was an indistinct rush of whispers.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Leave,” another man said.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His voice, while different, was nearly indistinguishable from the first.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Their faces, smeared in the darkness, were one.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Their houses, each made from the same blueprint and identical in construction, differed only in paint (this one blue, that one yellow).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Inside, they invariably held the same sofas (only with different designers) and the same food (only of a different brand) and the same family (only of different names).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Their children were a mass, without identity or personage applied, just another brood of agnates from a manufactured race leading constructed lives.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And, in hollow pitch of night, this human conglomeration united, and they were out of many, one.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Outside of that union stood the old man with the dead boy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Why have I never been welcome?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You have no soul.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The words hung in the air, echoing lightly off of the flat pavement.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The words permeated the night, impregnated the air, and every lung sharply breathed the air in, breathed the words in, and held them.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They had named the beast, and by doing so, gave it life.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The old man nodded and sighed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Does anyone really?” the old man asked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There was no answer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Do you want to know what he did?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No, they responded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You do not care why I killed him?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No, they answered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Do you want revenge?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Do you want to punish me?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Yes, they answered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Then do so.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>None moved.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He looked to the line of men, his hard eyes scanning the dark, and he saw not one of their faces and heard not a word.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So he sighed again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You will find the courage to do so in time.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He then stepped off of the stoop of the dark home, feeling the eyes peering at him from every window, feeling the sight of every house and brick and lamp and mailbox upon him, and he passed through the calm night out of their world and returned alone to the glen where the shields of leaves and trunks made the earth darker than nothingness and colder than loss, exactly as God had intended the world.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">He set the body on the ground next to the remains of the guitar.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The old man delicately folded the boy’s hands into his lap and propped his head on a root so that he looked like he was lying back in reflection.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His face was puffed and purple-black and his eyes stared through the world.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Do you want to know why I killed you?” the old man asked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The boy did not respond.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Yes,” said the old man for the boy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Okay, I will tell you,” he said resolutely.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He sat down opposite the broken guitar and the boy and pulled out a folded pack of loose tobacco and began kneading the leaves between his fingers as he prepared a cigarette.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“It’s because of that,” he said, pointing to the guitar.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I’ll tell you all of it, so that you know.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You deserve that much.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And so he began.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Chapter II<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">About a hundred-and-fifty years ago across the ocean and in a small rural town named Moriles, Nino de Ossorio Guerin ripped his mother’s guts open under a full moon.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was no crime since he was yet to be born, but once he was pulled from her cooling corpse and took his first breath, his father had already resolved that the boy was vile and no child of his.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He held this knowledge to himself, but Nino learned of his father’s opinion quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino’s father, Ricardo, had had one prized possession in his life: his wife.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A son would not fill the void left in his heart by her departure, despite the vain (and now, lethal) belief his wife had held that bringing a child into this world would fill the void that grew within her whenever she looked at Ricardo.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When Ricardo would smile with warmth and love, she would smile back perfunctorily without as much as a stirring in her breast.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She loved Ricardo in the same way old men love Sunday afternoons and fishing, but the passions of her love beat elsewhere.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She didn’t know when it became that way between them (she had had passion for him once, years ago, when rolling in the long grass at dusk), but it had faded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That was her own failing and she kept it sealed from Ricardo.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Her love for him dictated that she keep him happy, but her love for another kept her vigilant.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">She took her infidelity to her grave, but Nino was a son of Ricardo’s regardless.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When Nino arrived to this world, the priest that was speaking the last prayers for his deceased mother paused and, for a brief moment, offered seemingly-innocuous praise to God that Nino had his father’s eyes and not his.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then, the priest administered all rudimentary tests of health while wiping the bits of blood and flesh from the boy and, upon finishing, held him out to his father.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Take your son,” the priest said with a cracked voice of loss that sounded like piety.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“He is healthy.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo looked at the priest in a daze and the priest nodded to the wrapped bundle in his outstretched arms once more.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Finally, Ricardo rested his gaze upon Nino.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino had his father’s dark complexion, his mother’s dirty-gold eyes, a thin lean nose and full pink lips.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He even had a sprout of jet black hair.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If it curled, it would be like his mother’s, if it were straight, it’d be like his father’s, but it was too early to tell.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Any feelings of paternity and love Ricardo may have had for Nino instantly drained away from him when he looked back to the body of his wife mounted upon his wooden work table.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She lay motionless in a dark sanguine pool of viscera and afterbirth, her gown streaked in the blood that they could not stop from draining onto the table, through the slats, and down to the dirt where it mixed with the earth to form congealed claret pearls. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“We must bury her,” Ricardo said, not looking back to his son or the priest.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Now?” the priest asked incredulously, bringing the boy back to his chest.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I see in your face that you too are struck with the grief I am, Father.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest nodded and dried his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I thank you for your sympathy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am all she has in this world—had in this world.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There is no one to come to a funeral.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There is no reason to let her begin to stink.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am all she loved in the world, and she was all I loved.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“She had much love in this world.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Perhaps you knew her better than I, Father,” Ricardo spoke as his eyes glazed over.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Reality was transient to him as a mist of memories and dreams smashed away every foundation of his strength.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“She spoke often of her walks to the abbey and her need for confession.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She would dress so nicely, and always come back with flowers in her hair, and kiss me when she arrived and put all the flowers in a cup for the table.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then she would sing as she prepared our meals.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Did you ever hear her sing, Father?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I often told her she needed to join our choir; her voice was that of an angel.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Father, for what she needed to confess so often? I do not know.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Take my word, Ricardo de Ossorio Guerin,” the priest said, moving close and putting his hand upon Ricardo’s shoulder. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“She died without sin,” he declared as he pulled the boy of correct patronage closer to his chest.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At once, the priest felt within him a feeling of immense freedom and sadness.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ever since Ricardo’s wife’s belly had begun to swell, he had long prayed in his tower that the baby not be his.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If the fate of his own sin manifested, if the baby were his bastard, he would face the wrath of his neighbor for having coveted his wife.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He had resolved himself to look to Ricardo and admit to him his sins and likely to be killed, for Ricardo was not known for his decency to other men.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In fact, Ricardo was known for his tempestuousness and strength.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But, when Nino opened his not-green eyes and appeared with the black hair not present in the priest’s ancestry, the priest silently thanked God for His goodwill and charity and vowed never to be tempted again. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I have learned my lesson, he thought.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Yet, sadness too welled within him that God sought fit to take from both men their mutual lover.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest did not deny that he felt the same grief and anguish that Ricardo felt, but he kept it within himself for fear of showing guilt with his pain.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Father, will you help me to bury her?” </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Ricardo, please, let us grieve for now, you have a newborn.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We can do that at dawn.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Father, please,” Ricardo stammered in shame, looking anywhere but at the priest.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I—I cannot afford the toll for the gravedigger.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At once, the priest understood and nodded solemnly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Tonight we shall then.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And what of the boy?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo blinked without recognition.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then, he nodded after a moment, took the boy from the priest and, for the first time, Ricardo held his son.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As the weight sunk into his hands and he felt the warmth within the bundle of blanket, he felt tears come to his eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He held the bundle close and the priest thought he saw the root of love take hold in Ricardo.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>However, that was not so.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo whimpered into the bundle and only thought one thing: she died for this?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It is so small, it is so fragile and insignificant, and she died for this thing?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She was worth ten of these, a hundred.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It is not a fair trade, I don’t want this thing, I want her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And as he wept, Ricardo knew he couldn’t ever care for this boy, for this murderer.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The first night of Nino’s life was spent sleeping on the dirt.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In his swath of blankets, Nino was carried in a backpack on Ricardo’s back while both men hauled his mother’s body to the edge of town.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Under the full moon, they waded along the gravel paths and stamped hillocks with the bloody body tethering both men together.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When they arrived, Nino was set onto the hard ground and propped up so as to not choke on his own wet tongue while his father and the priest struck into the packed dirt with shovels and picks.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino cried, but neither man gave him any comfort, instead each staying silent and directing their emotions and pains into wounding the earth.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Eventually, Nino lapsed into sleep and was all but forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When the hole was dug and dawn approached, both men lowered her body inside and stood over the grave.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They were both silent.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Shouldn’t you say something?” Ricardo asked the priest.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Yes,” the priest choked as he looked upon the solemn face of his sin.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He wiped his eyes and smiled to Ricardo.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I am sorry, I do not usually act in this sort.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You are a loving and kind man to your flock,” Ricardo responded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“She had said that to me before.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I don’t go to church.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I know, Ricardo,” the priest returned.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You would be welcome, my son.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Maybe,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“She believed in it.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They both stood silent for a moment, staring at her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The sun was hidden behind a ridge of mountains to the east, but stripes of red were racing across the horizon and the scattered light began to cast a creeping shadow across her face.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Is there anything you wish to say?” the priest asked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo stared at her as the shadow consumed her face.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Like what?” he asked dumbfounded.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Anything you wish.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She is listening with God.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Oh,” he whispered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“No.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You’re sure?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The thought of the priest listening to him, or even God listening in to what he said to his wife, made Ricardo uneasy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And, anything he felt, his wife already knew.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo told the priest to do whatever she would have wanted.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest cleared his lungs then proceeded.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“We commend unto thy hands of mercy, most merciful Father, the soul of this, our friend, our lover, and our wife, departed, and we commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust ; and we beseech thine infinite goodness to give us grace to live in thy fear and love and to die in thy favor, that when the judgment shall come which thou hast committed to thy well-beloved Son, both this our sister and we may be found acceptable in thy sight. Grant this, O merciful Father, for the sake of Jesus Christ, our only Saviour, Mediator, and Advocate.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest then nodded and took a deep breath.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Amen,” he said alone.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo did not make a single sound.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The priest knelt to pick up his shovel, but Ricardo stopped him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“We can’t bury her like that,” he said.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He walked to Nino, picked him up, and unwrapped the blanket about the infant.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In the dawn chill, Nino shrieked and kicked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo set the nearly-naked newborn back down to the ground and took the blanket to the hole and draped it over his wife’s body.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I don’t want to see the dirt hitting her.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s…not right.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest heard the wails of the boy, but nodded to Ricardo.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Once they finished, the priest asked Ricardo if he would come to the church the following day for prayer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo said he would think about it, then scooped Nino up and walked home.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">When they arrived home, they both wept.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino cried in hunger and shrieked at the cold settling into his bones, a coldness that stuck to his soul and would define him as a man, while on the other side of the room, Ricardo sobbed into his hands that didn’t know how to cook anything for either of them.</p> <span style="font-size:11.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA"><br /> </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Chapter III<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The first ten years of Nino de Ossorio Guerin’s life passed him quickly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He rarely saw his father, as Ricardo always chose to work late in the fields until and his arms and back cracked from the sun and the sky’s colors bled out like his blistered feet.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then, Ricardo would come home and fall asleep only to repeat the process the next day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When he did arrive home, he and his son would nod at each other as their only greeting, a nod only for mutual acknowledgement of each other’s existence and not a thing more.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When Nino was very young, the priest would bring food because Ricardo could not find time nor energy<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>nor reason to do so, and by age four, Nino knew how to cook himself.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino quickly became self sufficient, realizing that cries and whimpers went unheard by his absent father, and when he unleashed his wet persuasions in Ricardo’s presence, he either got a backhand for ungratefulness or a glare and an admonishment for being weak.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo kept ample sacks of flour, grain, and rice, and the river was only a quarter-mile down the road, so Nino never truly went hungry.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He was provided for, albeit in the most basic of ways.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Ricardo, while not showing affection or love to his son, never truly hated his son.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He didn’t have the life left in him to hold onto something as strong as hate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Instead, he simply spent his time moving day to day through life, a husk of a man who lives but is not alive.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He ate out of necessity, he slept because his body forced him to, and he provided what was required to Nino in the form of provisions, a roof, and clothes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Whatever animating force Ricardo had once had was now only a memory, long since ground into the dirt under the heel of fate, leaving only a hollow man whose purpose was simply to continue on.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">As Ricardo’s soul was bore out to form a shell, Nino began to feel his own soul bloom within him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Parts of his soul were united with God, but only because the priest had come to get him every Sunday morning to walk to the abbey for worship and to have long discussions about his dearly missed mother.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That’s where Nino learned about his soul and that his soul was given to him by God as a gift.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>However, this only made Nino wonder why his soul—or whatever he thought <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">was </i>his soul—instead always felt cold.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He always felt algid, as if a chill perpetually haunted his body even in the summer sunshine.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It felt like putting his face to thick glass or lying on a rock’s smooth surface in the shade—passive, unmoving, and entirely without remorse.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The feeling manifested most when he saw smiles and heard laughter.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The cold feeling didn’t make him shiver, but it struck deep down into him and pressed upon some central locus, as if his entire body, all of his bones and every strip of flesh, all pressed upon a frigid and unmoving rock that hung heavy in the core of his thoughts and his chest.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I have not seen you smile in quite some time,” the priest said to him on a Sunday walk back from the abbey.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I do not believe you have ever seen me smile, Father,” Nino responded.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I’m sure I have, don’t be so—” he said as he shook his hand in the air for a word he could not place.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Regardless, how is your father?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“He is as he is,” Nino said flatly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Nino, you are lucky I know you as well as I do, or else I would find your manner to be quite rude and should think you were in need of a few lashings.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“It is not my intent to be rude.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“So it isn’t,” the priest said in acceptance.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They continued walking down the dirt paths, winding through the small town in the Sunday calm.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As they crossed into town, the dirt became smooth and compact from centuries of wagons and horses.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Their town had a total of fifteen-hundred people, but because of trade, it saw many more.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>While not large by any standard, it still managed enough diversity to not require the knowledge of every person past in the streets.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Instead, a familiar smile was all that was needed to get into anywhere and talk to anyone.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The town square, lined with vendors selling from the back of their ox-drawn carts, bustled with activity.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>To the north, the smell of smoke gusted anew from the blacksmith’s forges at every flame-licking bellow’s interval whine.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>To the east, the smell of rising bread from brick ovens attracted the poor and the hungry. To the south, the smell of flowers and olives in bloom reminded the women of children.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That was where my father is, Nino thought, in the olive fields.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In the center of the town square was a large wooden stage with a podium.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Often, the governor would use the elevated setting to make proclamations or to read declarations, but it had also been used for executions.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There hadn’t been a hanging in thirty years and the gallows had been transformed into a directory spire with arrows pointing to each corner of the town with distances to adjacent villages.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Have you been reading the scripture, Nino?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We will be reading of the Book of Matthew next Sunday.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I hoped you might read a passage aloud.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I have been reading, but not those parts.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“What have you been reading?” the priest asked as they passed a market stall with almonds and honey.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest smiled to the vendor, said a few words, and made off with a gift of a half-handful of almonds.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He held out his hand for Nino to pick a few out as Nino spoke.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I have been reading about—Father, I have wondered often about my soul.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Your soul?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What of it?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Do I,” Nino stammered, then looked up to the priest, “I am embarrassed to ask.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Nino, my son, do not be embarrassed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Your mother confessed to me a great deal of things, and for every one of them, I absolved her of her sins.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You should look upon me as a confidant, as a friend.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Whatever it is, you will see no judgment from me and you will get only the truth as I know it from the Lord Himself.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So, Nino, please, what of the soul?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Do I have a soul?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Genesis, Nino, two-seven.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>‘The Lord formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.’<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A soul is what separates us from the dirt below your feet.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It does not have a soul, yet we do.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It is the breath of God that allows to live, rather than to simply be part of this earth.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I can most certainly say, Nino de Ossorio Guerin, that you have a soul.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest smiled down at Nino warmly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“What does the soul feel like, Father?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest repeated the question aloud with a smile as he popped an almond into his mouth.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He gave the rest to Nino, then clasped his hands behind his back and walked with large footsteps, at once lost in thought and at second enjoying the chance for ambulatory pondering.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was an action much likened to the philosophers and the prophets, and the priest found himself suited for the task as well.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When given a question of such magnitude, it felt only natural that a wise one should march in thought while determining the answer through meditation, dialectic, or logic—whatever was required (and whatever conveyed the most import to his subject).<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>During Sunday mass, much of the session was spent in quiet solace and, when the priest had to speak, he strained his words so that he seemed to struggle with every sentence, bringing tears to the eyes of his most devout parishioners at his sublime revelations, at the feigned trouble of seeing God’s plan and trying to explain it with something as faulty as words.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Finally, the priest decided on the preferred method of answering the question, which also happened to be the easiest: dialectic.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“What does it feel like to you, Nino?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I feel something, but I am not sure if it my soul.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“What does this thing feel like, Nino?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“It feels like, hm, I feel something…hard, like the ground, and cold, like metals.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And it’s totally still within me, it does not move, it does not budge.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And sometimes when I look at things that I know are supposed to make me feel holiness or God or such, such as I hear people talk about beautiful sunsets and I feel nothing or when there is a newborn baby and everyone goes on thanking God and talking about how blessed they are and I look and just see an infant and feel nothing of blessing or beauty, I just feel…resistant, I feel like that cold hard spot in me says ‘no’, like arrows bouncing off of castle walls.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“That is quite troubling, my son,” the priest said as he furrowed his brow.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Are you sure that is your soul?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“No, I am not, Father, that’s why I want to know, what does a soul feel like?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You are making a bold distinction, Nino!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Let me ask you, do you feel this?” the priest said as he snatched Nino’s hand, held it up, and smacked it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino winced and withdrew his hand and the priest smiled.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“What did you feel?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You hit my hand.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Yes!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And this?” the priest said as he leaned over and kissed Nino on the head.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“A kiss on my head.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You felt those and you know where you felt it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now, tell me where exactly you feel your soul is.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino looked to the ground and then pointed to his chest hazardously.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Your lungs?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He nodded no.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Your liver?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No again.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Your spleen?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino sighed heavily.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Surely you don’t mean your heart? An important organ, a very useful one, but surely not your soul.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A heart is no more a soul than a plough is a field.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I don’t understand, Father.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“A plough digs the dirt and allows the seeds to be grown, but it does not itself grow and it does not make them grow.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It allows them to.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Like the olive fields, where your father works.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but the priest put his finger to Nino’s mouth with a smile and continued.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“A heart allows a soul to be manifest, but it is not one.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So, how can one even feel a soul?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We can feel our flesh, sure enough, and we can pinpoint our organs, as we have demonstrated, but how do we pinpoint and feel that which is not exactly definable?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What bladder holds the soul?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>None, my son, it simply exists in you.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Do you understand?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“No,” Nino responded quietly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Tell me, I have read the scriptures and tried to understand it, but I cannot.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What does it feel like?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I think mine may be…wrong.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino bit his lip and exhaled sharply.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A jumble of half-formed sentences rambled from his lips, each compounding his frustration.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest soothed Nino and told him to calm and to breathe, to think of what he wanted to know.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After a moment, Nino instead attempted to reverse the priest’s methods.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You have a soul too?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest smiled and nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Can you feel your soul?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“No more than you can.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“How do you know that?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Have you ever felt your soul when people go on about sunsets or babies?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ever felt something inside of you move around?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Of course, we all do.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Generally, those feelings lead us to confession.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We call that temptation,” the priest said with a wide, friendly smile.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“No,” Nino said quickly, “not temptation.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I know what that is.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This is…different.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He bit his lip and forced himself to continue.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“This feeling, it is at the center of me, the very core of me, not my heart or my lungs but just…at the center of me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And it is empty and sealed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And I want to fill it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It pains me to feel as empty as I do, and yet everything I try to pour into that emptiness just…doesn’t go bounces off.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Not even God gets into this void, my son?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Not even God.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“That is quite blasphemous, Nino.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I know, but I do not feel any differently for admitting it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Guilt, even, has no place within me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“That,” the priest said solemnly, “is quite a problem.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Do you know of this chasm I speak of?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I do,” the priest said as he looked away.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I do very well.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Is it the soul?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest sighed hard and looked down to Nino.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He saw Nino’s mother’s curly black hair upon Nino’s dark brow and her dirty-gold eyes, only now, resting on a new face.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then, he blinked, and he saw her face in the ground, the shadow of the day inching down her face and covering it to be seen never again.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You may be close, my son,” the priest admitted with a heavy sigh.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Your mother would know that answer, I believe.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Why?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Nothing,” the priest quickly said.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“We should get you home, I have work to do for the coming festivals and you have food to prepare for your father.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Wait, Father, please,” Nino pleaded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Is something wrong with my soul?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“No, Nino, nothing is wrong,” the priest said as he knelt down.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“In fact, it’s right, so right.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s the very reason why your mother is so dearly missed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Many people live without ever feeling their souls within them.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They take advantage of that divine gift and never nurture it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Like the plough to the dirt, the seed still needs water.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A soul can easily be forgotten and wither, and so few ever notice when their soul needs watering, when their soul is empty and is calling out for something to fill that void.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Your mother, she felt that way, and she made me notice that my soul, too, was empty.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She was a gift of God, most certainly.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“God did not show you what your soul needed?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“God does not fill the soul, he only gives it to you to fill, like the earth does not grow unless you help it to grow.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“How do I fill my soul, Father?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“That, Nino,” he said with an honest sadness, “I cannot tell you.”</p> <span style="font-size:11.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA"><br /> </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Chapter IV<o:p></o:p></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">As the spring rolled into summer, Nino found himself drawn more and more to his father.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>However, this went unnoticed by Ricardo, whose mind was never concentrating on anything happening around him, instead reliving memories or simply counting: how many steps from my door to the fields, how many olives I have collected today, how many days since she died.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He never wanted conversation or attention and he never questioned Nino or asked anything of him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo had only made his presence known when something of his had been put out of order or Nino had done something to disrupt the flow of his daily ritual.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino, too, only spoke to his father when they were in need of a supply, to which Ricardo would leave a handful of coins on the table, never counting and never caring.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But, for some inexplicable reason, Nino had found himself watching his father with more interest ever since his discussion with the priest about his soul.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Nino had begun to wonder about his father and his father’s soul.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino often remembered how smiles peeled the faces of parents at the sight of a baby or how young women blushed iridescent to the extended hand of their suitors, but he knew that those moments and actions could never produce such feeling from within himself, and as he continued to watch his father, he knew that those too would run off his father like water on feathers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He began to think perhaps he inherited a similar soul to his father.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It would make sense, after all, for a father’s soul to be similar to his son’s.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">While Nino did not have desire or love in his soul, he did have curiosity.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His father would get up before dawn to go to the olive fields.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino had begun to wake then as well and watch him prepare.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At first, he stared from the darkness, from a half-open eye under a blanket, catching what glimpses he could without alerting his father.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He watched which tools Ricardo grabbed, what clothes he wore, and what direction he headed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After a week of that, Nino had memorized every item his father grabbed and what motions he took every morning.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He could learn no more from his covert position, so he began to grow bold.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino decided he would sit up in bed and watch Ricardo without fear of being noticed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo only nodded to the boy when he felt Nino’s eyes upon him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Now that Nino knew Ricardo did not care if he watched, he grew ever more interested and would wait until his father left and would trace his walk down past the hill to the abbey.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When his father was out of sight, Nino would hurriedly get dressed and run out to follow at a distance so as not to be noticed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Often, he lost his father and ended up going home in defeat.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There were many turns and many fields south of town and if Nino was not vigilant, he quickly lost his father.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">After two weeks of surreptitious pursuit, he had fully mapped his father’s route and could effectively follow without being seen.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At first, Nino would just watch from two hundred meters back and learn whatever he could about his father before scampering home and going back to sleep.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But, with time, his curiosity grew.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Each morning’s expedition would last longer and longer until finally he no longer went home back to bed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He would sit on a far hillock and examine his father while lying in the grass, gleaning more and more information with each passing day.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He was interested in where his father worked, what work his father did, which people his father knew, and above all else, he watched who his father was.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">He strained and squinted to see if his father ever looked relieved in the shade, or if his face contorted in pain, or if he smiled at satisfaction of being finished for the day, but he never saw a thing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Instead, he saw a face carved of stone, one that knew no other expression than the blank and vacuous stare of a death mask.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Truly, Nino wished to see his father respond to anything.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He had never known his father to say much or even respond to much, but after weeks of watching the mechanical behavior of his father’s daily routine, Nino was no closer to an answer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He needed to see if his father felt anything because Nino wanted to know if he could feel anything.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That chasm in his chest, that desire in his soul, was only growing fiercer and hungrier as the summer heat pressed harder in the Mediterranean air.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>God had no answer, and he found no answer in watching his father either.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">With nothing left to learn from observation, Nino acted from the bravery of requirement.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>One morning before the sun rose while Ricardo stacked his wares, Nino spoke: “I would like to go to work with you.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo then did something that Nino had never seen him do before—he looked puzzled.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Why?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Do you wish to start making money of your own?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“No.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I want to learn more about you.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“What for?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“To find out about myself.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“How will knowing me help you know you?” Ricardo asked tonelessly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I am half you, am I not?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo deeply exhaled and, all at once, remembered that inescapable fact he had long before forgotten: this boy is his son, and a son is made from yourself.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo turned back to Nino and looked upon him now with new eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He examined Nino’s dark olive skin, like his own, and admired Nino’s sharp, long nose that was undoubtedly his own father’s, but he also saw the foreign curly black hair and dirty gold eyes, like dirt splashed with sun, that undoubtedly belonged to Nino’s mother.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This boy, Ricardo knew, is half me.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That thought brought a mixture of pride, grief, confusion, and failure to his mind, but he quickly turned from Nino to not show those things plaguing him, as if a dam had swelled and burst, bringing with it a tidal rush of bewilderment and chagrin.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As Ricardo turned to the darkness, he grabbed a tightly wound cylinder of cloth mat, shook the emotions from his head, then turned and held the roll to Nino.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You can watch and ask, but you cannot slow me down.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If you do, you’re going home.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino nodded and took the roll.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was heavy, but if he hung it over his shoulder, he could manage.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Do you know the way?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I do.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I have followed you for the past three weeks.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo nodded and within ten minutes, they were walking down the path side-by-side.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They arrived at the olive field as the sun rose, slicing the morning mists apart.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Within another ten minutes, the dew on the leaves and grass reflected the sun like a field of green shattered glass, waving and blindingly glittering with every passing gust.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Workers filed into the fields, some of them smiling to Nino who only returned a blank, virgin face.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo led Nino to a pack of trees set off into a corner of the fields.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For this day, Ricardo worked on these dozen trees.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">He set down all of his gear under a tree, pulled out two hemp sacks, one for him and one for Nino, stretched his back out by reaching up to a branch and tugging hard on his back, and then he knelt down into the wet grass.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino watched and mimicked his father.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Why do you start lying in the grass?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“During the night, many olives fall from the branches.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We have to pick them up.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We grab all of the ones we can see and we put them in the sack.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“And then?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“When we get there.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Only ever focus on what you must do right now.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There is nothing but right now,” Ricardo said sagely.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino did not argue.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For the next hour, they scrounged through the grass like foxhounds sniffing for a game scent.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They parted the grass, picking up small little black spheres and dropping them into their sacks.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Their hands pruned from the dew and chlorophyll, their fingers went and cold and were wrapped in soil from scraping the dirt, and their knees were caked with grassy green-yellow residue. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Ricardo looked over to Nino, and quickly grabbed his hand.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino went rigid and watched his father whose eyes were intently staring at the black orb between his fingers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“This is not an olive.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“It looks like an olive.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Eat it then.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo nodded at Nino and sat back in expectation.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino examined the olive in his hand once more, then popped it in his mouth and bit, expecting the juicy saltiness to gush and the seed to wedge between his teeth, but he instead felt the grotesque, slimy crumble of something much different.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It tasted bitter and revolting.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He spit out the chunks and wiped his mouth after coughing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino looked up to his father who sat back on his palms with a nearly-imperceptible satisfaction.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“What is that?” Nino choked out, spitting and wiping his tongue.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Goat shit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Inconveniently, it looks a lot like an olive.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But it’s too dry and not smooth enough.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“It looked a little past ripe, not like shit.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“They go pink when they’re past ripe.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Like this,” Ricardo said, picking up a pink, marble-skinned orb.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“They go pink.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If it’s not pink and it’s not smooth, it’s goat shit.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You have to know the difference, because even a rotten-skinned olive can still make good oil.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You let me eat goat shit?” Nino asked incredulously.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In a thunderous moment not longer than a blink of an eye, Nino received an answer to the profound question that provoked him to spy on his father, an answer to that bottomless void of his soul where he felt nothing, an answer to whether or not he could ever feel.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo smiled at him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And, all at once, Nino felt something within himself, new and foreign and scary, boiling to the top of his face, peeling his lips like a whistling kettle.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He smiled back.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At that moment, he knew he had a soul.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">They worked the rest of the day together in amicable silence.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They often looked to one another, and while their faces did not smile, their eyes did.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Once they had cleared the grass of olives that fell in the night, they laid the cloth tarp around the base of the tree.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They covered the ground beneath the tree outward from the trunk, radially like a large skirt, and when the cloth was completely overlapped and they had covered every inch of grass, Ricardo reached up and shook a branch.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The leaves shivered and rains of olives dropped onto the cloth.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo then pulled out a fascine knife and hewed smaller branches off of the main bough.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino quickly darted to grab the discarded branches, careful not to step on any olives, and then proceeded to strip the twigs of their olives and toss them beyond the cloth dress under the large tree.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Once a tree was completely strewn of its olives, they wrapped the cloth up together and funneled it into large hemp sacks.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then they repeated the process on the next tree.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">By the time the sun set, they had filled four crates of olives, enough to make about ten liters of oil.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The farm owner paid them for their work, and they walked back home with their tools slung across their shoulders.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At home, they stuffed the tools into the corner where they belonged and Nino sat down at the wood table.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He leaned his head forward onto his hands and his stomach bubbled like a caustic cauldron.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was dusk yet he still felt the broiling heat from the sun on his skin and his limbs felt like the brittle branches of the trees he had snapped all day long.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Upon sitting, he had never felt so relieved.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I would not have made that much without you today,” Ricardo said.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino nodded without lifting his head.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was silent.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo uneasily shifted his weight, looking at his beaten son.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Are you hungry?” Ricardo asked weakly, already knowing the answer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Usually, Nino left out a pot of rice or soup for Ricardo, but they had had no food today and Nino looked incapable of even moving.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I will go get some food, you rest,” Ricardo said.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino grunted in an affirmative tone and Ricardo set off to the nearest thing to his shack: the abbey.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">He arrived without fanfare.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The walk was quick and the night air was brisk.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo could seldom remember the last time he went walking in the evening.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For the last decade, he had strictly dictated his daily life to be unchanging.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It helped him to wean his mind off of the pain and the memories and had lulled his heart into a slumber so cavernous that no external woes could locate him in the abyssal seclusion of his grief.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But, now, today, after having worked with the boy—no, his son—and now walking in the night again—something he had not done since he had hauled the body of his wife to her unmarked, disgraceful grave—he felt that maybe something was changing within him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Or, at least, perhaps a portion of his grief may have been pierced to reveal that time had made it a hollow edifice of its one violently vivid and painful self.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">He approached the abbey quietly and entered the vestibule.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The torch at the spires’ stairs was out and a dull glow bounced from the corridor leading to the chapel.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo moved to the chapel and stood in the back of the nave while he watched the priest sitting in front of a dozen flickering candles beneath a stained-glass window depicting the crucifixion.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Hello,” Ricardo said with a cough.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest snorted loudly as if jarred from sleep and jumped from his kneeling position in front of the candles.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He turned and squinted into the darkness while wrapping his robes about himself.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Who is that?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Hello?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I demand you name yourself, in the presence of the Lord, qualify yourself!” he said quickly and frightfully.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He leaned forward and applied his beady eyes to the shadowy recess of the chapel’s main hall.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“It is I, Ricardo de Ossorio Guerin,” Ricardo said as he approached.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Each footstep was like a cannon’s boom in the darkness.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Ah, Ricardo,” the priest said as he entered into the bowl of orange light.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“What brings you here tonight?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Is Nino alright?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Yes, he is well, Father,” Ricardo stated.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“This may sound odd, but,” Ricardo hesitated.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest snapped his attention to Ricardo, and he continued.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Could you cook something for me?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I will pay.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I need to take something home for Nino.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The priest clapped his hands together and exhaled happily, shaking his clasped hands while he answered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I would be delighted to.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For Nino, anything<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You, too, Ricardo,” he said as he turned and blew out the candles at the altar and closed the myriad splayed texts around the light.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He continued to speak quickly and lightly as he put one of the candles into a lantern.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“He is a wonderful boy, you know, very bright, very sharp, excellent at his studies, but he has quite a peculiar head on about him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Have you noticed?” the priest rambled as he swayed his long, black robes side-to-side in step, the lantern swinging in his loose grip to throw the long, warping shadows of the pews high into the arched ceiling.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Are you going to the solstice festivals in town this weekend?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This year it is our village to host.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There will be over two thousand people here for it, bigger than last year by far.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You should go, Nino will want to go, he has told me so.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>If you do not wish to go, of course, I can take him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But, on the subject of Nino, he says some of the most peculiar things.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Nino and I don’t talk, Father,” Ricardo said as he followed behind the priest.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Really?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He can hardly stop when I see him.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo responded only with a grunt which drew confusion from the priest.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You do not seem to be in high spirits, Ricardo, well, lower than usual.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Is Nino not well?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Is he injured?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>From what I know, he cooks every night.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“He worked all day in the fields with me and he is too tired to cook.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I told him to rest, I would get food.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“The fields?” the priest responded as if he had misheard.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“He was in the olive fields with you, today, picking olives?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Yes.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He helped a lot.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Hm,” the priest responded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He led Ricardo into a tight brick hall with low ceilings and exited at the abbey’s storeroom.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The abbey was large and cavernous, but was impure to its name since it had only one resident and not a cloistered choir of monks.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Centuries before, monks had roamed the halls and lived at the abbey, but during a vicious storm, the living quarters adjacent to the chapel had been dashed to pieces.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What was left was scuttled and the grounds instead turned to a garden.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The monks moved to a welcoming new monastery in the north, further from the sea, believing that God had cursed this abbey.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Despite its deprecated function as an abbey, the name still stuck.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>From then on, a single priest lived in the chapel spire alone except for the charity of a few pious individuals in the town who would come to keep him company.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Over time, new priests would come from the north to take tenure at the Abbey de Moriles to relieve the old one.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The position was often for life, and often was an informal banishment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This meant any priest curating the abbey often welcomed guests from the town.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The current priest welcomed children to his abbey where he taught them scripture and how to till the soil which the priest believed promoted the virtues of patience, honesty, and hard work.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I did not think Nino would take to field work, not after our talks and having known his mother.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“He said he wanted to go so that he could get to know me, because he needed to know himself.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I know you speak to him more than I do, so does this mean anything to you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Hm,” the priest repeated.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“It’s certainly a queer thing to say, Ricardo,” the priest said with long, drawn-out syllables.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He tidied himself with setting a pot to boil and rummaging in the dry stores, but he was instead spending the time looking busy to calm his nerves.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Why?” Ricardo asked earnestly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Because he has often spoken to me about,” the priest hesitated, “about other things, about how much he does <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">not</i> want to share the same path in life that you have chosen,” the priest said with an innocent smile as he appeared with two large potatoes and dropped them into the pot.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He set about ripping chunks of a loaf of bread apart and dumping them into the brine while also dropping in a few thin slices of salted jerky meat from a jar.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“What has he said?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“He often asks about his mother and wishes to follow her examples.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Of course, not literally, but follow her as a moral example.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Perhaps, even, if I am so bold, he has made mentions about wishing to perhaps cloister himself into a monastery to the north.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But, boys of his age do talk of much, Ricardo,” he said with a half-laugh and a shake of his head.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“He’s said nothing of the sort to me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Would he, though, Ricardo?” the priest responded with faux honesty.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He turned to face Ricardo and drew his eyebrows high and his lips low.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You haven’t been very forthcoming with your son.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He has told me much, about how there is not much communication between you two.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I pray often for you both.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Those are my matters, priest,” Ricardo said flatly, but with enough of a growl in his voice to make his point known.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Your matters are God.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Let us not try and inform one another on where not to step.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Yes, fair,” the priest said as he stepped back and hunched his back in bowing prostration.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I am sorry if I offended you,” the priest said with a convincing humility.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“No, I am sorry, this is all new to me,” Ricardo said and eased back with a sigh.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Today was new to me with Nino.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was, more or less, our first day together.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And now, you say this, and I realize that I—that I barely know the boy in my home.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I say this in friendship, Ricardo, but…perhaps you do not.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo looked to the priest with sunken eyes, shadowed in his doubt and his fear.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I see much of his mother in him, and I sometimes see none of him in you, but I mean this in no insulting way, Ricardo, honestly by the Virgin Mary.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Even, dare I say, sometimes I feel as if I could have been the boy’s father,” the priest said in pretend harmlessness.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo furrowed his brow then leaned on the wall.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Before he could address those words, the priest spoke again.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“In any case, I believe this is ready,” he said as he lifted the pot from the fire.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He set the pot down in front of Ricardo and put a cast lid on.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You’ve given me much to think about, priest,” Ricardo said.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Thank you for the food, I will have Nino bring it by tomorrow.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>How much do I owe you?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Nothing, Ricardo, your words are payment enough for a lonely man such as myself.”</p> <span style="font-size:11.0pt;line-height:200%;font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri;mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:EN-US;mso-fareast-language:EN-US;mso-bidi-language:AR-SA"><br /> </span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height:200%"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">Chapter V</i></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Hogueras de San Juan, the Bonfires of Saint John, was a holiday assimilated into Christian theology originally from the pagan tradition of midsummer, marking it as a festival of not only agricultural importance, for it was on the summer solstice that the festival occurred, but also of religious importance for it is exactly six months from the eve of the birth of Jesus Christ.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For the town of Moriles, in this specific year, it was their turn to host the festival.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Four surrounding towns converged upon their wide, flat streets and pitched tents along the river, suffocating every avenue with a human deluge.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In total, two thousand people swept down into the village and when they all left the next morning, they would take with them a tale of two men’s deaths.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">In the days leading up to the festival, every craftsmen and merchant began to snatch up any loose materials or products they could in time for the coming crowds. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The merchants, in particular, arrived early with their traveling families and staked booths and tents on the main thoroughfare.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Half of them were gypsies, and while the town had a natural disdain for such nomadic people (and usually found an unrelated theft or two to blame on to them), they were begrudgingly allowed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They mostly congregated around the wooden stage in the center of the forum, their beige tent peaks peeking over the edge of the gallows floor.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The merchant children ran and played with the local children while their fathers haggled over both space and supplies.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">One of the many squabbles was a merchant who set up his wares in front of a baker’s shop.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The baker wanted the merchant to move elsewhere believing the merchant would both detract from his customers and also effectively hide the bakery outright.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The merchant indignantly refused.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They came to a mutual agreement when the baker gave the merchant five loaves of bread and a small jug of olive oil to relocate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The baker would remember the merchant’s name and in coming years, he would make sure to equally extort him the next time the festival were to be hosted in his own town.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Many of the laborers in the village were told that the fields, vineyards, and orchards were closed on the days leading up to the festivals.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The owners of the properties were preparing their finest batches with only a skilled handful of workers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was well-known that the festival brought enormous amounts of money into whichever city was lucky enough to host, and every person who came never wanted to leave empty-handed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This worked in equal response, however, for when the festival was outside of Moriles, the population would return with gifts and trinkets of their light travels.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">While Nino had in previous years attended the summer solstice festival in the company of the priest, Ricardo de Ossorio Guerin had always stayed home and acted as if the day were no different than any other day without work, spending the time alone to wordlessly sharpen his tools.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>This was a weekly tradition for the calm Sunday afternoons when Nino went to church, leaving Ricardo to routinely grind his fascine knives, mend his tarps, and occasionally sew new soles to his boots.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The summer solstice was no different.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">On the eve of the festival, Ricardo sat by his grinding wheel in the corner of their small, dirt-floored shack.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He pumped the foot pedal and the porous white wheel spun frantically as he moved a knife over it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The sparks shot into a dark corner where spider-webs rippled with momentary light.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo finished one knife, placing it into a water bucket, and grabbed another longer one, a machete, and began to slide it back and forth over the wheel.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His gloved hands felt the heat of the blade and the wheel groaned loudly, but he still heard his son awake in the next room.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino said nothing as he passed by his father and went to the kitchen.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Within an hour, Nino had a pot of rice ready and both men were quietly eating at their wood table.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The heavy sounds of the wheel still lingered in their ears and the silence felt like a hanging weight on the thick, humid air.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I am going to the festival today,” Nino said without looking up from his bowl.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Do you want me to buy you anything?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I hear there will be blacksmiths from Porcuna.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They will have new knives.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“My knives are fine,” Ricardo replied plainly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They sat again silent.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A minute passed with the sounds of spoons rapping on bowls before Ricardo spoke.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Is there anything you wish to buy?” Ricardo asked awkwardly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He was attempting to speak more to his son, especially after the meeting with the priest, but it was not an easy task for him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A sense of dread and cowardice crept up in him, but he continued.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I do not know,” Nino answered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“If I see something, it would be nice to be able to buy it.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo nodded and stood, walked to his side of their shared home and produced a bag of coins.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He set the bag down and pushed it across the table then returned to his rice.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“All of it?” Nino asked, looking at the heavy bag.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I would not have made that much by myself.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It’s not mine, it is yours.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Thank you,” Nino said as he swiped the bag and tied it to his belt tightly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As he did, Ricardo looked to his son and allowed his mind to do something it had not done in years: to wonder.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo hesitated before he spoke then quickly spat out another question.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“What do you think you will buy?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Um,” Nino said in thought.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Last year, there were many foods.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Things I have never heard of or tasted.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And there are dancers, I would like to give them some money.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They dance so well, the gypsies especially.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And perhaps a cross, I am the only boy who does not wear one on Sundays.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“A cross,” Ricardo repeated.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He thought again of what the priest said, that Nino had expressed interest in becoming a monk.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I would like to stay until night, though,” Nino said absently.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I’ve never seen the bonfires.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest takes me back after the parade.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I used to be there for the fires,” Ricardo responded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“With your mother.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You have never asked me about her.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I did not think you wanted to talk about her.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You ask the priest, though?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“He talks often of her, I do not ask,” Nino said softly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“He never speaks about her really, though, just about how she was beautiful and wonderful and a saint.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Her name was Amaranta,” Ricardo said nervously.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Did you know that?” he asked, searching his son’s face for a look of respect or quiescent dignity.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino nodded blankly, and Ricardo nodded back and sulked.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Suddenly, Ricardo began to think of his wife once more.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The things he had learned to block out, the grief and the loneliness, were coming back with each quiet moment that he had to sit with his thoughts.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He began to count the seconds between their responses, devoting his brain to that simple task and not to the acknowledgment of long unhealed wounds.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“She liked to sing?” Nino asked slowly, fumbling his words as he spoke, sensing his father’s vulnerability.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo looked to the side and nodded, speaking to the floor with a tremulous weakness in his voice.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“She did, when she cooked, and she loved flowers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She would steal them when in bloom from the church’s gardens, but I do not think the priest noticed.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo sighed deeply, and abandoned counting.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I miss her dearly,” he admitted.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They sat again in silence.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The far-off sounds of the festival began to dully echo into their hut, the faded hum of horses and yells and bells.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You said you went to the festivals with her?”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Jumped the fires?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“When we were young, we did.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Every year.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Over and over before we went into the sea.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“The priest would always push me home at dusk,” Nino said with a slight pout.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I have not done that.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I have wanted to.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They shared another quiet moment, and both came to the same conclusion but neither found the words to say it.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">They both spoke at once: “Would you—“, “You haven’t ever—“ </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">They both quieted.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then, Ricardo shook the dust from his hair and looked straight into the dirty gold eyes of his wife and his son: “Let’s go to the festival, we will jump the fires together.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino nodded, not breaking eye contact.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then they each barely smiled, but it was enough, and the chasm within each of them, between each of them, began to inch shut.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">They walked together into town to the festival.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As they passed the abbey, Nino asked Ricardo to wait so he could fetch the priest.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>When the priest found out that Ricardo, too, was joining them, he quickly recused himself and said he would meet with them later on for he had to tend to some personal matters first, so both of the de Ossorio Guerins walked to town together.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The town itself, barely more than two dozen streets, was lost in the sea of people.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The roofs of buildings barely stood above the throngs of people.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Smoke billowed up from numerous small cook fires around town, and from a distance, the town itself seemed to shake and shudder with the people, pounding and pumping and pulsing the very earth as they jeered, clapped, and sung.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Every street smelled of a hundred different smells: the aroma of burning wood, the pungent odor of animals and their excrement, the freshness of fruits of all types, the allure of cooking meats and frying fish, and the enchantment of perfumes on women.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The streets lie in shade from the canopy of the many merchant’s overhead silks, each a uniquely different type of exquisite: purples and golds shimmering with resplendent strips of beads and gemstones hanging like the dew on leaves; greens and blues like the meadows and the sky with woven patterns of turquoise and silver; reds and oranges like a fiery snake pressed into the very fabric and waiting to strike while watching from the entwined obsidian eyes with opaline and peridot scales.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The merchants, each with any hundreds of items, yelled and smiled in mirth and in success, welcoming everyone with a stray eye to come and look at the finest things to ever come to Moriles: bags of spices and teas from the New World; tonics for any ailment and rosaries for any disease; the finest hats made by anyone in forty leagues; jewelry that weighed heavy as stones and shone like radiant stars against dark sky even amidst the blinding brightness of afternoon.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There were shoemakers, blacksmiths, carpenters, distillers, perfumers, tanners, tailors, and many more than Nino couldn’t point out. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Ricardo and Nino became part of the crowds, flowing from one stall to the next like flotsam in a stream.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino hesitantly led, looking back to his father often to make sure they had not lost each other and Ricardo followed him wordlessly with a nod.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As they passed from stall to stall, they were pushed and shoved, elbowed and jostled, but that was a normal part of the experience—an experience that Ricardo was wholly unready for.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo, having been absent so long from both the festivals and from merriment, clenched his jaw and did not speak as anxiety and fear began to grip him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino wound from one merchant to the next, and at each stop, he would look at his father for any sign of interest.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He mistook Ricardo’s apprehension and distress for judgment and disdain and Nino quickly fell into a self-conscious torpor.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">They found themselves in front of a merchant with a colorful medley of melons, peaches, cherries, pears, and more.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino listlessly scanned the produce then looked to his father who seemed more interested in staring straight ahead as in a daze, not blinking or looking at anything in particular.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Although Nino wanted to buy something from the fruit merchant who was playfully slapping him on the shoulder, he didn’t want to seem wasteful in front of his father nor did he wish to brazenly spend money. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>However, when he looked upon the stall and noticed honey and figs, he had thought of all of the years that he had to rely on the grace of the priest to buy him food.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At past festivals, the priest exercised much indecision before buying anything for Nino, and only ever in minute quantities.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Every gift from the priest always came with excessive words of blessings, virtues, and lessons to be remembered, making sure that Nino never truly enjoyed the meager offering.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">But, now, he had enough money and the priest wasn’t here…so he looked to his father again, hoping to see some look of acknowledgment to proceed and, to his amazement, he saw his father transfixed upon the figs with a look of desire that equaled his own.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The boy quickly shoved a few coins into the merchant’s hand and grabbed a handful for himself and a handful for his father.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo at first declined, but Nino shoved the figs into his hands, making it well known that if Ricardo did not grasp them, they’d be welcomed by the dirt underfoot.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Ricardo, without an option now, hesitantly bit into one.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino watched and smiled as Ricardo’s eyes burst like kindling on a flame at the sudden taste.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It had been years since he had had anything exotic, and it had been longer since he had had figs.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But, with this fig, he remembered something even more important than simply having not had exotic fruits in a long time; he remembered pleasures.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Pleasures, even those as basic as a sweet fig, had been woefully absent in Ricardo’s life for the last ten years, and with one bite, a pubescent desire reawakened within him, a long-since forgotten hunger, a need to satisfy desires that had been unattended for far too long.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Within a moment, he had devoured every fig in his hand.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He ravenously licked the honey from his fingers after he finished, unaware of anything else in the world but the sweetness that he had all but forgotten, and then he noticed Nino smiling at him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">He hid his fingers and, in his embarrassment, suggested pursuing more food at the next merchant stall, to which Nino agreed heartily.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The boy bounded through the crowd and Ricardo followed with zeal, and within an hour, they had eaten shrimp and crab from an old fisherman, a bowl of bean stew from a farmer and his daughter, each had devoured a generous link of chorizo sausage by a local (and somewhat inebriated) butcher, baklava from a Greek merchant, and finished off by finding the source of their butcher’s merriment by each enjoying a glass of heavily-fermented apple cider.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">They sat on the edge of the open forum where benches had been erected from piles of discarded wood waiting to be the fuel for the midnight revelry.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Both of the de Ossorio Guerins sat in content bliss, each belching with a wink and a laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As they sat hazy and happy with their bloated bellies and docile inebriation, loud horns blew from the edge of town.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then, as if a flood of sound, many of the merchants began to move their kiosks from the thoroughfare and people swept to the sides of the streets with laughter and clapping.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A loud drum beat bounced off of the beige stone walls of the city and the sounds of clacking castanets, hollow tambori hits, palm-slapped rhythms on the back of guitars, and the screeching joyous laugh of a singular master of ceremonies sat atop the throbbing acoustic wave.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>People clapped to the rhythm and children jumped between adult legs to see the source of the sound.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Ricardo looked to Nino who was absent-mindedly tapping his foot to the beat.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo smiled to him then began clapping.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino, still unaccustomed to the sight of a smile on his father’s face or of jocund festivity in his father’s eyes, stared blankly before Ricardo picked Nino’s hands up (the first time Nino had felt his father’s touch to his memory), and began smacking them together for him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Finally, Nino broke into clapping too, and they each clapped to the beat tipsily.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The sounds became sights as the parade made its way to the center of the town.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The parade was led by dancing women, gypsies with gold tassels on long, wrapped purple silks swathed from their feet to their hips to their breast in one long sheet.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They lightly held onto additional silks, twirling and throwing them into the air, each hanging and billowing like lavender clouds before the gypsies walked through the silks or twisted them back like smoke.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>On their wrists hung bells that pulsed to the beat as they jumped and leaped, grabbing people from the crowd and twirling them, dashing between men and leaning into them like a cat before pouncing back into the street.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They entered the forum, spreading out around the gallows stage, darting back and forth for the encircled crowd.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">After a few minutes, the gypsy dancer settled and bowed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The crowd cheered and tossed coins to the open center of the forum.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino pulled out a coin and his father nodded as he scampered between people and held it out for a gypsy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She thanked him and kissed him on the cheek to the cheer of the crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino blushed and slid back to his father to find the priest now standing next to Ricardo.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest had just arrived and sought out Ricardo and Nino and was now apathetically smiling down at Nino.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Hello Father,” Nino said to the priest with a blush as he sat back down next to his father.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“She kissed me,” he whispered to Ricardo.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Do not be tempted, Nino,” the priest said as if Nino’s comment was meant for him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“They are but gypsies, they’ll be gone tomorrow and with a lot more than what you freely give them.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“There’s no harm in it, let him be,” Ricardo said to the priest unfazed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He leaned back and folded his hands on his lap with a sense of relaxation and pleasure.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest noticed this, and with unease, focused on Nino.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Have you had fun today?” he asked innocently.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Oh yes, we ate figs and honey and shrimp, oh and some stew, plus some baklava, and we had some of the cider, a bit rotten but that’s the way it is supposed to be, no?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“It is, but moderation is the key,” the priest said solemnly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I think you need some, Father, and without moderation,” Ricardo said with a smile as he turned to him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest smiled perfunctorily then shook his head to say no.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I’ll get it,” Ricardo said as if he did not notice the priest’s refusal.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He got up, twisted his back, and launched into the crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest slumped down next to Nino and sighed deeply.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Your father seems well.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Yes, he is.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We both are.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“What is responsible for this sudden change?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I’m—not so sure, Father.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I guess it all happened because I began to wonder about him.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“And you never had before?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I told you all you wished to know, what more was there to know?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I don’t know,” Nino sputtered, “it’s just different when you say it than when I watched him and worked with him.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“And you?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For ten years, your entire life, he has shown no interest in you, and now you are without reservation at this distinct change?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It is not normal, my son, changes like these, so rapidly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They could be signs of certain madnesses—rabies, or the French Gout, or even the work of a more sinister nature.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“No no!” Nino said with a laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You’re very far off, Father, it’s not a malady or a sickness!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He is just…happy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And I am too.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I am having a good time, is it so necessary to try and diagnose an issue where none exists?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Nino, it is my experience as a man of God that nothing of this sort happens without an issue being present—it just has not presented itself yet.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest sighed and nodded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“But, if you say so.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Were you going home soon?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“We’re staying for the bonfires,” Nino said with a large, toothy grin.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest raised his eyebrows and nodded with contempt masked behind concern.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Be careful, Nino, they can be dangerous for boys.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“He’ll be fine,” Ricardo said as he slid back to them, holding out a large mug of cider for the priest, one for himself, and a smaller one for Nino.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest stood up, thanked Ricardo, and Ricardo reclaimed his seat next to his son.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Will you join us?” Nino asked as he took a small sip and winced.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I couldn’t,” the priest said as he began to ramble reasons.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Come now,” Ricardo said as his cheeks flushed with a big gulp of the cider.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You must,” he said with a broad smile and an abashed belch.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest waved his hands for words he could not find and sighed before agreeing only to the terms that he would see how he felt. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“For now, stay,” Ricardo said as he slid over and made room for the priest.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The gypsies scraped the coins off the ground, bowed to another cheer from the crowd, and then they dispersed as all attention returned to the sound of the drums.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A marching procession of locals entered into the square, lines of broad, fat men with deep-bellied guitarros strummed behind lines of men puffing into wet dulzanias who stood behind a line of men with bandurrias.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>At the back was a small army of boys and girls, all slapping the beat onto tamboris and drums, each smiling to be in the parade as their names were happily called out from the bystanders in the crowd and would momentarily stop to wave to their mothers and fathers before rejoining the rhythm and the procession of the traditional jota music.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then burst a dozen dancers, wrapped in white to their knees and then black coat and pants covered in a bright red sash, with one hand on their head with a clapping pair of castanets and their other hand swirling a brimmed hat back and forth.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The dancers swirled in choreographed exactitude, putting the exotic and free-form bounding of the gypsies to shame with precision and practice.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>From the center of the musicians came a man, singing so loud that his voice broke a few times. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He sang with wry humor of life, love, weddings, and religion.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He twirled as he sang, his voice bounding above the instruments, leading like a torch in the night, and the crowd began to sing the traditional songs with him.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">After a rousing half-dozen songs, he finished with a long-held crescendo that reverberated brilliantly and quivered with intensity which he ended sharply.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A fantastically eerie echo now stood in the sudden stillness and he graciously bowed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then, the crowd erupted and swallowed the dancers, musicians, and singer whole, throwing arms around their shoulders and shoving drinks and food into their hands, hoisting them up with praise and weighing them down with gifts.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Nino and Ricardo furiously clapped above their heads and whistled distinctly while the priest sedately clapped.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He watched Nino and Ricardo cheering, his mouth a pursed slit and his eyes narrow daggers.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He saw the smile on Nino’s face and no longer saw the somber and collected youth that he believed would be perfect for the quiet monastic study of texts.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He watched Ricardo whose broken soul was a constant that could always make him feel better, for he survived Amaranta’s death with more dignity and self-respect than Ricardo.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But, now, Ricardo was blissfully happy, euphoric and ecstatic—it was disrespectful, honestly, to Amaranta’s memory.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>It was blasphemous.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And so the composed, calculating priest clapped evenly and unexcitedly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The governor made his way to the stage and stood in front of the retired gallows, wearing a crisp suit and a politician’s smile, and asked for the crowd’s attention repeated times until the crowd was silent enough for him to pause, adjust his suit in their dwindling focus, then begin.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His words washed over them without purpose.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Only one-fifth of the people were even from his own town of Moriles, but with the other village’s people, so too came their governors whom Moriles’ governer individually thanked, pointing to the gallows pole behind him which held the arrows pointing to every surrounding village, and with each name he announced, the respective governor stood and the townsfolk of that village cheered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After the requisite thanks, praises, and self-serving compliments were out of the way, the governor spoke of the night’s upcoming events.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“We will have the bonfires on the river banks,” he said to a loud cheer.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“But, before then,” he said tightly, enjoying the focus of the crowd, “the feast!” They all cheered again.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“But, no feast is complete without the queen, so I present to you, our Belleza!” the governor said, sweeping his arm to a balcony in the back of the forum.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A woman waved cheerily, a woman who was arresting with her honey almond skin and dazzling with her elegant sea-blue eyes, dressed in a virginal white dress with gold trim, and with a radiant smile tucked between tufts of lightly-curled black hair that fell like dollops of dark cream down her face and onto her shoulder.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Two little girls stood at her sides, dressed in the same white as she, and they jumped up and down to wave at people as well.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>However, and quite oddly, the two little girls were of a fair white skin and their faces had the distinctly large eyes and thin noses of French ancestry.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But these subtleties were lost on everyone looking at the balcony considering no one was looking at them—the overwhelming beauty of the ripe, blossoming flower of the Belleza commanded the gaze of men and women alike.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Men below professed undying love in loud drunk shouts and shot kisses at her like volleys of arrows.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>After the crowd calmed, the governor retook their attention.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“We in Moriles are very proud of her,” he said with a snigger that caught like wildfire between all men present, but he quickly hushed them, “and after the feast, you all shall be in awe as we are in awe every day of her, as she lights the first bonfire at midnight!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The crowd erupted and cheered, the Belleza waved and retreated into her building, and the governor rejoined the festival.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“She is astonishing,” the priest said breathlessly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“They always are,” Ricardo responded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Every time, they find a new Belleza, and she’s only more beautiful than any other woman ever seen.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Every time,” he said uninterested.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I try to stay out of it, for the sake of the church and the obvious temptation of sin, but—“ the priest stammered.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You’re human, Father, no shame,” Ricardo said with a smile as he finished his mug of cider.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Let me get you another,” he said as he took the priest’s mug.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest still looked at the balcony where the Belleza had stood, blinking and shaking head in disbelief.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He hadn’t seen a woman so radiantly gorgeous since Amaranta, and not even she was like this one, no, this one was as if the sunlight itself soaked into her skin and she glowed like an angel.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest fell back onto the bench as if struck, moaning and cursing himself in low tongues.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Are you okay?” Nino asked, scooting closer to the priest.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino was visibly intoxicated now, smiling without purpose or reason and red in the cheeks.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His attention moved from the priest to the crowd and kept waving at anyone who would wave back, yelling out blessings and good fortune to them.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I am fine,” the priest responded.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Nino, do you still feel as you did?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>About your soul?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Nino turned his gaze from the crowd and looked to the priest and the smile wiped from his face.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I have not thought on it, Father,” he admitted.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Well, think on it now, for me, Nino.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino looked down in thought.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You spoke of an emptiness within you, something hollow that could not be filled.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Is this void filling?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Can you now <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">feel</i> your soul as you once thought you could not?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I—“ Nino hesitated.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I do not feel a gap within me anymore, and I can now hardly imagine there ever was one,” he said honestly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then, without warning and much to his surprise and the priest’s chagrin, he belched.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Then, he fell backwards onto the bench and began laughing so hard that his face turned the color of an apple and he struggled for air.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest watched without amusement.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Ricardo came back now with two more large mugs of cider and handed one to the priest.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest declined, but Ricardo forced it into his hand in much the same way Nino had forced the figs into his own.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“It’s for your own good, Father,” Ricardo said, wrapping the priest’s finical fingers around the mug and making him support the weight.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He then tipped his mug into the priest’s, nodded, and then they drank.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">As night fell, torches rose, and the noise never ended.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Crickets joined the bands and the dancing went on long into the night.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The feast was operated by a cadre of cooks, with dozens of pigs roasting over a communal coal bed and a dozen pots of stews frothing.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Lines of bakers kneaded dough and cooked it, producing a dozen new loaves every other minute which were quickly sliced and snatched.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>On the gallows, a table was set up for all the governors and their food brought to them whereas everyone else walked in a line and grabbed scraps from the spitted pork and ladled themselves helpings from the plentiful cauldrons.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Nino found himself dancing with the daughter of the cook in charge of the bean stew he had eaten earlier.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He danced with one hand on his head the other on his hip, jumping on one foot in circles while the girl swung around in the crook of his arm.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Men on the outskirts laughed and cheered them on as the band played the same song constant for ten minutes to let them go and go and go, until finally, Nino spun too much and fell in his inebriation and the crowd swelled upon him and lifted him up and congratulated him.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He laughed and howled and said he was in love with the world, and all the world that held him up professed love back as they threw him into a new dance with another young girl.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He bowed with a stumble and a smile then launched into the dance and the girl was quickly laughing and moving with him. <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Before long her lips were on his neck between songs and after that they were on his lips in the shadows.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Ricardo and the priest sat on a bench on the edge of the forum under a torch while Nino danced.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo’s large build and thick body held a staunch rebellion against the effects of the alcohol, but the priest’s gaunt epicene frame did not fare so well.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest hung his head and his limbs were like a marionette’s, moving with extra inertia and wavering before flopping back down.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His head lolled on his neck like a well-oiled joint, bobbing back and forth.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Eat more, Father, you don’t want to be ill,” Ricardo said, handing his bread to the priest.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest took it and lazily bit off a chunk that went soggy in his slack-jaw laced breath.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“She was astonishing, Ricardo,” the priest repeated.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You saw her?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I did, Father.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Amazing, such beauty, such beauty…”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He took another swiping bite of the bread in his hand and his head rolled to the side.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Ah, women,” he said with a laugh crossed with a hiccup.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“A sin I am destined to repeat, Ricardo.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I am sure we all have sinned, Father.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>As Ricardo said these words, he could see Nino grabbing the girl he was dancing with and whispering something into her ear.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She nodded and he then jumped from the clearing and into the thick crowd.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino emerged in front of both men, out of breath and smiling ear to ear.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Father,” he choked out as he stared at Ricardo.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo told him to catch his breath and Nino smiled at both the priest and Ricardo as he stood tall and breathed deeply.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I got this for you,” Nino said as he pulled something from his belt, wrapped in a thick leather cloth.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I wanted to give it to you later, but, the dancing is making it hurt and I do not want to lose it, so…” he said forcing the gift into his father’s lap.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He then waved and fled back to the dance and resumed almost without missing a beat. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Hmph,” the priest said as he leaned forward.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He propped himself on his elbow, twisting his head as he looked at Ricardo.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He took another bite of the bread, violently rending off a chunk of the crust and eating it with a flopping jaw.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“He is a good boy, Ricardo,” he said begrudgingly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo nodded with a smile growing on his lips as his son twirled round and round with a girl who fell into his arms like warm chocolate.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo watched and remnants of memory and feelings welled within him like fireflies at dusk, small warm traces that did not hurt and instead illuminated forgotten shards of bliss in his fractured past.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You are quite lucky he turned out to be as good as he is, Ricardo.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No man is perfect, none enough to raise a perfect boy.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Not even me, I am not a perfect man, Ricardo, far from it, far far from it!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>That may surprise you, but I am not, I know,” he rambled.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo nodded and watched Nino as the priest spoke.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo’s slight grin burst into a full smile when he saw Nino not-so-secretly kiss the girl he danced with, stealing her lips in the middle of a direction change.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For only a moment, the girl went flush red and Nino’s eyes found his father in the crowd staring at him and Ricardo beamed at his son.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“A smile!” the priest said and brought Ricardo’s attention back.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“You have not done that since dear sweet Amaranta was called back by God, Ricardo!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What is this new change in you, hm?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I am not sure the reasons,” Ricardo said.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I feel that perhaps I have overlooked things in my life and thought they only would cause me grief, but truly, they only ever existed to cause me happiness.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“For a field worker,” the priest said with a stumble, “you sometimes say intelligent things.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I thought all of Nino’s sharpness was from his mother, but maybe I am wrong!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Who is to say,” Ricardo said and finished his cider.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He waved to the brewmaster across the yard and the brewmaster nodded and sent a girl to bring Ricardo another full mug.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He thanked the girl, gave her the coins, and began to drink.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Her, too, that waitress!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>So young, so fine, ah, to be young and able, Ricardo, I do wish I could be once more.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You’re lucky that no one can hear you, Father, they may think that you don’t take the word of God seriously with feelings like that,” Ricardo said with a sly grin that was lost on the priest.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Now, Ricardo, I believe it was you who told me not to step where I ought not, between you and Nino, and now you tell me how to be a priest?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I meant nothing by it, Father,” Ricardo responded without much attention, still watching Nino.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“No no no, Ricardo, I don’t think <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal">you</i> understand!” the priest continued.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Some people know, some do, that I am not exactly pure.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>God does as well, but He still sees fit for me to run His house, so fie with you who says I should not!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo sighed and let the priest ramble on.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“That is why I am here, in this shit-infested hovel of a town Moriles!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I was raised north of here, in a proper city, learned in a proper monastery, and when they found that I had a minor indiscretion with a baker’s daughter, well, they banished me here, yes, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">banished</i>.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Trust me when I say this is a punishment.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>We know of Moriles in the north, and we know that it is a prison to be cloistered here.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>There is no other priest who wants to lead the dim farmers and field workers and goat-herders of Moriles, men of such insignificant souls that God Himself has sought fit to not even have a proper church stand in your midst before blowing it to pieces!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“You ought to keep your voice down, Father,” Ricardo said with a hint of agitation, not breaking his gaze on Nino. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Speak to me if you wish to talk to me, Ricardo,” the priest said with a low tone like the slither of a snake.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo shut his eyes, took a deep calming breath, and turned to the priest.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“That’s better.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>You should know better than to disrespect a man of God.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>What were you staring at, hm?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>A failure of a boy, I should say,” the priest said with diffident venom.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo set his mug down slowly, but the priest did not notice as he continued talking.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“He had promise. He may have been a scholar, a man versed in the word of God.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But, then, ha, who knows how it happened?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>How you, the stolid and stupid Ricardo who hasn’t even noticed he has had a son, somehow becomes a father in the span of one summer?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And, the tragedy, the entire tragedy is that now he will just be you, a farmhand, hired help for the season.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He could have been more, Amaranta wanted him to be more.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She told me.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I warn you, priest, that you speak unkindly of many things.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I forgive you because of the drink, but I won’t forgive you any further than now.”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I need not your forgiveness, you need mine!” the priest seethed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Why should I need Ricardo de Ossorio Guerin’s forgiveness?!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>No, in fact, I want to give you my thanks, Ricardo,” he said with a malevolent regality, “because I have been as a father to your son for ten years, but now, no longer!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I resign from that abhorred post!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I now see that my time has been a waste and now, thank you!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I can resume my own tasks instead of babysitting your bastard!” he said with faux happiness and a tight-lipped spiteful smile.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>He grabbed his cider from the table and took a long gulp, wiped his mouth, and then continued while Ricardo sat rigidly still.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>In the torch light, Ricardo’s large frame, thick jaw, and gray clothes made him look not unlike a gargoyle, especially as the shadows pierced into his eye sockets leaving dark holes where a soul should be visible.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The color drained from Ricardo’s face, and with every word from the priest, something began to slip from him, like sand through his fingers and he felt a coldness creeping back into him, a coldness he felt the night he buried his bloody wife.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%"><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest continued: “I take him to church, I taught him to read, I taught him to cook, to clean, to shower, to pray, how to read the sky and how to read the predictions, I even had to tell him to not fondle himself! <span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I showed how to piss and not get it on his own feet like a degenerate, and you have done nothing but given him rice and grain and a roof.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I have created his mind, I’ve made a human out of him, and you’ve only kept him from dying on the street, like sheltering a stray dog!”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest squeaked and angrily gripped the table edge.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I had such hopes for him, and sometimes, I wondered if despite that hair of yours and that skin he has, ugly and dark like yours, despite it all…” the priest trailed off as his wavering finger tapped Ricardo’s exposed flesh.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">Then, the priest paused and sighed hard, preparing to admit a sealed and private wish that, in giving it the form of life by saying it out loud, would render it forever destroyed.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“I wondered if maybe part of him <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">was </i>mine, Ricardo, I did, I wondered that maybe he actually was and then that would all make sense and that would be why you cast him out, because secretly, somewhere, you knew he was not yours.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I thought, yes, maybe that was why you hated him, and so I took him in, and I did because I know beasts.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>I worked a farm when I was young, yes, I was not always soft-palmed, and I know the wild godless things out there.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>They don’t raise a runt if they can smell that it isn’t theirs, and that’s what you are, a beast, soulless and without a single touch of God in you.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>And however you had the love of Amaranta, who was like a choir of angels herself, I do not know.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>But, now, I see that Nino is in fact all yours, a dull farmhand like his father!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Luck though, by God, I can take one blessing out of this affair: Amaranta is lucky she died before she could see that he was the child of the husband she hated, because she surely would have hated that he was not mine!<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Why did you think she always came to the abbey?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For prayer?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>For me, Ricardo, for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style:normal">me</i>!”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">At that moment, the music ended and everyone applauded and whistled and jeered.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>During the animation, Ricardo stared at the priest.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest’s eyes wandered from Ricardo to the table to himself and back to Ricardo.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>His eyes were cold slits, frozen in a sneering expression.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo was blank and vacant.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">In the center of the forum, the governor retook the stage to announce that it was ten minutes until midnight and the bonfires would begin at the river shortly.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The Belleza stood on stage with the priest and held out a torch, saying that she was honored to be a part of the festival and asking for everyone to follow her to the beach.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>She was again trailed by two identically-dressed but very out-of-place little girls who bounded and leapt happily and playfully.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The crowds followed as if soldiers marching to war.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino pushed through the flow of people to come back to the bench where his father sat silently staring at the priest whose eyes were transfixed upon the Belleza.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“The bonfires, let’s go!” Nino said, tugging on his father’s arm.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo did not look to his son.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I will meet up with you in a few minutes, the priest and I must finish our drinks,” he said flatly.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“No, let us follow, let us follow her!” the priest said as he tried to stand.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Ricardo reached out and grabbed his robes and with one violent movement, threw him back down into a sitting position.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The priest was shocked and looked to both Nino and Ricardo in a stupor, then he focused on Ricardo and he saw something cold and lethal in his torch-lit face.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“We will be there soon, Nino,” Ricardo said once more.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>“Go on ahead.”<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino shrugged and jumped along, then turned and yelled back. </p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“Did you like it?<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>The knife?”</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">“I cannot wait to use it,” Ricardo said back, loud and flat while still staring at the priest and while his hand moved over Nino’s unopened gift in his lap, a brand new leather-shrouded fascine knife.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span>Nino was grabbed by a girl and disappeared into the crowd.<span style="mso-spacerun:yes"> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%">The entire city left to the bonfires and then it was silent in the forum except for the pleading of the priest for forgiveness and Ricardo’s heavy breathing as he wouldn’t stop.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="mso-margin-bottom-alt:auto;text-indent:.5in; line-height:200%"><o:p> </o:p></p>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-2686087705686398662011-05-10T11:23:00.002-07:002011-05-10T11:24:00.366-07:00Price of Paradise<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; "><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Listen to gulls popping and fishermen snoring on the pier.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Lie shirtless in a bed under a tall window with long curtains</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and roll lazy cigarettes. Listen to the radio as the sea breeze rolls in</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and stuffs salts and fish gut stink deep into burnt, red nostrils.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Sit up when suddenly the afternoon whispers die and the sands shuffle.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Look. See the crowd round the washed, bulbous white-yellow belly</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">that grinds the beach with each wave as hermit crabs run up her bloated legs.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Watch the sea cough your trash right back up to you.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Lay back down, slowly, and reach between the mattress and the wall.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Feel the cold comfort of that glass bottle, that saved Spanish brandy.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Open it. Take a big swig--burns good, doesn't it? Now light up.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Yeah, paradise always hurts someone a little bit.</p></span>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-43321837184596300942011-05-10T11:23:00.001-07:002011-05-10T11:23:34.803-07:00Accused<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; "><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I'm innocent,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">but not when the "victim" is pretty.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">And they'll crucify me</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">because it makes them look progressive.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Progress is putting a new face</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">on old hate,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">a moral make over.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Progress is accusing</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">those whose retaliations</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">are but sighs on bricks.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">No matter the outcome,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">they're giving the pretty one "justice",</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">even if there was none to give.</p></span>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-90773647942339511122011-05-10T11:22:00.001-07:002011-05-10T11:22:47.777-07:00Operating System<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; "><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Operate for me, operating system.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I know how you juggle your processes--</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">mutex and wait and signal and fork--</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and I want that to work for me.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I want to be able to stop a feeling and say</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">"wait your turn in the back store"</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">while I dutifully execute my tasks,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">removing the obligations and resources</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">until I am ready and able to complete them,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and they starve out while the</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">garbage collector returns their allocated spots to emptiness.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I know how you manage your memory--</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">dynamic loading, dynamic linking, overlays, or paging.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">My memory is similar, but it isn't exactly like that.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">When I draw an old feeling from my past,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I don't store it in local RAM; it goes behind my eyes</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">so that the regret application can access it at 20 nanoseconds</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">cycling every detail of that data in a single blink,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">so that it can be available when I accidentally think even for a moment</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and am crushed with every other missed opportunity and mistake.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I know that you have ways to stop an executing thread</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">from entering into the critical section</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">from sifting through unsorted heaps of corrupted data</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">fragmented along my life's physical memory.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Give me a synchronization monitor to #killall -9.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I want to know structure like you do:</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">trading pointers and addresses to threads efficiently,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">designed specifically so as not to miss a beat.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I want to be engineered to not say the wrong thing</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and to not lose track of myself when everything depends on me</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and to not deadlock--to not enter a cycle</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">while I wait for her</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and she waits for him</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and he waits for me</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and we all keep waiting.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Stuck without preemption,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">without an interrupt to break the circle.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">But, truly,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I don't want a system that doesn't make mistakes,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">like you are,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I want an algorithm that lets me live with them.</p></span>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-20579979572518940062011-04-07T07:26:00.000-07:002011-04-07T07:30:20.990-07:00Sum of its Parts<span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; "><span class="Apple-style-span" ><div>The oil-men wanted an opera house--</div><div>it was required for men of their class.</div><div><br /></div><div>They kicked the bums off the lot with dogs,</div><div>then changed their faces and gave them rivet guns</div><div>and smiled for self-owned papers. Headline: creating jobs.</div><div><br /></div><div>They ordered German architects</div><div>to ensure perfect acoustics.</div><div>They imported Finnish craftsmen</div><div>to hand-carve every banister.</div><div>They drained Swiss quarries</div><div>of marble and granite.</div><div>They stripped South American coasts</div><div>of trees and golds.</div><div>They commissioned French artists</div><div>to paint frescos of industrial gods.</div><div><br /></div><div>And they "built" a magnificent building,</div><div>bowled and scooped from the earth,</div><div>like the scraps and bowels</div><div>of so many different histories</div><div>and when they sat down to listen</div><div>to the Italians they stole with six-figures,</div><div>they asked "what the hell is this?"</div><div>and never came back.</div></span></span>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-57661132495786465152011-03-22T00:06:00.001-07:002011-03-22T00:06:54.762-07:00The Laughing Madness<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; "><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Lorenzo never made it in the city as a wood-worker,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">but he made a house, a bar and a jail</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">when he arrived on the forsaken malarial marsh</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">that the military and blood-drillers abandoned.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">When the days were short and when the long Darkness</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">froze itself into his toes and danced with his mind,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">the coyotes would yip through the night, screeching</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">while their noses were deep in the red steaming bellies of rabbits.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He was a hundred miles on each side from a fort, and sometimes,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">travelers going west knocked at dusk, asking for shelter after</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">braving the insect-blanketed shores and begging for safety from</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">the cackles that crowed in chase. He took them in happily.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">One winter, a walking priest traded Lorenzo a Bible for a fill of whiskey,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and asked "why do the beasts chortle like breaking glass?"</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Lorenzo told him that they laughed when they killed,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and it meant that Death had just walked by.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The next spring, Lorenzo thought warmly of the priest</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">when he tore the scripture pages out to roll cigarettes.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">After the priest left, no more travelers knocked at his hut.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Years passed with only the marsh's howling, giggling choir.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">On a final cold night, he quietly lit his last candle while the coyotes cackled,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and watched the dark of his shadow-filled home attack the lone, tiny flame.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">As Light died, Lorenzo decided to read what was left of the Bible</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">that lay with a stone under the short leg of his table.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">As he read the shattered book, the cold in his toes</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">slid up, up into his mind. The wind cutting at his neck distracted him</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and then he stopped reading to watch the candle dance itself to death</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">while the printed faith dejectedly faded into the ink of night.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Then, it was still in the unchallenged black. Slowly, the laughs grew,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">closer and louder, congregating into a minor cacophony</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">of whoops and shrieks like the din of a symphony</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">tuning their instruments, building to a crescendo of a mad, mad jubilation.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">In the pounding, chuckling murk, without warmth or light,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Lorenzo finally surrendered to the laughter that haunted</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">the derelict land. He leaned back in his chair and,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">after fighting it for too many years, he sighed and listened.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">His mind deserted and drowned in the pitch. He paused--</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">he heard something familiar. There was...a prayer, yes,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">a prayer locked in those laughs...a pious and small grace,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">a hidden psalm for the grim, bony finger that touches everything--sooner or later.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">And, in knowing he heard it, he steeled himself with the last remnants</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">of a mind husked by the howls and decided he would not wait for "later";</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">he would not sit pleasantly in the dark and allow the madness</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">that fed on the night's abyss to hiss and scratch at the walls between his eyes.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">In the swell of snickers, Lorenzo rolled one last cigarette</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">from the bound shreds of the rapture. In the roaring black,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">he found his rifle and pocketed a handful of slugs,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">ignored his coat on the wall and kicked the whiskey cask over.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">While the spirits bubbled onto the floor,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">he lit the gospel cigarette in his teeth unceremoniously,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">then dropped the gnarled match to the soaked floor.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He opened the door and frozen tongues licked his unguarded skin.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He walked into the moonless veil as the bar, jail, and house burned,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and he shot in every direction at the laughter in the night</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">until he fell down in the cold and his eyes went blue.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The darkness peeled from the sky and Death walked away</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and they finally laughed for him.</p></span>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-53071024058341375502011-03-22T00:05:00.000-07:002011-03-22T00:06:02.719-07:00Approximate<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; "><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He hungered for meaning to sound.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">"Guttural noises made for the purpose of</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">procreation and evolution,"</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">he said, dismissing language and its</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">arbitrary meanings. "How can these grunts</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">even try to describe what a feeling is?"</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Dry, cold, bitter, freezing ice wind--</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">just words, words that didn't mean that sense</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">of life flowing out of you from the slice</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">of the wind's knives and of the knowledge that</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">this is what the return to nothing felt like.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">In time--as befalls all Ideals--he met a girl.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He held her long after the world went silent and</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">listened to her breathe and watched as the</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">night wrapped her face in the silks of shadows,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and then he knew the truth of his conviction.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">In what way could he translate the feeling of gravity</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">sucking the air down into his gut when he</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">heard her moan, or the delicate burn of her</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">kiss when he didn't want it? Letters and sounds</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">couldn't make that truly known to her.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">So he wrote what he felt into the sky itself.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He arranged the heavens for her, each star where she wanted,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">so that the nebulae pulsed for her and the galaxies danced,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and that the world spun because she liked the colors</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">of the sunsets. And she said "I love you" for it.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He had found the lossless medium to translate</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">his soul's device into eternal truth, but she</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">had simply spoken back to him...with words.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He dropped the worlds to the dirt and walked away,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">knowing them no more and instead knowing only</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">the empty sounds of a dry, cold, bitter, freezing ice wind.</p></span>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-34155161135522534862011-03-22T00:04:00.000-07:002011-03-22T00:05:38.254-07:00Stand, Stand<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; "><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">She came from a family that had a Name,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">made rich in mercantile trades with Greek gypsies,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">whose purple silks would flutter on the shoulders</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">of the richest thieves France had to offer.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The last of that line lost it all to the horses,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and her great grandmother ran away at eleven.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Later, her great grandmother fell for a man who saw too much beauty</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">in the world--a man who knew he had to die, and</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">die well or else it meant nothing. He fought in</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">the revolution, and was cut down like so many others,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">whispering his lovers' name at the end for the sake of Poetry.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">After he died, he fathered twins. One never saw a sunset.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The boy left became a man, giving his change to the church</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and bedding whores so that he wouldn't be forgotten.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">When he fell from a smoke stack, they nodded,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and the papers printed his brother's name for his.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Her father was adopted by two widowed sisters that</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">loved him and made him get them cigarettes from the</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">drug store on the corner. He dreamed of fishing when</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">he read Hemingway, but followed a girl to college</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and died in the rain while his wife delivered.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">She grew up and her family came with her,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">all of the generations standing as one and now--</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">alone as the many who lived, cried, and loved--</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">she died before her time when her boyfriend left her</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and she stepped in front of my car.</p></span>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-64573059753814751082011-03-22T00:03:00.002-07:002011-03-22T00:04:55.643-07:00The Burn<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; "><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">It smelled like dried blood in the basement of the church,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">where Jimmy Hurricane Hattie and Crazy Casey Flaks cut their teeth.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The pipes rusted in the open air, beneath the pews, perspiring and</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">dripping onto the canvas--onto the sweat and the shame and the glory.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Two old men sat on an old bench, pointing at the ring, arguing in feeble tones.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">"It was Red Ruddy who got Harpo with the left, I sawr it."</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Both of their faces are on the only poster on the wall,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">young and with level eyes and taut skin and without</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">the myopia and the cancer, the divorce and the accident,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">printed in black and white on the yellow paper,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">advertising a fight that took place on a day</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">when their names were reverently spoken into the smoke</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">that twirled in the ceiling fans in the late afternoon.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The church crowd entered above, each step a gunshot in the depth,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and the ring was dark and quiet as dust pelted it from above.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">They turned off the lights on the ring, which hadn't seen any</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">fight since the day God arrived upstairs,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">so the men downstairs prayed into their broken hands.</p></span>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-1181719114999267462011-03-22T00:03:00.001-07:002011-03-22T00:03:44.684-07:00Scribbles<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; "><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He proved everything in life by scripture.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The Bible told him how to grow up</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">And how to let go of his mother when cancer came.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He fought with a man of another faith over God,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and they exchanged their tomes to learn their differences.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">And he asked, "do you mind if I write in this?"</p></span>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-31005962927926281292011-03-22T00:02:00.000-07:002011-03-22T00:03:15.272-07:00Produce<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; "><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">My grandfather owned a red tomato orchard.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Drops of fire on the branches at sunset.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He made the sauce for Mussolini's plate.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">My father owned the orchard next.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He drank too much and the red faded.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Then he died on the pier in the sun.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">I remember my grandfather told stories</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">about the history of our grove.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">That we were living history.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">He said Caesar marched through this valley,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">ate one of our tomatoes, and said,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">"This is what your family is meant to do."</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">And so we did for thousands of years.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">Now our name is on a bottle</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">in every home in America.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "><br /></p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">And I'm to blame.</p></span>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-37661602495375213402011-03-22T00:00:00.000-07:002011-03-22T00:02:35.864-07:00Yield<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; "><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">The semaphore light burns red,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">and it keeps ringing the rusty bell</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">to warn of the incoming train.</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">But everyone plays on the tracks,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">between two paths,</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">as the train sadly throws their guts</p><p style="margin-top: 5px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 5px; margin-left: 0px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">into the trees.</p></span>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-9632147769055892792011-03-21T23:59:00.000-07:002011-03-22T00:24:51.499-07:00To Whom It May Concern<div><b><i>I actually sent this e-mail to the Customer Support address for Homemaker Premium Orange Juice. The site was a single page JPEG advertising their orange juice with an e-mail and post address and nothing else. The following month, the URL to the site went dead. I never received a response. If a response is one day received, I will promptly post it here.</i></b></div><div>---</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>from<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>REDACTED</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>to<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>twsmrk@cs.com</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>date<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Mon, Feb 14, 2011 at 1:35 AM</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>subject<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>Product Complaint</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>mailed-by<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>REDACTED</div><div><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; ">To whom it may concern,<div><br /></div><div>I'm in Cleveland, Ohio, and I've been drinking your orange juice for four years. Love the stuff. Great taste, great price, etc. However, I've recently come upon an issue with your product. To explain my problem, I must begin at the beginning. It began on Tuesday, February 8th, 2011.</div><div><br /></div><div>On this past Tuesday, I came down with a flu. I am a full-grown man, but on the onset of those microbial terrorists into my virginal, sacred blood stream, I resorted to the most primal and well-known lesson of any proud, tough hero: I called my mother to cry and complain about how much it hurt. In the infinite wisdom passed from matriarch to matriarch, culled from the generational wisdom and knowledge that runs fathoms deep in the hallowed halls of Motherdom, she instructed me of an elixir, an ailment to my ills. She told me to drink orange juice. Now, I am not much for superstition. I rather believe in the scientific method, chemistry, medical practices, and all of that stuff, but I'm willing to forgo my educated senses to the ancient arts of the motherly ways. Thus, did I forage for my carton of 64oz. Homemaker Premium 100% Pure Florida Squeezed Orange Juice Now Without Pulp.</div><div><br /></div><div>Little did I know that this would be the biggest mistake of my life.</div><div><br /></div><div>I want you to know I don't blame you, Homemaker Premium 100% Pure Florida Squeezed Original Orange Juice Now Without Pulp. This may not have been your fault. Perhaps it was mine. Perhaps it was pride--that grand and spectacular weakness that drove the best of men to their own dooms. But, I want you to know what happened so that you may be prepared if this happens again.</div><div><br /></div><div>But, I poured myself a glass of orange juice that Tuesday. It was a big glass. Surely, much too big to be an idle side-drink. It demanded dominance of my weakened senses, it required the attention and will of battle rivaled only by Caesar's conquest of Gaul to quell its massive, fluid contents. So, I set out to do so. As the enemy of my enemy, it was my friend. My flu hated the orange juice, so I must make my peace with this behemoth beast in front of me. I took a big gulp. It burned. The citric acids ate away at the virus inside of my throat, it wrapped itself to the infected leisons in my esophagus, and it began to work.</div><div><br /></div><div>I was feeling better. I took another gulp. I felt stronger. I cleared my throat and had a full, unhindered breath. I coughed and wrenched my airways free of that microscopic immigrant in my motherland respiratory tract.</div><div><br /></div><div>I felt stronger now, that this was working. I took another gulp, and another, and the glass in front of me began to empty. Each swig was another battle won, as if beating both the enemy of the flu and the fortress of Vitamin C-infused orange blood. But, once I finished the glass, nearing the bottom, I felt something in the bottom of my soul. Something rumbled within me, stopping me dead in my movements. And I felt it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I felt something stir. Something foreign.</div><div><br /></div><div>I had traded one enemy for another--a nuisance for a greater beast. To eradicate the invading flu from my fields and lands, I had let a far worse barbarian in: the orange juice.</div><div><br /></div><div>I felt the juices pushing into my veins, pumping into the corners of my body. I watched the orange beneath my skin pump to the edges of my fingers, that faint glow beneath my skin like an identification. I was doomed and I knew it. I began to feel stiff, to tighten up.</div><div><br />The only thing I wondered was why. Why would the juice do this? What have I done? OJ is supposed to be my friend, not my enemy. But, I knew this feeling, and I was helpless now. It was betrayal. And all I wanted to know was why. Why, orange juice, why?!</div><div><br /></div><div>As the juices entered into my brain, I got my answer. As if from a great distance, I heard a whisper. I turned to look around me, but I was alone. Then, again, from elsewhere. The voice began to get clearer, but from no discernible place. No, the voice was inside. And it spoke, softly, but strongly. Its voice was not one, but thousands, all speaking as one, a harmony of mass in their words.</div><div><br /></div><div>What do you want, I asked of this voice.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>You</i>, it returned. <i>We want you.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Why, I asked. What do I serve in purpose to you?<br /><br /><i>You can help us.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>Help you do what?</div><div><br /></div><div>There was no answer. Instead, I felt my spine seize. I went rigid. My skin felt hard, like shards lying one atop the other and my blood became thick like syrup. I had to sit down, and once I did, I knew I would never move again. My feet rooted themselves to the floor, and my arms lifted above my head. I did these things without thinking--the thing inside was making me. I tried to move my arms or legs, but I could not. Then, the voice returned.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>You will be our vessel. You will be our passage from what we were unto what we shall become.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>In my frightened state, I tried yelling. I opened my mouth, but no words came forth. A dark, clumpy material came out. Rough, coarse, wet...I tasted it and couldn't place it. Then, it hit me. It was dirt. Dirt fell out of my mouth whenever I opened it. Dirt poured from my mouth into the pit of my lap, covering me. I looked to my hands, and they were spreading, each finger elongating like spikes, turning brown and scaled.</div><div><br /></div><div>What do you want of me, I screamed in my head.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>You will soon know.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>I looked to my feet and they had partially melted, sinking into the floor and grabbing at the loose edges, pulling the flesh into the floor like one co-mingled being. My skin started to flake off, ripping in small scabs. It turned brown and brittle, like shards of...shards of...bark. My skin was turning to bark. Then, an enormous pain was in my hands. I looked to my fingers and felt them being ripped apart down the middle, splintered and shattering as they each forked off into branches. I felt my skin rip apart as leaves burst from the flesh, replaced now with bark and green leaves.</div><div><br /></div><div>My head peeled back and stuck to my thickening trunk of a body, and my head moved no more, stuck in forever gaze at the canopy of leaves blooming out of once where my hands. My beautiful hands. I then saw a small thing off of what used to be my pinky, a small little...orange. It grew quickly, and soon, a full orange hung above me. Looking at it, I heard it speak. Not truly, but in my mind, it spoke.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>This is what we are. This is what you are now, too. You are us. We are all of us. Welcome. Welcome to Homemaker Premium 100% Pure Florida Squeezed Orange Juice.</i></div></span></div>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-74008833840517673852011-03-21T23:57:00.000-07:002011-03-22T00:34:47.931-07:00Finding the Party<div><i>This is a minor rewrite of my previous blog post Third Story Slice. I sent in to a 1,000-word-and-shorter fiction contest. </i></div><div>---</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >“Tell me, is there any madness left in the world?” he said with melancholy as he stared into the night. Dots of light from the city spread out along the horizon like pieces of shattered glass. Between his teeth, an unlit cigarette hung, rolling back and forth on his lips. He brought a lighter out from his pocket and moved to light the cigarette, but he hesitated. He stared at the lighter as a thought formed in his head. Then he smiled and began to search each pocket of his jacket. The cigarette hung still unlit when he pulled out a green lucky rabbit's foot from an inner pocket. It was green like radioactive sludge. He kissed the gnarled foot, and then flicked the lighter on and held the foot over the flame. He rotated the foot slowly. The smell was between plastic and boiling rotten meat. After a while, the flame took hold on the foot, burning without the aid of the lighter. He held the flaming foot to the tip of his cigarette. Following the inaugural exhale, he spit on the flaming foot and tossed it away.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >He looked into the distance as he deeply inhaled. He watched the graffiti-covered train cars clanking along an overpass as they dipped in and out of the spare light from rusted street lamps. The train cars stretched from one black horizon to the other, rattling with a rhythmic, metal heartbeat of clank-kerkerker-clank-kerkerker...</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >“That was a perfectly good charm,” said the woman to his right.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >“Focus,” he returned sharply. “Madness. Is there any left?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >“You mean like a place? A place where there's some madness left?” The man sat down in a folding metal chair next to the woman. The folding metal chairs had a permanent residence on this third floor porch. The porch angled downward such that one could roll right off into the street if they weren’t cautious. Such were the luxuries of this rickety, leaking, leaning apartment building they slummed at. Christmas lights hung from the tin roof on the porch and they buzzed with electric life, casting their fluttering colors through the grimy glass tubes into the April air. The woman reached down to a stack of books next to her chair and picked up a thin novella.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >“Sure, a place," the man responded. "Maybe on some field somewhere, with two guys fighting with one knife, or a dog with a fully-belly watching a human starve whose got too much compassion to eat the mutt, or some guy mixing his cabernet with the ashes of his dead wife and drinking himself real stupid.” While the man went about his little speech, the woman turned the pages of her novella delicately until she found the page she wanted, smiled, and then ripped it out. She dropped the defiled book back to the ground.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"I always loved this part," she said. "This guy here, in the book, he's a boat captain, sailing along, and he gets blood on his shoes, so he throws them overboard. He doesn't even think to clean them."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Evidence?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"No, just thinks they're now worthless."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"You can clean a little blood."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Not really," she responded. Then, she started folding the piece of paper slowly, neatly, creasing every edge. "Can't fully clean it. You feel it sticky sometimes, when your hands are in your pocket and you're not thinking, and you keep wiping your hand on your leg even though it's got nothing on it." She kept folding the piece of paper smaller and smaller.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Is it gonna make you smarter?" the man asked while flicking the ash from the cherry tip of his cigarette.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"No harm in tryin'," she smiled back and then popped the folded paper pill in her mouth and swallowed hard. She sighed a moment later with watery eyes and a hoarse cough. "Won't hurt me none anyways."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Imagine the madness of some guy reading a book you've half eaten and thinking that the book was pristine, as the author intended, and he's sitting there flipping page to page asking himself 'what the hell am I reading?' Think he'd get something good out of it?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Maybe. You can’t get off this madness thing, can you?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Think there's any left in the world?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >“I think it’s like home.” She paused. “Home’s where the heart is, y’know?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >“You’re saying I’ll find the good ol’ madness where I see fit to make it?”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >“I’m sayin’ somethin’ like that.”</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"I like that idea," he quipped back. "I still got a chance to find the party then." He stood up, unzipped his pants, moved to the edge of the porch, spread his arms wide, and fished his dick through the slats on the porch railing. As he started to urinate, he began to scream as loud as he could. "Take me out to the ball game, take me out to the crowds!" He looked over his shoulder to the girl, smiling, cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Let me see what spring is like on...Jupiter and Mars," the girl sang back.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Wrong song," he said back to her, still whizzing away. The steam rose in front of him in the chill Spring air.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Not in my head. I see no reason why they have to be."</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"Fine. How does it end then, this song of yours?"</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"And the home of the brave," she said confidently. The man nodded then turned to face the city in front of him again.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >"And the hoooome, of theeeee braaaaave!" the man screamed, reaching up to clutch onto the hanging Christmas lights. He stood for a moment, dick out, watching the train cars pass in the distance. Smoke floated up and burned his eyes before he spoke.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" ><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" >The woman spoke before the man could start: “Man, we need a kid.”</span></div></div>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-33127525901634741462010-05-21T03:55:00.000-07:002010-05-21T02:56:08.070-07:00Happiest Place on EarthMy parents were married on June 6th, 1977. My dad wanted me to be home for their thirtieth anniversary this year, but I told him I couldn’t, I had to work. He wasn’t too happy, I mean, “it isn’t every day that a couple stays together (and alive) for thirty years together”. His words, not mine. But, I work every year from June 1st to June 7th without fail. I told him I wanted to be there for his anniversary, God, I really really did. In fact, if I could be there, it would mean I would not have to be where I was when I had wished him a happy 27th, 28th, and 29th anniversary. I remember he asked me, “you’re probably gonna be wishing me a happy 31st from there too, aren’t you?” I told him, yes, I would probably be wishing him a happy thirty-first anniversary from Disneyworld, like always.<br /><br />Yes, Disneyworld. I have to go to Disneyworld for one week every year from June 1st to June 7th.<br /><br />I really hate that part of my job. I’m a photojournalist, which is fancy-speak for “I like to take pictures, but I have to take pictures people want to see.” I’d be happy to take all those standard scenic vista panoramas and close-up flower shots for the rest of my life, but if I did, my life wouldn’t be very long—I’d be starving and dead. No one wants those pictures. So, I take pictures of stuff people are going to pay me for.<br /><br />(I still take the pictures of scenic vistas and flowers, but mostly for myself.)<br /><br />I usually work for a newspaper in Branson, Missouri called The Branson Courier. It has a small circulation, about three thousand, but at only sixty-five hundred in Branson, that’s quite impressive. They like to send me far away to photograph anything exotic I can find. Usually art exhibits or photo-essays of interesting corners of the world. Branson likes to have that classy appeal in their paper since their main economy is, believe it or not, theatre. Know what happens when you pack a bunch of East-coast artsy acting folks together in the middle-of-nowhere Missouri? They start starving on the lack of “art”. They’re theatre people—they survive on poetry and high-brow aesthetics. I’m not from Missouri; I’m from Jersey, but I go where work is. And, the people of Branson have spoken: they want some nice photos in their newspaper, and I’m just the man.<br /><br />They once sent me specifically to the Louvre, in Paris, to take pictures of Pastoral paintings. They wanted a special edition newspaper, printed in full-color, with all the major pastoral works of art currently displayed at the Louvre, so they sent me. This is why I like my job: free Paris trip to go do something I would do anyways. Problem is that the Louvre doesn’t allow photography for exactly this reason: print reproduction. But, I wasn’t going to be stopped, so I snuck in a small camera and took as many pictures as I could, hiding it in my sleeve. Some of the pictures caught my hand or thumb in the way, but they still went to press because the people of Branson demanded it. I still see that color issue of the Louvre floating around sometimes.<br /><br />Not every job is cool like that one, though. I am now invoking the But Law. The But Law is that whenever something sounds too good to be true, it is, and if you wait long enough, someone will go “but…” and explain to you something not-so-pleasant. There’s a big But Law with Branson, Missouri; despite that Branson attracts those art-starving theatre people, it’s still in Missouri. Bible-belt Missouri. God-fearing, televangelist, trailer-park Missouri. These are the people who listen to Pat Robertson—and not for comedy.<br /><br />These same people love Walt Disney. Every single house has a chest full of every VHS and DVD of every classic Disney film. Between artistic families who want their daughters to learn to sing from Belle or the trailer-trash who uses Hercules to pacify, hypnotize, and (sadly) educate their children, Disney is a minor deity in these parts. There’s always a TV on somewhere that has Mufasa dying. On Halloween, it’s a parade of Jasmine’s, Ariel’s, and Cinderella’s. <br /><br />And, one day, Branson, Missouri heard about this thing called Gay Days.<br /><br />Gay Days is an event organized and orchestrated by a group of well-educated homosexuals with exceptional networking skills. Tens-of-thousands of homosexuals meet up and party in Orlando from June 1st to June 7th every year. You know how in the Bible, locusts descended upon Egypt and made the skies dark? Well, during the first week of June, gays descend upon Orlando and make the streets rainbow and fabulous. They all like to congregate and use Disneyworld as a hub because no matter how much you like to hump, everyone likes roller coasters.<br /><br />Branson’s out-raged natives soon found a kindred spirit in the American Family Association, who were equally horrified by their family-friendly Disney hosting such a terrible thing as Gay Days. The A.F.A. have considered themselves “on the front line of America’s culture war since 1977.” I wish I was making that up. This is where I come in: The A.F.A. in support with many local Bransonites appealed to the Branson Courier to send me as an undercover photographer to get incriminating photographs of Disneyworld allowing, administering, and promoting these Gay Days activities. Yes, I said “undercover.”<br /><br />The first year I did this project, I thought “it’ll be a good vacation, get some sun in Florida and relax, get to go to Disneyworld.” I had just got back from doing a piece on wildlife in the Rockies, so something warm was gonna be right up my alley. My editor brought me into his office after he heard I accepted and he said the following with total seriousness:<br /><br /> “If you can, try to get some pictures of them having sex.”<br /><br /> “Them?”<br /><br /> “Yeah, gays. The A.F.A. wants to see if they can dig up Disney promoting sexual misconduct. Any sort of lewd, lascivious behaviors.”<br /><br /> “You want me to photograph pornography?”<br /><br /> “If it’s out in the public, sure.” I tried to phrase my next response very delicately. I was thinking along these lines: “I think there’s going to be a lot of open sexuality going on, I mean, they are there because of their sexual choice. It would be obvious that they express this sexuality. And, at the same time, they are no different than heterosexual people, and we don’t just go and have sex in public just because.” I wanted to say something eloquent and well-thought-out.<br /><br /> What I said was: “Photograph dicks. Got it.” My editor wasn’t too happy with this response, but he sent me on my way anyways. Fast forward three years, and I’m about to go on my fourth Disney Dick Hunt while my parents celebrate their thirtieth anniversary.<br /><br /> I’m sitting in a bar in the terminal of Branson Airport, code BKG. The outside of this place has disgusting timber-green roofing and the walls are all made up to look like a log-cabin. There’s only one landing strip and one airline that services this airport. There are a lot of local flights in-and-out of BKG, little Cessna’s and puddle-jumpers. Usually, you have to hop a leg to a bigger airport then go where you want, but today, I was lucky enough to get a flight straight to Orlando, which meant I was able to do what I really wanted to do: drink this week away.<br /><br /> There are three gates, two restaurants, six bathrooms, and sixteen vending machines. I’ve counted. I was at one of the two restaurants, Famous Dave’s Watering Hole, which was costumed like a Wild-West looking tourist trap. There was a detached wagon wheel underneath a cattle’s skull in the corner and a motorized water-wheel outside churning a standing pool of water. The irony of a fake, motorized water-wheel made me chuckle years ago, but now, it was just another thing I had gotten used to in this funny little airport.<br /><br /> Usually, I like to chat people up in airports. I like to know what they think of my newest job or expedition. It’s usually all positive feedback. “Oh, that’s cool!” “That’s so neat you got to see that!” But, after doing the Disney Dick Hunt for three years, I had heard plenty of responses. They went like this:<br /><br />“Who the hell do you think you are to go down there and judge them?”<br /><br />“I can’t believe Disney would promote things like that!”<br /><br />“Why are you going down there to photograph this?”<br /><br />That third response is my favorite, because I don’t have a good answer. Money, I say.<br /><br />I liquored myself up until the hard angles became soft, then I hopped my plane and promptly passed out. I awoke to the opening of the pressurized cabin doors and instantly, my nostrils felt drenched. That humid air stuck up into my airways like a sponge and I felt like I had to fight the air to get into my lungs. I never liked the salty air of the coasts. That’s why I left Jersey. Anytime I had to return and smell that thick, salty air, I remembered everything I hated about life. The air reminded me of being beaten up by Carlos Sandoval in fourth grade or about how I got cheated on by my first girlfriend as a sophomore in high school or how I still have a scar on my knee from my dad dropping that couch we were moving when I was twelve. I dislike the air. It’s thick like syrup. I do not like the air, Sam I am.<br /><br />It wasn’t long before I got my bag and was at a Duty-Free. The kiosk looked like a candy store to me. So many beautiful, twisty bottles and choices. Clear or dark? Whiskey or vodka? Imported or domestic? This is what Augustus Gloop must have felt before he dived into the chocolate river in Willy Wonka. The man running the Duty-Free was a smiling Caribbean with a white vest over his tucked-in shirt.<br /><br />“Greetings! What’s ah fancy?” he asked in a standard Caribbean way where the vowels are over-emphasized and consonants drown. Actually, he said it more like this: “Wotzah fawn-see?” I smiled at him in a dismissive way and then leaned over my knees to look closer. I’m not a mean guy, I just don’t think it is necessary to bother people uselessly. “Hello?” he repeated, leaning down with me, then stuck out a knobby finger and poked a bottle I was looking at. “Bash stuff dat. Tommy Bahama White Sand rum, very premium stuff, bad like yaz. Like-ah rum?”<br /><br />“When in Rome,” I responded.<br /><br />“And whatta when ah in Orlando?”<br /><br />“Drink rum,” I guessed.<br /><br />“You’ve ah before!” he said with a big smile. I nodded. “So your trip? Family? Vacation?”<br /><br />“Disneyworld.”<br /><br />“Oh, I’ve seen a lotta battymans flex for this for that. You don’t favor battymans seems to me,” he said with a chuckle. I honestly had no clue what he meant. “Sorry, I’ll be more speaky-spoke, I don’t judge none, but you-ah-me, it looks so you guys have more fun than I think any of us shorty-chasahs do! Easier den tha cat! Must get x amount and plenty dat good agony, yeah?”<br /><br />“I’m not with them. I’m a photographer.”<br /><br />“Ah,” he responded, nodding to hide the fact he had no idea what I was getting at.<br /><br />“Photojournalist.”<br /><br />“Ah,” he said again, same fake nod. A smirk broke his lips. I knew what he was thinking.<br /><br />“Not like that.”<br /><br />“No judge, man, no judge.” I grabbed the bottle of Tommy Bahama and held it to him. He took it, went back to the kiosk booth, and started to ring me up. I produced my wallet, then looked at the wall behind him.<br /><br />“That, too,” I said, pointing to a pint of Jack Daniels. He nodded, grabbed it, then I pointed again. “And a fifth of Bombay.”<br /><br />“Not getting no sket drink, are yah.”<br /><br /> “It’s gonna be a long week, I want good stuff.”<br /><br />“I hear ya, man.” I gave him my card, swipe, receipt, and I waved him off from bagging the bottles. I leaned down to my suitcase, unzipped it and was moving clothes around to fit the bottles in when he leaned over me and continued to talk. “Bash cargo, man, super bash,” he said, pointing to my camera. It was in an expensive leather case with three lenses: a telephoto, wide-angle, and a normal. I said thanks without looking. “So what ah photographing? Something newsy about these battymans?”<br /><br />“Someone seems to think so,” I said, putting the bottles into socks and then delicately tucking them back between clothes.<br /><br />“You-ah-me, brudda, I feel dey no different ah you-ah-me, just have dey chi-chi choice and I say we leave ‘em to each other. Ah feel no way bout dem.”<br /><br />“Me neither,” I said, zipping my case back up.<br /><br />“Why the tub ah drank den?”<br /><br />“Thanks,” I said, standing, and wheeling my suitcase off.<br /><br />“Jah guide, man! Honor!”<br /><br />As I sat on the Magical Kingdom Express—a bus directly from Orlando International Airport to Disneyworld, emblazoned with Mickey on the sides—I ran through exactly what the Caribbean man had said. Bash meant “cool”, battyman obviously meant gay, and I knew Jah meant “God”. It wasn’t hard to figure out in context, but the extent of my Jamaican knowledge is Cool Runnings. Was he Jamiacan? Probably. Hard to tell, honestly, and I wonder if it is racist that I can openly admit I have no applicable knowledge to discern the race and creed of some people. It’s probably more racist to assume he is Jamaican. But, I still had no idea what “sket” meant. Sket…sket…”Not getting no sket drank” he said. Not getting any bad drinks? Any cheap drinks? Who knows.<br /><br />I analyzed my conversation as the scenery went by the Magical Kingdom Express bus. Eventually, I asked myself the same question that the Jamaican (I’m gonna do it, I’m gonna assume he was Jamaican) asked me: “Why the tub of alcohol?” I had a superficial reason. I don’t like being here. I hate Disneyworld. I hate my yearly Disney Dick Hunt. I usually just take pictures of some flamboyantly-dressed expressive gays, go on a few roller coasters to kill the day, then watch the hotel TV until the next day. Before it’s all over, I waste a bunch of film taking those standard non-descript pictures of crowds to emphasize scale—the type of pictures they blur out and use as a backdrop for statistics. I am a master of those “blurry background photos” for presentational purposes. Nothing’s better than a mess of make-up-wearing men hugging in front of the Disney Castle to make the Bransonites furious and get me my paycheck.<br /><br />We arrived at the Magical Kingdom parking lot. If you’ve ever seen the Matrix, you’ll know how I felt. Remember the scene with the rows and rows of human pods, stretching forever? Think of that, except it was mini-vans. Mini-vans in row after row to the horizon, as far back as I could see. Honda Odyssey, Toyota Sienna, Kia Sedona and Chrysler Town & Country. As many as you could imagine, like some minivan morgue or battlefield. At the end of the parking lot was a huge, looming arch with a pair of Mickey ears that acted as a lighthouse in the minivan grid parking lot. Beneath the Babylonian Mickey ears was a terminal awaiting the central express train which would bring one into the park proper. I stepped underneath the arch and went to the ticket booth.<br /><br />“Welcome to Disneyworld! Our one-day pass is thirty-nine-ninety-nine, and our--” a teenage girl smiled and said with genuine aplomb. They hadn’t beaten the smile out of her yet. Good for her.<br /><br />“Hold on,” I interrupted her. “I have a reservation.” I pulled out a piece of paper and read her the cryptic number-letter sequence. I don’t think that the Russians could break Disney’s booking code algorithm; the thing was twenty-six digits. I’ve seen bank accounts with less information.<br /><br />“All week park hopper pass and you’ll be staying at the Port Orleans riverside resort, for a Mr. Daniel Welton, correct?”<br /><br />“Correct.” I gave her my license, signed a paper, and I had my ticket and card to get into my room. And there it was—my name. I was officially,digitally, marked-in-stone at Disneyworld and I had checked in. Daniel Welton was now at Disneyworld and it was real. Again. Fourth year in a row.<br /><br />The Branson Courier always took care of these work-related expenses, but I really wished they would be smarter about it. It’s much cheaper to stay at a Holiday Inn outside of Disneyworld than inside, in the belly of the beast. I got onto the train to take me into the main hub of Disneyworld and pulled out my phone to call my editor. “Hey,” I said, barely letting him greet me back, “I’m here, Disneyworld. I had a question, y’know, just one thing, pal: you do realize it’s cheaper to book me in a Holiday Inn outside of the park, right? You’re wasting about, oh, I dunno, eight hundred dollars to put me in there, right?”<br /><br />“Get over it. Consider it a vacation. Consider it like camping in the savannah to photograph lions. You’re in their den. The heart of the Gay Days.”<br /><br />“I am going to hate the next week of my life,” I told him monotone.<br /><br />“I’m sorry to hear that, Daniel. Did you know I love Gary Busey movies?”<br /><br />“What?”<br /><br />“I thought we were talking about stuff that doesn’t matter.”<br /><br />“Good bye,” I said as I hung up. My editor’s sense of humor is like vermouth: a burning, dry sarcasm and quick-wit that comes with a side of comfort. I clicked the phone shut and put it into my breast pocket. I looked out over the park. It looked like some magnificent hidden den. It was as if their blueprints were postcards and they painted every building with a primary color. Roses were infuriatingly red, red enough to make most suburban mothers/amateur gardeners envious. The streets had no cracks in them. The little ponds and fountains had impossibly blue water. Everything was sterling and pristine in a timeless way. Well, that’s what I’m supposed to think.<br /><br />But, I don’t quite know if I agree. Pristine, bold colors do not timeless make. They make it look either cartoony or produced. As an adult, you think “produced”. As a kid, you think of the clean simplicity of cartoons, where a punch only makes a comic lump or all problems are solvable by a joke and a chase. In cartoons, everything has a heavy boundary line, that black outline. Here, in Disneyworld, you’re in a boundary place. Everything is clearly demarcated, every color is pure. There is no gray zone. There is no choice. You know what is good and what is bad. All of that wishy-washy tough stuff about making hard decisions as an adult doesn’t matter here. Everything is defined clearly.<br /><br />Except the prices.<br /><br />“Hate the next week of your life?” I heard a sly, but jagged voice say. I looked up and saw a woman of forty (maybe forty-five on a bad day) staring at me. She was wearing a zip-up Nike hoodie, slacks, and tennis shoes. She had blonde hair, a little too blonde for her age, tied up in a ponytail that sat just above her tennis visor. To top it off, she had sunglasses positioned on her visor. She wore a little too much make-up, but she must have been gorgeous ten (or fifteen) years ago.<br /><br />“Oh, that’s not what I meant.”<br /><br />“I take it you’re not here for the circus then.”<br /><br />“No,” I curtly responded. Sure, I didn’t want to talk friendly with the flamboyant gays who would trip me into a whole world of “try this, see that, photograph me” routine, but I also disliked the anti-homosexuals, too. They had an agenda. I really dislike agendas, even if it is an agenda promoting everything I believe. I just don’t like the philosophy of an agenda. Having an agenda means admitting that you stand for something resolutely. It doesn’t mesh with me, not at all. I don’t believe it in because of photography. Yes, the photographer thinks of things in terms of photography. With a picture, you’re capturing a moment, a distinct moment (like a distinct agenda), right? Just one pure second on film, a single perceptible moment as concrete as the potential opinions and agenda harbored. Right? Wrong. You can move a camera while it takes the picture and blur it. That which is concrete (an image, a moment in time) is shown to be in motion, and real life is just too much for one picture. Same should be for someone’s beliefs. <br /><br />You can shake someone’s world up with a few sentences, like “your parents are dead” or “I love you” or you can turn someone’s life around with an action, like smashing their kneecaps with a baseball bat, and everything would have to change. Maybe they’d have to learn to use a wheelchair. Agendas need to be as flexible as we are, and therefore, we can’t abide by agendas. They’re too rigid. Things should be able to change with every action and sentence. Even photographs, those singular moments, are not so concrete.<br /><br />“Uh-huh,” she said with a wry smile. “Just so you know, I hate it too. These gays, these—“ she leaned forward and whispered, “these faggots, they really piss me off, too. Why do we do this to ourselves, hm? Every year, we’re here, in the middle of their territory, it makes no sense, yet we’re here. Why do we do this to ourselves? Why?”<br /><br />“Do what, ma’am?”<br /><br />“Ma’am?” she said breathlessly. “Please, Barbara. Ma’am’s are for…older women.”<br /><br />“Ok.”<br /><br />“Honestly, you can call me Barbara.”<br /><br />“Well, I don’t know you, ma’am, so I think not.”<br /><br />“I’m Barbara.”<br /><br />“Thank you.”<br /><br />“Thank you, Barbara…?” she fished.<br /><br />“Thank you, Barbara.” She smiled brightly.<br /><br />“See? Much better than ma’am. A ma’am doesn’t quite mean the same thing a Barbara does.”<br /><br />“And that is?”<br /><br />“Oh, you,” she said, intentionally blushing into her shirt. “You’re certainly not here for the same rides the rest are, are you, mister…?”<br /><br />“Ma’am, is there something I could help you with?”<br /><br />“Maybe. Depends if we both play for the same team. Which team do you swing your bat for?”<br /><br />“The Dodgers.”<br /><br />“You’re funny.” Contrary to what is presented here, I was not cougar hunting. In fact, I’m not much for dating at the moment. “Why are you here?”<br /><br />“Job. Photojournalist.” I pointed my finger up to the bag above my head. She looked up then mouthed an “oh.”<br /><br /> “I’m here as an,” she looked around, then leaned in to whisper again, “as a protestor. Someone has got to show these people that what they are doing is wrong. Don’t you think so? It’s just vile. It’s an abomination.”<br /><br />“It is, it’s awful,” I lazily agreed. The American Family Association would love that I said that.<br /><br />“They need some God, I think.”<br /><br />“Really now,” I said, looking back out of the train’s windows. To my dismay, she kept going.<br /><br />“Everyone does. I think everyone could use a little more God. For example, a while back, my husband was reading books on how to be better in the office. You know how businessmen power read those self-help books. He had gone through Art of War and other dominant animal kingdom books, to show his manliness in the business office world, and then I found him a book about the divinity of business. And, I was so happy. God always has a way, and it’s great when you can see Him poking His head up into everything.”<br /><br />“Wow,” I said to her.<br /><br />“Wow, I know!”<br /><br />I meant “wow” as in the idea of God being a mole who dug his way up into other people’s gardens to tell them how to do their shit. If God leaned in on my photograph to tell me about how he made light so that I can take pictures, I’d tell him “thanks a lot, dude, now let me take a damn photo.”<br /><br />“Your husband, he’s…?”<br /><br />“My, you sure do jump to the chase,” she said, sliding down in her chair and stretching out her legs. She crossed them, left to right, showing a bit of her exposed leg. But, the movement would have been much more…effective in a skirt. She was wearing slacks. But, I think I was supposed to pick up on the movement more than the actual skin exposed. But, that’s gender warfare in a nutshell. Pragmatism versus superficiality.<br /><br />“Not like that.”<br /><br />“Oh, what way, then? Were you just wondering idly about why I, a taken and married woman, am unaccompanied for a week here at Disneyworld?”<br /><br />“I think we’re done talking now, Barbara.”<br /><br />“He’s on business. In the Caribbean. Apparently, there are medical schools down there, and, apparently, they need funding. They actually teach a lot of American students, believe it or not. How delightful is that? All of our universities are clogged up with Punjab’s and Kim Lee’s, so it’s good to see our students at least getting the education they need. He’s donating to a very prominent school in Grenada.”<br /><br />“You must be so proud,” I said.<br /><br />“Don’t you let that distract you, honestly. I’m still just an honest girl.”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“Yes, Barbara.”<br /><br />“Yes, Barbara.”<br /><br />“Thank you—I didn’t catch your name.”<br /><br />“Hogarth. Hogarth Hughes.”<br /><br />“Hogarth. What a very…thick name. Broad name. It suits you.”<br /><br />“My stop,” I said, standing and grabbing my bag. It wasn’t, but I wanted off. I slipped off at the stop and started walking. I didn’t want to stop to look at the map in fear that Barbara would watch me. And, for the record, Hogarth Hughes is the name of the character in The Iron Giant, one of the best non-Disney animated movies of all time. I don’t think she’ll ever make the connection. <br /><br />About the name: every time I come here, I assume a new name. Daniel Welton was only at Disneyworld when he checked-in and when he checked-out. And, every year, Daniel Welton had a new name. First year it was Zak Young (Fern Gully), then next year it was Charlie B. Barkin (All Dogs Go To Heaven) and last year I was Cale Tucker (Titan A.E.). Even though I was sent by the A.F.A. and the Branson Courier, if my name was used out of context, it would reflect poorly. Imagine someone going to the A.F.A. and fact-checking that yes, Daniel Welton works for them, and, yes, he was on assignment at Gay Days. Suspicious, isn’t it? So, I use a different name while here. That way, that photographer getting pictures, he was just Zak or Charlie or Cale. Or Hogarth. Easy deniability. So, here’s Hogarth Hughes. Minus the big zappy robot, of course.<br /><br />As I got off of the train and tried to escape the watchful eye of Barbara, I was accosted by a chubby family. The chubby mother was being tugged by a chubby son to an ice cream stand and a chubby father stood back, peering through his camera and snapping pictures of every moment. The chubby man, wearing a Disney visor, finished snapping his pictures of his family eating ice cream then sat down next t his bowling ball son. Beyond the spherical persons were vendors selling all manner of useless mouse-eared junk. As I walked by, a bouncing Tigger leapt towards me, waving and jumping with a photographer behind him.<br /><br />I waved him “no thank you”, and he made the physical response of “oh come on, why not?” So, he tried again to get close and pose with me as the photographer crept in and started pointing the camera. Two things: First: when drug programs tell kids to just say no and they depict moments of peer pressure, they should show Disneyworld’s mascots. They beg and pester you until you either get arrested for assault or just give up and play their game. Second: They use awful cameras. It’s a cheap Nikon Powershot. Real photographers would be using something like a Canon EOS. Fucking amateurs.<br /><br />“Seriously, no,” I said to the mascot. He sulked his shoulders and walked away, looking over his shoulder dramatically.<br /><br />“Come on, be a sport,” said the chubby man behind me sitting and eating an ice cream cone. His visor still had the price tag on it and he wore a spare tire above his belt. He was now sitting next to his similarly proportioned wife and son, licking the cone like it was the Holy Spear. Then, the man stood, handed his ice cream cone to his son, then grabbed Tigger, swung an arm around me, and smiled at the mousey photographer. He didn’t even wipe the brown smears from his lips. The photographer had snapped the picture before I could respond and was already trying to schill us on the printing price if we gave a confirmation code at the printing booth located by Tomorrowland. I quickly started walking away and the chubby man followed me a few steps. “Hey, relax man, you don’t gotta actually gotta go buy the photos. It’s part of the fun!” I hate Disneyworld.<br /><br />I found a rail map a moment later and was trying to find out exactly how I was supposed to get to Port Orleans Riverside Hotel. What I saw was something that would give a cartographer half a hard-on: a perfectly topographical geography designed and cut to into logical, immaculate subsections. Disneyworld is the wet dream of architecture and construction nerds. Taming the raw lawlessness of nature and whipping it into a defined and powerfully constructed vision. Nothing is more of an aphrodisiac than beating a more powerful force at its own game. Remember what I said about cartoons and boundary lines? Here’s that philosophy in architecture, too. But, this massive achievement only served one purpose: confusing the hell out of me.<br /><br />I browsed the map until I found my destination: all the way across the park. I could go and get back on the train, but it’d be thirty-five minutes for the next one (according to the delightful pre-recorded voice). I might as well walk. I turned and saw the kind of thing I had to accustom myself to this week: homosexuality.<br /><br />Five men walked by me, two of them taking a moment to look back at me and smile. Two of them held hands, and they all were wearing way-too-tight wife beaters, despite their uniform scrawniness. One of them wore a scarf. If you’ve ever been to Orlando in June, you have to appreciate the balls of a man who wears a scarf in this oven they call a state of our union. Fashion was more important than comfort, apparently. I started walking behind this quintet, but I kept my distance. I was still dragging my roller suitcase and had my camera bag slung over my shoulder.<br /><br />I followed them for a while. They went into a shop and got some rock candy. They joked around with the different hats and wigs and took pictures with their cell phones. The two that were holding hands departed and were later found sitting on a bench, giving little kisses and whispers back and forth. The rest continued being standard tourists. I tracked them from one shop to the next, entering a minute after they did then following them. It was rather obvious and whenever I would enter the same store they did, they would all peer at me for a moment and I would turn to look at something useless, like a shirt or a gigantic lollipop. After a while, I gave up and decided to start walking my own direction. What was I hoping to see them do? Sprawl out on the Technicolor Serengeti and practice their mating calls and hunting rituals?<br /><br />My job, as the A.F.A. and the Courier dictated, was to “go undercover and determine if Disney is promoting homosexuality, homosexual lifestyles, or administering, advocating, or allowing these perverse displays of sin and evil.” More or less, that is.<br /><br />“Bye bye,” one of the men said when I finally walked past them. I turned, smiled over my shoulder, and held up my hand in a “see ya later” gesture. “Hey, hey, wait!” I turned fully. One of the five gay men came trotting to me. He stood in front of me and smiled, fishing his hands into his pocket. “Hi,” he said sheepishly.<br /><br />“Uh, hi.” I said back. I looked to the side and saw his other gay friends watching intently, silently screaming and mouthing horrors in exasperated breaths to each other. <br /><br />“I’m Brock.”<br /><br />“Hogarth.”<br /><br />“Hogarth, huh? Come on, what’s your real name.”<br /><br />“Hogarth Hughes.”<br /><br />“Okay…” I stared at him bored. And maybe half expectant. I do have to give gay men one thing: they know how to take care of themselves. They have hygiene and self-presentation down to a ridiculous science. I can see why women are so attracted to them. I mean, here’s a straight man: hairy, unkempt, doesn’t really care about his toe nails or haircut. And, then, there’s a man who understands all the pressures and pains of presenting one’s self, as women do, and it’s a match made in heaven. Minus the penis-on-penis action, but still, all I’m trying to say is that gay men are very kempt. This particular man, Brock, had short brown hair spiked up and messed up, frosted bleach tips, and a hoop earring, but he was thin and actually sorta shy. I’ll admit: it was a little cute.<br /><br />“Can I help you with something?” I asked.<br /><br />“Oh, um, well, I just saw you and you kept kind of, um, following us, not to say you were, of course, but I just noticed you a few times. So I wanted to talk to you.” I didn’t respond. The silence got a bit awkward for him and he scratched his elbow. “I mean, I don’t mean to be weird, I don’t think you were following me, not like that, I just wanted to talk to you, that’s all. Am I being weird?”<br /><br />“No. You’re being nervous.”<br /><br />“Well, yeah, I am. It’s because, um, I don’t think I’m talking to the right person.”<br /><br />“What do you mean?”<br /><br />“Oh, nevermind. Sorry to bother you, I’ll leave you alone now.” He started to turn to leave, but hesitated and looked back at me. “Hogarth,” he said and smiled.<br /><br />“Brock,” I responded. He then turned and walked away, both hands in his pockets. His raucous group of gays embraced him for his bravery and then slung him away into a store, but not before a look back to me. Once they were gone, I kept walking and I tried thinking that one over. What did he mean “he wasn’t talking to the right person?” I think he meant that I was straight. Am I that obvious? I don’t dress or act gay. I don’t have a limp wrist or walk with a gimped, narrow stride, but I wouldn’t say I reek of masculinity. I don’t have a lumberjack’s chest hair or a beard that would make Zeus proud. Oh well.<br /><br />I honestly shouldn’t be worried that a gay guy thought I was straight, but some little piece of me kept ripping that thread out. It bothered me a little. Then again, I’m pissed for him judging me. Goes around comes around, right? That’s why I don’t keep an agenda. You gotta be able to be flexible.<br /><br /> A trolley later and I was at my hotel: Port Orleans. It looked like a river steamer and was right on the river. You boarded via the pier and stepped into a captain’s deck for the atrium of the faux-boat building. Once you got to the hotel floors, though, it looked just like a building. A stairwell later and I was at my room: room 217. The amenities were nice, but standard. Two beds, cable TV, Wi-Fi, and a fridge full of five-dollar candy bars. I set my suitcase on the bed, opened it, and went about unpacking. I stuffed my clothes into drawers, but I delicately set my camera’s tripod up and aligned the lenses by size then cleaned the camera body with a q-tip. I hate it when you’re travelling and lint gets in the chamber. After that, I pulled out the liquor. Twenty minutes later, I had taken four shots of Jack Daniels.<br /><br />I was still cleaning my cameras when I downed that fourth shot of Jack. I exhaled hard, letting that burn wash over the air in front of my face. Then I leaned back in my chair. Oh yeah, I was buzzing. It was a good buzz. Being at sea-level gives you a very pure buzz. At high altitude, alcohol creeps on you then smacks you in the face, as if to say “haha, fucker, you can’t drink like that up here.” Down here, you can feel the difference between one, two, and three drinks. I had been drinking the Jack straight up from a complimentary glass, but, I decided, it’d be better on the rocks. I stood, grabbed the ice tray and was about to waddle out into the hallway to find the machine, but I was stopped by a subtle sound on my door. It was a clicking, a scraping, a low mechanical sound.<br /><br />I looked at the door. Yes, it was closed, and this was a stupid thing to do, but you tend to look at sounds when you’re four drinks in. (And, by the end of my trip, I’d have tasted sound, but that’s a night ahead of us.) I waited and was quiet. I lifted the ice jug above my head like a weapon and slowly approached the door. Then, I heard the click of a card key and the door swung open. Then I came face to face with a short-haired woman hauling bags. She stopped in the door and stared at me. I must’ve been a pretty sad sight. Some guy, half drunk, holding an ice jug above his head about to swing.<br /><br />“What the hell is this?” she said sharply.<br /><br />“Hell is what?” I asked back, still gripping my jug in a deathblow stance.<br /><br />“This is my room, I booked it, what are you doing here?”<br /><br />“No it isn’t. Mine.” I felt like a caveman.<br /><br />“My key worked on the door.”<br /><br />“Well, so did mine. I was here first.” Ah, schoolyard logic, it never fails.<br /><br />“Well, sir,” she really hated using that word, I could tell, “think we should go down to the front desk to sort this out?”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“Okay, well, I’m leaving my bags here then, for now, so let’s go, okay?”<br /><br />“Okay.”<br /><br />“Mind putting that, um, down?” she said, looking to the menacing plastic jug.<br /><br />“Oh, I need ice.” She nodded and smiled that “yeah, sure, whatever” and then turned to leave the room. Then, as if by the grace of an Easterly wind, she turned again and asked, “Are you drinking? Do I smell whiskey?”<br /><br />“Not currently. Need ice.”<br /><br />“Jack?”<br /><br />“Yes.”<br /><br />“Hm. You know, I don’t usually do this, but, I don’t usually do any of this, so why not…how about we have a drink of that and see whether or not we want to go fix this room issue?”<br /><br />“I have this room until Friday.”<br /><br />“Me too.”<br /><br />“You want to stay with me until Friday?”<br /><br />“Let’s just see if we like each other. Maybe we’ll like each other.”<br /><br />“Yeah, but don’t you—“ I stammered, unsure of how to phrase my question. I thought back earlier to my day. “What team do you play for?”<br /><br />“Excuse me?”<br /><br />“Am I talking to the right person?”<br /><br />“What the hell are you talking about?” Apparently, I’m the only euphemistic recycler in the world when it comes to asking if someone is gay.<br /><br />“I’m straight,” I finally blurted out. She looked as if she was about to say something mean. Her lips pursed, her eyes narrowed, something was boiling, so I thought to myself: shit, diffuse the situation. Now she thinks you’re a gay-hater and one of those people who judge immediately. Diffuse the situation, make her feel comfortable, shit, shit, shit, “I’m also unarmed.”<br /><br />“…That so,” she said hesitantly. “Maybe we should go down to the desk and see about this, it might get weird and—“ But, no, now I was determined. Unarmed? Jesus, I say some really dumb things when I drink. Now I needed to prove to her I wasn’t just some crazy anti-gay person.<br /><br />“Come on, let’s have that drink, let’s see.”<br /><br />“I’m armed, just so you know,” she said, not moving.<br /><br />“That came out wrong, I’m sorry. Not what I meant. I didn’t want you to feel awkward with me because, well, everyone here is gay and I’m not, I didn’t know what you expected.”<br /><br />“So you tell me you’re unarmed?”<br /><br />“Do you feel better knowing that? At least now you know I’m unarmed. Is that not comforting?”<br /><br />“Okay, you win. One drink, but your stuff.”<br /><br />“Of course.” She moved to sit on the bed. I pulled out another of the glasses from the cupboard and poured two glasses of Jack Daniels neat. I turned to her and then sat on the chair by the desk.<br /><br />“I’m Ilene,” she said, sipping the Jack.<br /><br />“Hogarth.”<br /><br />“You don’t look Dutch.”<br /><br />“It’s not my real name. It’s just one I use so that no one knows my real name.”<br /><br />“Not your real name? You’re not very good at making people comfortable around you.”<br /><br />“You know,” I said, pointing to her with my glass, “the less I talk, the more people talk to me. I think that shutting my fucking yap makes people like me more.”<br /><br /> “It’s a thought,” she said with a smirk and sipped her Jack.<br /><br /> “You’re a tart,” I said to her and sipped my drink.<br /><br /> “A tart? “<br /><br /> “Yeah, a tart,” I emphasized. We finished our drinks and she stood, grabbed both glasses, then poured another for both of us. Another drink and I finally got back around to my initial point.<br /><br /> “So, are you lesbian?”<br /><br /> “Do you think I am?”<br /><br /> “Short hair, travelling alone, here all week, yeah, I do.”<br /><br />“Okay, Mr. Hogarth Hughes, you want to know something about me?”<br /><br />“I do,” I said, leaning forward like a young boy.<br /><br />“I’m a lesbian, yes, for this week.”<br /><br />“For this week?”<br /><br />“This is my getaway.”<br /><br />“What are when it’s not this week?”<br /><br />“Huh?”<br /><br />“If you’re a lesbian for this week, are you not a lesbian every other week?”<br /><br />“No, no, I’m not,” and then she started laughing. “Fifty-one weeks of the year, I am straight, and one week, I am gay. Am I bisexual? I thought after college I got it out of my system, but I guess not. I like men, I do, but I get these urges for women sometimes. Does that make me gay if I like women sometimes? Is it one of those ‘cross the line and doomed forever’ thing, or is bisexuality real? I read a study that says everyone’s a little gay. It’s a scale of five. Zero is pure heterosexual, five is pure homosexual, but no one is a zero or five. Everyone has a little bit of middle ground.”<br /><br />“What do you do?” I asked her frankly. She re-organized her thoughts, stopping her ramble, then answered professionally.<br /><br />“I am a mortician.”<br /><br />“A mortician?”<br /><br />“Yeah. Mortician.”<br /><br />“Like, dead bodies mortician?”<br /><br />“Yes, dead bodies mortician.”<br /><br />“Wow.”<br /><br />“Wow indeed. I get that a lot.”<br /><br />“You know we’re drinking, right?” She nodded. “And I’m ahead of you?” She nodded again. But, she was developing the butterfly blush of a drunk, too. “And I’ve already established that I say terrible things when I drink?”<br /><br />“I’m unarmed!” she mocked.<br /><br />“Yeah, yeah,” I chuckled, “so, will you excuse my following comment?” She held up a finger, then downed her glass. She looked ceiling-ward and then exhaled hard, then smiled at me and rolled her arms like a presenter, prompting me to ask. “Have you ever done stuff with the bodies?”<br /><br />“That’s the first thing you think of?!” she said with anger.<br /><br />“No! I’m sorry, I’m drinking, I thought it was an honest question, and—“ Her anger turned to a smile.<br /><br />“Of course we do. You know that a dead body has a hard-on for three days after they’re dead? If you get over the coldness of it, it’s a pretty hard dick. And, they don’t slap your ass or call you names. Just a dick.”<br /><br />“Wow. I don’t know what to say to that one, Ilene.”<br /><br />“I’m fucking with you,” she smiled. “I don’t fuck dead people.”<br /><br />“If you say so.”<br /><br />“Why? Is that attractive?”<br /><br />“I’m…not sure.” And that’s how I met Ilene.Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-11674325514289494832010-03-24T04:28:00.000-07:002010-03-24T09:12:58.988-07:00Greatest Common FactorThere's no good way to start this story. I'll start telling it from right now.<br /><br />I'm eating Vitamin C tablets, sitting in a dark corner of an old public library. I have two pieces of paper in front of me. On one is an incorrect solution to the Monty Hall problem. On the other, I wrote out the correct solution. <br /><br />The Monty Hall problem is as follows: you're on a game show and there are three closed doors. Behind one of them is a brand new car, behind the other two are goats. You choose a door. The game show host opens up one of the three doors (but not the one you opened) and reveals a goat. He asks if you would like to change your guess or if you would like to stay on the door you initially chose.<br /><br />I am eating Vitamin C tablets because it is the only thing I have in my bag. If I had candy or something else that was sweet, I would eat that. But I don't. These are semi-sweet. They have one gram of sugar per tablet. They also have two grams of carbohydrates and five hundred milligrams of Vitamin C and fifty milligrams of sodium. There are sixty tablets in the bottle. The bottle suggests that I chew one tablet daily with a meal. Keep bottle tightly closed. Store in a cool, dry place, out of reach of children. I have eaten fourteen tablets in the last four minutes.<br /><br />I was in the library working with Alice. I was working on a statistics. She was working on philosophy. <br /><br />I don't know why she and I date. We have nothing in common. She stays awake at night wondering about the universe. She sometimes says things that annoy me. A few nights ago, we had this conversation:<br /><br />"So you think there's life on other planets?"<br /><br />"I do not know," I tell her.<br /><br />"Well, think about it statistically." I hate it when she says things like that. I hate it when anyone incorrectly talks about statistics. It bothers me because they usually do not know what they are talking about. I have found that, statistically, people who talk about statistics (not in an academic setting) are more favored to not know statistics. "There are zillions of stars, and a lot of those stars are like our stars, right? I mean, there's gotta be planets around a lot of these stars. Just gotta be. And, on one of those planets, who knows, life may have happened. The statistics are just too high. I mean, galaxies full of billions of stars, probably meaning ten billions of planets. Gotta be some life, right?"<br /><br />"There is no statistical number to qualify how many stars there are and how many planets, on average, orbit every star. There are no statistics. Only theory. Theory is not statistics, Ally."<br /><br />"You're so boring. Do you dream about numbers?"<br /><br />"No, I dream about the bottom of the ocean."<br /><br />"What? Really?" I nod. "Why?"<br /><br />"What do you know about the bottom of the ocean?"<br /><br />"It's a mystery, like outer-space, but even closer, probably wrecks of ancient civilizations and secrets to our past."<br /><br />"None of that is what you know about the bottom of the ocean," I tell her.<br /><br />"Shut up and kiss me," she tells me as she rolls over, starts to unzip my pants and starts kissing my neck.<br /><br />I met her when I was a freshmen and I was conducting a poll. I was standing on the sidewalk in front of the quad so I could talk to as many students as possible. I needed information from people about whether they would rather buy an iPod for more money or a knock-off MP3 player. It was for a business class about marketing and advertising. I found that people would rather pay more money for a product like an iPod, even though it has no extra functionality that an MP3 player like a Sansa has and even though the iPod costs three times as much (assuming the same size player). I thought this was a stupid conclusion, but it was one that I found to be true through the statistical data. People who want an MP3 player should buy the best MP3 player that has the most space and is the cheapest. The iPod is more money and usually has less space.<br /><br />I was conducting my survey and Ally stopped to talk to me.<br /><br />"Would you rather buy a more expensive four-gig iPod or a less-expensive four-gig generic MP3 player?"<br /><br />"I wouldn't buy either," she said. "Why do you want to know?"<br /><br />"I just need to know which you would buy."<br /><br />"What is this, some sort of test?"<br /><br />"I'm conducting a poll. For a marketing class."<br /><br />"I think they're both stupid. People who walk around with their iPods in their ears never listen to people, never look at the world." The headphones are in their ears, not the iPod. I didn't correct her. "They're letting the world pass them by, letting the colors go unnoticed and the smells, yes, they even forget to smell when their head is bumping along to some trash on their white little head-glued-on iPod! Have you smelled today?"<br /><br />"I never stop smelling."<br /><br />"What do I smell like then?" I sniffed her.<br /><br />"I don't know. Nothing." She sniffed me.<br /><br />"You smell purple. Like lavender. Or Jules Verne."<br /><br />I don't think I ever understood what she meant. I never asked, either, because it didn't make sense. She'd try to explain it with more of that language, and all it would do would be to compound vague metaphors on top of even more vague abstractions until I'd forget that she was trying to describe how I smelled by saying a color.<br /><br />But, for some reason, I asked her to go out to dinner with me. I don't even know why. I think I was just spooked about needing to have a girl. An older person in the statistic building, a grad student, had told me "here, on this campus, you needa find a gal when you're a freshmen and then hold onto her, 'cause if you lose her, then you're gonna be single for the rest of your days here. Ain't no pickings when you're upper-class. All the girls got their boyfriends and these freshmen, they come in here with their daddies telling them not to trust any older boys, all we want is some ass, so they look to you other freshmen. Vicious cycle." So, I asked Ally out to dinner and she said yes. And I've been with her three years now.<br /><br />Tonight, we were in the library studying late. I to my Statistics, she to her philosophy. At one point, she sighed heavily through her nose, then put her book down and stood up. She walked over to me, draped her hands on my shoulders, and then whispered into my ear: "I need a break. Want to be a little...Rated R?"<br /><br />I had gotten used to her stupid remarks without telling her how stupid they were and just responded. "No. I am working."<br /><br />"Come on. Here, in the library, it'll be exhilarating. The thrill of getting caught, the kinkiness of doing it on these books here, I'll have to keep quiet, I'm gonna try real hard, wouldn't you want to?" She started reaching down my shirt front down to my pants. I pushed her back. Then she got angry.<br /><br />"Look, okay, I'm sick of this. What. The. Fuck. I throw myself at you and you don't care? What kind of man are you? What is wrong with you?" I looked back at her.<br /><br />"Because I won't have sex with you in a library when I am working and you are bored with your work, I am not a man?"<br /><br />"There you go, trying to be logical and deduce shit like it's A to B to C. Stop doing that."<br /><br />"Think about what you say then."<br /><br />"Fuck you." We both stared at each other. "Goddamnit, I never should've dated you back then. I coulda been dating Adam, you know that? He asked me out, but I said no, I was dating you, and now, look at him, I always see him getting out of his truck with his friends and they're all smiling, always out front throwing a frisbee or having a beer. He's so handsome sometimes...he has muscles, unlike you. And you're doing--what? Sitting here or reading a book? What kind of college kids are you?"<br /><br />"I'm a student. They often forget that they are students."<br /><br />"Being a student is not just about books!" Another pause. "Aren't you pissed about me talking about Adam like that in front of you?"<br /><br />"You like his muscles. I get it."<br /><br />"So be pissed! Be angry that your girl likes some other fucker! Be angry your girl wants to go suck his dick!"<br /><br />"Do you think you would have been happier if you dated some other guy three years ago?"<br /><br />"Who knows! Maybe! Maybe I would have!"<br /><br />"You're right. You probably would have."<br /><br />"What?"<br /><br />"On our first date, milkshakes at the diner, I told you I liked doing this. I studied hard and had an ambition to be doing statistics and math for the rest of my life. You liked that ambition. I told you what I was going to be and what I was. You should have chosen someone else if you would not have been happy with what I said."<br /><br />"How can you expect me to think--of all the things--one day, back then, you knew who you were gonna be now? That's--" she stammered and balled her fists and continued to break sentences in the middle.<br /><br />"It's called the Monty Hall conundrum."<br /><br />"I don't want to hear about some stupid conundrum! I want to talk about us! Every night, I get naked and have to like fucking <span style="font-style:italic;">rape</span> you for us to have sex! You look at everyone in the world the same as me! You have no like, glitter in your eye, no deep thoughts! You have no beauty in your soul when you think about me, in the way that, y'know, I feel about you. What the fuck, just tell me, tell me why you're even with me, you don't even like me, what is it?"<br /><br />"Imagine there are three locked doors."<br /><br />"Shut up! You and me, not doors!"<br /><br />"Behind one of them is an answer. The answer you want. Why I'm with you."<br /><br />"Shut up!"<br /><br />"Behind the other two are lies."<br /><br />"What's this for? Why?"<br /><br />"I'll tell you why I am with you and why I continue to want to be with you."<br /><br />"Are you serious?"<br /><br />"You choose a door. One, two, or three."<br /><br />She hesitated. "Two."<br /><br />"Behind door one is a lie. Would you like to change the door you have selected? You should choose either two or three, but you may choose one. I don't suggest it."<br /><br />"What does this have to do with anything?"<br /><br />"What do you think the odds are, right now, of getting the truth?"<br /><br />"Um, fifty-fifty, right? I have two doors, one lie, one truth, door two, door three."<br /><br />"I'll tell you afterwards."<br /><br />"Wait. You'll tell me the truth, the real truth, if I choose the right one?" I nodded. "I want to know you won't change your mind, on whatever this is. Write it down." So I pulled out two pieces of paper. On one of them I wrote a lie and on the reverse, a big two. On the other page I wrote the truth about her and me, and then a big three. Then I folded both of them up and put them both in my pocket.<br /><br />"I won't write a lie for door one. You should not choose door one."<br /><br />"Then--I choose, um...door three."<br /><br />"So you are changing your answer from door two to three?"<br /><br />"No, door two. I'm staying." I pulled out the papers from my pockets and opened door two and read aloud.<br /><br />"I am with you because I just want sex and you were easy." Her eyes welled up. She bit her lip, closed her eyes, and then punched me. I fell on top of my books and I felt my lip was bleeding. She started to cry and then she started to buckle. Her shoulders bobbed like bubbles boiling in a pot. <br /><br />"I knew it!" She grabbed her books, threw them in her bag, and stormed off as I tried wiping my blood off of the statistics work in front of me. Then, I pulled out the other piece of paper.<br /><br />The way the Monty Hall conundrum works is that most people think that you are left with a fifty-fifty solution to choose the true answer. That is not true. Once you rule out one door as a lie--and you always tell the participant that one of the false doors is a false door--the contest should always change their door. It's statistically foolish to stay on the door one original chose, and the reason is because there are not any less options. By ruling out one door as a lie has not removed it from the probability of the entire series, which is still three doors with two lies. Think of it like this:<br /><br />When you choose, I will tell you that one of the other two doors is a lie. This is not misleading. I am truthfully saying that the door that I say is a lie is actually a lie. Moving forward, let's plot out a diagram.<br /><br />You are asked to choose a door. <div> <br />You choose a door has a lie behind it.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>A) You stick with the door.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span><br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>You get a lie.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>B) You change your door.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>You get a car.<br /><br /> You choose a door has a lie behind it.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>A) You stick with the door.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>You get a lie.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>B) You change your door.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>You get a car.<br /><br /> You choose a door has the truth behind it.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>A) You stick with the door.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>You get a car.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>B) You change your door.<br /><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"> </span>You get a lie.<br /><br />You have a two-thirds chance of getting the truth if you change. Ally did not see this. I played the odds of her not understanding this, and when she stayed on door two, I wrote door two as a lie.<br /><br />I reached into my bag and got out my Vitamin C so that I would not get sick from my wound. I doubt that I would, but it is still a precaution.<br /><br />On the sheet with the big three, I wrote on it: "Because the numbers are so cold and you're warm." I thought she would have liked that. But, perhaps now she'll go find Adam.<br /><br />They have more things in common, anyways. I thought about it, and I only had four things in common with her. They have eleven.</div>Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-3220692365071564992010-03-22T02:54:00.001-07:002010-03-22T03:17:57.264-07:00Billy and Dotty Go To CourtWilliam Wordsworth’s famous poem Daffodils was written after taking a walk through Gowbarrow Park with his sister, Dorothy. Dorothy wrote of the event in her journal later that day on April 15th, 1802; William’s poem was written in 1804 and originally published in 1807. To be painstakingly clear: William wrote the poem and Dorothy wrote the journal article. However, it is known that William read Dorothy’s journals often and it can be reasonably assumed by the space between the walk and the poem that upon reading her journal entry of that April day years later, he was then driven to write the poem Daffodils. So, who is the author of the poem Daffodils: Dorothy or William? <br /><br />To settle this dispute, imagine that Dorothy went to a modern court and sued William (under modern laws and standards) for copyright infringement. Who would win? Does Daffodils constitute a copyright infringement? I will be quoting William Wordsworth’s writings—outside of Daffodils—in a way unrelated to his stance in this imaginary courtroom, and, to avoid confusion, I thusly will refer to the defendant William as “Billy”, plaintiff Dorothy as “Dotty”. I want to separate the writings of William from Billy so that I may quote William in opposition to Billy’s defense without confusion, so from here forward, do not think of Billy as William or Dotty as Dorothy; the court has only Billy and Dotty.<br /><br />On the first day of trial, Dotty’s lawyer would start his opening speech by talking with a misty-eyed reverence on the noble conception of authorship. “Authorship,” he would say loudly, letting the echo ring with some type of conviction. “It is innate. Inborn. True authorship lives inside of the author. It is spontaneous, bursting forth without the aid of outside forces. William Wordsworth said, ‘How exquisitely the individual Mind to the external World is fitted—and how exquisitely too—the external World is fitted to the Mind; and [how amazing] the Creation (by no lower name can it be called) which with blended might accomplish.’ An author’s creation is near divinity, according to Wordsworth. As he says, ‘Creation’, referring to the biblical genesis, is the same for God as it is for an author: it is the birth of a world. Creation is an act of the mind consuming the outside world and producing a new being; an impregnation that morphs and breaks free from the author as a piece of their soul. This is what Dotty is: an author. She wrote her journal entry after seeing that plot of daffodils, and when she did, the world flowed into her. That night, out flowed her words into her journal. As an author, her words came from inside of her, and she created the beauty of that scene in a way that was wholly new to this world, unseen and unread before. She birthed that idea the moment her pen left the page. Edward Young, an English poet, believed that creativity ‘may be said to be of a vegetable nature; it rises spontaneously from the vital root of genius; it grows, it is not made. Imitations are often a sort of manufacture wrought up by those mechanics, art and labor, out of pre-existent materials not their own’ . Edward Young is a kindred spirit to my client, as he believes that an imitation is made out of pre-existent materials, like Billy’s poem being made from the materials in Dotty’s journal entry. He is not a true author in the way Dotty is. The poem Daffodils by Billy is an infringement to my client’s work. Billy is not an author, he is merely an imitator, and he is infringing upon Dotty’s copyright.”<br /><br />Dotty’s lawyer would sit down confidently, cross his legs in arrogance, and then Billy’s lawyer would stand, straighten his tie, and begin his opening statement with a humble tone. “An author?” he would muse. “An author is a person who commits pen to paper. An author is somebody who writes. In a more broad sense, the Oxford English Dictionary says that an author is someone who ‘originates or gives existence to anything'. My client wrote something…he even gave existence to something: a poem. His poem is clearly his own and is not Dotty’s. To plainly say that an author may only use things that spring up inside of them or be influenced by nature completely denies all academia and human history. Authorship grows and uses what has come before. Inspiration for creation is not an infringement if said inspiration comes from another’s work. If anything, it is admiration.” There would be a silence in this imaginary court. His joke would not go over well; the judge would be a rather hard man. <br /><br />“For Billy’s work to be an infringmenet,” Billy’s lawyer would continue, “there cannot be substantial similarity between the two works—“ at which point Billy’s lawyer would pause, then explain to the court, “’substantial similarity’ and other legal terms I will be getting to later in my case, your honor. But, Billy’s work is not substantially like Dotty’s. Stepping back a little, an author can be inspired by other author’s works. That is the human collective working together to inspire each other in an organic, evolving way. For example, Samuel Johnson created the first printed dictionary in the English language. Print was seen as a method of fixity—it still is—so in an abstract way, Johnson ‘defined’ the language as a caste of words. However, he created this concrete definition of what the English language is by using many prominent authors of his time. By using examples from as many respected, well-written people as he could, he compiled a list of words which were considered to be part of the language’s lexicon by its best minds. So, you see, the language we use is a communal device, created by a myriad of authors. The English language has many authors. Who is to say the word daffodil was not once invented? Does that make Dotty guilty of not creating her own word for that flower? I’ll forego the obvious Shakespeare reference, and instead give you the philosopher John Locke: ‘The best way to come to truth being to examine things as really they are, and not to conclude they are, as we fancy of ourselves, or have been taught by others to imagine.’ Billy wrote a poem about what the scene was to him, and he is allowed to because he was obviously there as well with Dotty. The fact Dotty’s writing jogged his mind is of no consequence. Further, I submit—“<br /><br />“Hurry up your notion on authorship, please,” the judge would say with boredom.<br /><br />“Sorry,” Billy’s attorney says, and continues. “I submit another quote from Cyril Knoblauch: ‘Books engender other books, as sentences engender other sentences, each responding to inadequacies in what has come before, each condemned to some inadequacy of its own.’ Knoblauch’s ‘inadequacy’ argument refers to the fallacies within some ‘factual’ texts and the continuing evolution of the sciences and other academic pursuits. The more that humanity learns, the more there is a need to publish newer editions of previously-published and possibly wrong information. In respect to creative works instead of academic works, new creative endeavors can be created by inspiration from older pieces, and so long as the new piece is not identical to its inspiration, then they both should ably co-exist. In fact, I say they can. The nature of a human author is that they absorb what has come before them and strive to be an author themselves, and it is impossible to be an author without having absorbed something written by someone else at some point.”<br /><br />“Thank you for your opening statements,” the judge would say. Next, the judge would ask all present to return the next day to start into the litigation of the case. As they all exited, Dotty and Billy would exchange boiling looks of contempt, a brother and a sister battling each other with the scales of justice, but both would be hustled along by their respective lawyers. <br /><br />On the next day, we would find Dotty’s lawyer pacing the court, hands behind his back, happily listing the legal reasons why Billy is infringing on Dotty’s work. “Dotty’s work was copyrighted from the instantaneous moment she wrote it. This is known as fixity—which means she had automatic copyright protection from the moment had been fixed to a tangible medium of expression, e.g. a pen to a paper.”<br /><br />“Objection!” Billy’s lawyer would yell as he would stand and point directly at Dotty’s lawyer. “The plaintiff wishes to persuade the court that there is plagiarism. There is no plagiarism between Daffodils and Dotty’s journal entry. There is not one instance where a phrase or words are used in a way that indicates any direct piracy of the work. Therefore, there should be no issue about whether Daffodils is a copy.”<br /><br />Instantly, Dotty’s lawyer would be shooting verbal artillery back. “They both speak of the daffodils seeming ‘gay’. Both have the flowers ‘dancing’. They both speak of the ‘heads’ of the flowers. They have similar personifying remarks about the flowers.” Boom, boom, boom Dotty’s lawyer’s cannon mouth would go. The judge would reluctantly instruct Dotty’s lawyer to simply continue. Although aggravated, he would. “Fine, then we shall look at Daffodils as an intellectual copyright that has been infringed. I will reference Judge Learned Hand’s case Sheldon et. al. v. Metro-Goldwyn Pictures Corporation et. al. In this case, Judge Hand found that there was substantial similarity between a movie by Metro-Goldwyn and a play by Sheldon. To come to this verdict, Judge Hand found ‘parallelism of character and incident sufficient to constitute substantial similarity, even though the dialogue of the works was different, and even though both works were based loosely upon an actual murder case in which Madeleine Smith in 1857 poisoned her former lover’. ”<br /><br />“In relation to Dotty and Billy, they both did walk to that meadow, just like the play and the movie were based on the factual murder case. And, as seen above, even though there is a true fact behind the work, you can still copyright the expression of that factual event. Also, let us not forget that Billy’s poem was created only after viewing Dotty’s journal entry on the walk. He would not have otherwise written the poem. He wrote his in bad taste and he did not, does not possess that innate authorial sense to write Daffodils. The beauty of Billy’s poem is spiritually lifted from the beauty that Dorothy created in her journal entry, not in the initial moment that they shared. He is lifting her expression of the moment.”<br /><br />Dotty’s lawyer would sit down and confidently cross his legs, much the same way he would have done the previous day. Billy would be scared, thinking that he may be actually at fault and have to pay Dotty for copyright infringement, but that’s when his lawyer would smile devilishly, pat him on the knee, and then stand. He would adjust his suit and then begin.<br /><br />“First of all, Judge Learned Hand presided over a similar case to the Sheldon case. Hand’s decision in Nichols v. Universal Pictures Corporation was that a story with generic similarities is not susceptible of copyright. In the case, a play about lovers from opposing, feuding Irish and Jewish families was no more copyrightable than Romeo and Juliet. I propose that walking in a meadow and seeing flowers is not a copyrightable storyline…for a journal entry or a poem. It seems, actually, to be one of the more generic ideas I can possibly think of. But, we’re not here for an opinion, we’re here for fact. So, here’s another fact: Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes believed that almost any creative effort, however modest, would suffice for copyright. ‘The [work] is the personal reaction of an individual upon nature. Personality always contains something unique. It expresses its singularity even in handwriting, and a very modest grade of art has in it something irreducible, which is one man’s alone. That something [the produced art] he may copyright.’ ”<br /><br />Dotty’s lawyer would, at this point, nervously grab for the pitcher and pour a glass of water. Billy’s lawyer would now don a gaze of a hunter, stalking his prey’s bleeding trail through the snowy woods. His trophy buck was not about to get away. “Furthermore, in Title 17, Chapter 1, Section 102, part b, states ‘in no case does copyright protection for an original work of authorship extend to any idea.’ The idea of stumbling onto a flower patch is not copyrightable. But, what about the ideas in Billy’s poem that are not anywhere in Dotty’s? Dotty describes the scene, and she does so very well, but the extent of her poetic flourishes ends at personifying the flowers as ‘gay’, ‘dancing’ and ‘resting their heads upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness’. Otherwise, it is all straight prose description. In the case Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc. v. National Enterprises, they found that ‘at least 300 to 400 words of which consisted of verbatim quotes of copyrighted expression taken from the manuscript’, and that was enough to constitute an infringement. That is extremely more than is available on display here.”<br /><br />“Unlike Dotty’s prosaic journal entry, Billy’s poem has him wandering metaphorically as a lonely cloud who sees those daffodils, and, might I add, those daffodils are ‘beside the lake’, not any specific lake, just a lake. Then, he compares them to the endless Milky Way; Dotty does not. And, then, Billy talks of how he remembers them while he lies on a couch; Dotty does not. Dotty’s is a journal entry, not a reflective poem. The similarity here is that someone would yell at me for saying an ocean is blue and it looks like it stretches on forever; I believe that most everyone has that notion when they first see the ocean. There is nothing copyrightable about that idea, and nor is there about dancing flowers in a breeze. The theme or idea of a work may be copied but the elements of the works are what sets them apart. For all the elements listed above, as well as the obvious element of one being a prosaic, constructionally-thoughtless journal entry and one being a rhythmic, rhyming, deliberately-constructed poem, it is easy to see that there is no infringement here. And, let us not forget: you cannot copyright an idea of seeing flowers on a walk.”<br /><br />The Judge would thank both of the lawyers for their efforts and asks them to return once more in the morning for closing comments and a verdict. Both Billy and Dotty, at this point, would shoot antagonizing looks at each other once more. They probably won’t be sharing any more walks to the lake after this case.<br /><br />In the morning, the judge would ask for closing statements, and then he would add the plea that both lawyers be brief. Dotty’s lawyer would begin. “Dotty is the original author of the daffodils piece. She created the scene once nature flowed into her and Billy only was inspired after reading her work. He imposes upon the creation she has made, and he infringes based on a series of obvious and numerous parallelisms between the two works. Despite the true event having happened and both parties having been represented, the parallel of incident and expression is too great to ignore. The expression of a factual event can be copyrighted, and Dotty’s is, and Billy only created his work once he read her copyrighted expression.”<br /><br />The judge would nod now to Billy’s lawyer. “Billy did not infringe because his expression is wholly unique from Dotty’s. First, all authors are part of the human history and they build upon what has come before them. This is how we progress in the sciences and mathematics, by surging forward with more and more knowledge—knowledge that our ancestors worked to create. This same sense of momentum through the generations is true with literature. Literature can be an inspiration to further writing; a student should not need to figure out mathematics on their own…if they did, every generation would die before they got far enough to intrinsically deduce something like physic and, even then, they could never pass on their knowledge to be picked up by the next generation. Literature, too, should inspire and continue from generation to generation and not be reset without the ability to build off of existing works.”<br /><br />“Further, the idea of seeing a field of daffodils is not a copyrightable idea. Ideas may not be copyrighted. Next, there is not enough similarity in the language and the construction of the pieces to call for a plagiarism defense. And, as if all of that was not enough, there comes Judge Holmes edict that nearly any expression a man creates is copyrightable.”<br /><br />The judge, in this imaginary what-if courtroom, would thank both men and then retire to his quarters. At this point, there would be much glaring and face-making between Dotty and Billy and some passive-aggressive conversation about lunch at up-scale restaurants between the lawyers. They would all be silenced by the return of the judge. He would sit and then deliver his verdict: “As I have heard the evidence, this court sides in favor of…”<br /><br />There would be tension in the imaginary courtroom. A lot of tension.<br /><br />“…The defendant.” Billy. “The idea of walking to a pad of daffodils is not copyrightable. Although many of the same words are used between the two poems, they do not substantially create a similarity. Flowers are often thought to dance, be gay, and to rest their heads. Or, I believe that many writers could independently create those personifying remarks about flowers. These are not copyrightable phrases. Further, authorship inevitably comes from society and history, considering we have language, which is a construction of past authors, from cavemen to gentlemen, modifying and re-tailoring and authoring the language anew for every generation. Billy’s poem reflects a depth of expression and creation in poetic terms that is not present in Dotty’s, and thus, creates a new piece of work altogether. It nearly flirts with the lines of fair use by having created a wholly individual product from the inspiration of an old product. Understand that it is clear that Billy was inspired by Dotty, but that is not a crime. Inspiration from one person’s work to another is the continuing human soul in action, and is encouraged by this court.”<br /><br />Billy would jump in his victory, Dotty would fume angrily, the lawyers would shake hands amicably, and then none of it would matter, because this court case will never happen. They’re both long dead.<br /><br />As it stands, William Wordsworth saw no legal action for the poem he wrote. Dorothy, in fact, liked her brother’s writing very much. <br /> <br />Dorothy Wordsworth's Journal:<br /><a href="http://www.rc.umd.edu/rchs/reader/dwdaff.html">http://www.rc.umd.edu/rchs/reader/dwdaff.html</a>.<br /><br />William Wordsworth's poem Daffodils:<br /><a href="http://www.poetry-online.org/wordsworth_daffodils.htm">http://www.poetry-online.org/wordsworth_daffodils.htm</a>.<br /><br />Bibliography<br /><br />"Book II of Locke's Essay Concerning Human Understanding." Home Page for Oregon State University. Oregon State University. Web. 22 Mar. 2010. <a href="http://oregonstate.edu/instruct/phl302/texts/locke/locke1/Book2a.html">http://oregonstate.edu/instruct/phl302/texts/locke/locke1/Book2a.html.</a>.<br /><br />Kernan, Alvin B. Samuel Johnson & the Impact of Print. Princeton, N.J.: Princeton UP, 1989. Print.<br /><br />Samuels, Edward. "Chapter 6" and “Chapter 7.” Edward Samuels. Web. 22 Mar. 2010. <br /><a href="http://www.edwardsamuels.com/illustratedstory/isc6.htm">http://www.edwardsamuels.com/illustratedstory/isc6.htm</a>,<br /><a href="http://www.edwardsamuels.com/illustratedstory/isc7.htm">http://www.edwardsamuels.com/illustratedstory/isc7.htm</a>.<br /><br />"US CODE: Title 17,102. Subject Matter of Copyright: In General." LII | Legal Information Institute at Cornell Law School. Web. 22 Mar. 2010. <a href="http://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/17/102.html">http://www.law.cornell.edu/uscode/17/102.html</a>.<br /><br />Woodmansee, Martha. Eighteenth Century Studies. Ed. Raymond Birn. 4th ed. Vol. 17. Print. Summer, 1984. 425-448.<br /><br />Wordsworth, William. Prospectus to The Recluse.Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-42804920504232779152010-03-21T14:33:00.000-07:002010-05-21T02:55:12.167-07:00FREE ARCADE CABINET – COME PICK IT UP!!I have a Street Fighter II Championship Edition arcade cabinet in good condition, ready to go to anyone who comes and picks it up, Tuesday at 9 AM. E-mail me for address. No scam, this is for real, anyone who wants it. I’m giving it away because it’s haunted.<br /><br />The haunting does not in any way impact the game. It plays just fine. Response is great. Buttons are all responsive and intact. Inlays and art on the panels are all mostly in shape, too, except some gum I couldn’t get off one side (pics at bottom). It’s been modified for free play, but I can show you how to make it take quarters again. This is SFIICE, the golden god of early-90’s tournament arcade games. It doesn’t get better than this!<br /><br />I came into possession of the arcade machine when a local movie theatre went bankrupt. They were selling off everything. He also had Cruisin’ U.S.A., but he kept it (it was not haunted). The owner of the theatre, Bill, told me he’d sell it to me for fifty bucks on account of the ghost. I didn’t believe in superstitions, so I bought it on the spot. Next day, the theatre was boarded up and never saw Bill again. I heard he moved to Georgia.<br /><br />If you buy it, you should know about the haunting: it’ll be fine for the first two weeks. You’ll happily be pounding Balrog and M. Bison with Ryu and Ken. The first two weeks were GREAT, well worth the fifty, even if it is haunted. And I’m giving it away for free!<br /><br />First two weeks, I had my buddies come over and we did big brackets and tournaments. Drank a lot, played by the quarter rule, just like old times in military school when we were fourteen. I was even starting to teach my daughter how to play. She’s four and liked to use Chun-Li.<br /><br />Details of the haunting: during week two, it started to turns itself on in the middle of the night (always at 3:04 A.M.). I was fine with it, I can sleep through anything, and I was also having a lot of fun with my daughter, so I told my wife we we’re keeping it. Every time I’d get home, we’d go downstairs and play a few rounds. She was getting better and better. She would stand on this little stool to be tall enough to get to the buttons. Really cute pictures. So, my wife and I made a deal: I put it in the garage. Same problem. 3:04 A.M., we’d hear the sound of the main menu.<br /><br /> I paid three specialists to come look at it (very pricey house calls!), but none of them could find anything wrong with it. Week four, I unplugged it, and everything was fine for a few days, then I heard it turn on (and so did my wife), I went downstairs, and as soon as I opened the door to the garage, nothing. It was off, nothing at all. So, next night, when it went on at 3:04 A.M., I stood by the door, and I heard the sound—I heard it!—and I opened the door…nothing. It’s a tricky haunting. <br /><br />Week four, I decided to unplug it and let it sit. And, wouldn’t you know it? Noise free. My wife was so thankful and thought it was just the wiring (even though the specialists found no problems with the wiring). I was happy to keep it, and everyone was dandy.<br /><br />But, that’s not why I really need to get rid of it.<br /><br />Week five, I get home from work, grab my daughter, and we go out to play some rounds of Street Fighter. She picks Guile, which she never has before. Then, when we fight, she beats the hell out of me. She knew how to charge her attacks and to counter aerial movies all in one day. I was so surprised. So, I then got it into gear and picked my REALLY good character, Ryu. She picked Blanka and beat me. AGAIN. I was in shock, so I asked her nicely, “sweetie, how did you get so good?”<br /><br />She told me that a nice man taught her how to play last week. He would come to her room, wake her up nicely, walk her hand-in-hand out to the garage and they would play during the night and explain how to do all the moves, and then he would walk her back and tuck her in bed. She said after they were done playing, he would go to sleep back in the arcade machine and she could see him smiling and cheering when she was winning.<br /><br />Which is where I draw the line.<br /><br />If you can deal with the ghost and love SFII, this is for you. Come pick it Tuesday, 9 A.M. If you’re not here to grab it, then the trash men hopefully will.<br /><br />EDIT:<br /><br />Someone, please, come take it. The trash men said that they tried putting it into their truck, but the hydraulic broke before they could hoist it in there. I still have it. I swear, it’s resisting leaving. I tried leaving it outside, but the Homeowner’s Association won’t let me, so I had to put it back in the garage. I haven’t slept in two days, I just sit out in of the machine in the garage. So, come on, any time you want, free, call me, take it. Please.Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-68886517665594291632010-03-20T03:11:00.000-07:002011-12-27T21:15:36.930-08:00Static Free (unfinished)Snow, like a barrage of tiny, icy mortar shells, rained down onto the steaming night street. The mixture of the steam and snow glowed like dancing pixies underneath arcing street lamps. There was nothing unusual in this night's storm. It was a standard East Coast January.<br /><br />Henry Wardson walked on the sidewalk alone. His meticulously-waxed boots crunched on the de-icing salt, which was always liberally applied on city streets. Henry was very conscientious about his boots: every morning, he would fire his wax and then slowly apply it to his twenty-three year old boots while sitting in his suspenders and waiting for his morning coffee to brew. For some reason, the ice on the sidewalks always left a ghost-white residue on his shoes and it never totally came off, no matter how hard he scrubbed. This bothered Henry. But, no matter. <br /><br />After he waxed his shoes and drank his coffee, he would walk to work. He always walked, no matter the weather (unless, of course, it was ridiculous--which Boston could sometimes be). He had a car, but he never found a reason to use it. On average, he spent ten minutes a week in his car. He would sit inside and let the engine run so that it didn't lose its charge. For those weekly ten minute sits, he would read. He kept a small stash of books in a cardboard box. Whenever he was forced to use his car, he usually sat waiting in it more than driving it (such was the curse of being a nice man who offered to pick people up from the airport), so Henry thought of his car more like his reading den than his vehicle. In plus, the dull sound of the engine idling was comforting to Mr. Wardson. Some people preferred listening to rain or ocean sounds, but Henry preferred the sound of an engine, which was odd, considering he hated driving, mechanics, engineering, and everything related to engines. Something, though, was nice about it.<br /><br />If Henry was a punctual man, he might hate sitting in a car and reading. However, he was a man who didn't really keep to a schedule, so he never spent too long worrying about whether he was wasting time reading while sitting a car. He was organized to the point where wasting time was a sin, but enjoying the moment was not. He had a certain elasticity in his morals and beliefs, and that helped him when he had to deal with Problems.<br /><br />Do the right thing, he would say, but only so long as you can do it.<br /><br />And he knew about Problems. He knew about Problems because he knew about sins. And, he knew about sins because he, Henry Wardson, worked--in his free hours--as a priest. Not the normal type of priest, oh no. He had no church, he didn't preside over weddings, and he didn't lead any congregations. He had a different role, and he wasn't always sure it was the right one, but he wasn't about to quit. His job made him feel okay. Sometimes, he felt closer to God when he did this little farcical priest gig. He wasn't a real priest, he had never even believed in God, in fact--oh, wait, a car just drove by and splashed a wave onto Henry. Henry wiped off his brown coat, sighing hard after he smelled his lapel. Yep, salty dirt, he thought. Gotta love the city.<br /><br />Henry was carrying a brown paper bag, folded over and hunched in the crook of his elbow. He switched hands to get the bag away from the wet side of his jacket and then put his hands back in his pockets. He shuffled the contents of his pocket around and took a mental inventory. Pack of smokes, Zippo, phone, wallet, and watch. He took the small, brass-covered wind-it-up pocket watch out and checked the time. It was stuck on 12:47 A.M. He hadn't wound it up enough, but, it was probably only about 1:30 anyways, so it didn't matter. Another block, and he turned onto a small walkway. The path went up between two large buildings with ornamental architectural and a Gothic feel. He was technically on university grounds now, but half of the urban areas (outside of the business blocks) was university land. It's hard to escape it sometimes.<br /><br />At least the university areas were well-lit.<br /><br />Henry pulled out his cigarette pack and eyed the inside. Just one cigarette. He smiled and put it back. Just one cigarette, good.<br /><br />Winding through the trim paths, he finally came to a stop in front of an imposing building. It had a large, academic-looking staircase leading up to a pair of grand wooden doors, locked tight for the night. Instead of going up the giant wooden doors, Henry walked to the side of the staircase and went down a small utility door into the basement. It was propped open with a stick of wood in between the door and its frame. He picked the piece of wood out and walked inside, letting the utility door shut behind him.<br /><br />It was warm inside, so he quickly took off the wet, salty coat and unwrapped his scarf. There was a desk waiting near the door, obviously placed out in the open in anticipation for Henry. He put the soggy piece of wood on the desk without thinking too much about it. Next, he set his brown paper bag down and looked inside. Yep, he thought, they're still good. It'd be a waste if they were spoiled.<br /><br />He was in a long white hall of a campus academic building. The ceiling was curved and the walls were flat and long. The walls were riddled with fliers and numbered brass plates that matched the tarnished brass door knobs (which jiggled just a bit too much when turned, but they fit the style of the rest of the building). The style of the building, to be overly symbolic, could be summed up by the glass on the doors leading into classrooms and offices: rippled glass. You know...the type of rippled glass that's on a private eye's door or on a doctor's personal office. Very 1940's.<br /><br />In the night, these university buildings felt cold and dead. They were eerily quiet. Lights outside shone in on the dark corridors and the embossed names on doors caught like like tombstones. Rooms that were used to being filled with the sounds of philosophical discussion were dead and silent. Washed chalk boards that usually showed off fantastic algorithms or matrices were empty and clean, waiting to be vandalized with mathematics anew. Henry didn't want to stay long in this part of the building; it was just too creepy for him, like a picnic on an old battlefield, eating a sandwich where some man bled out from the gut.<br /><br />While the white-stone staircase and wrought-iron railing led up to three more stories of long white halls and confetti-colored cork boards, Henry instead turned and went down a set of exit stairs. He moved down the narrow exit staircase where each step boomed in the empty building. He was heading down to the sub-basement.<br /><br />Down in the sub-basement was where the sewage valves, fuse boxes, water heaters, and stuff-like-that resided. The ceiling was open with mazes of plumbing and wires running up into the walls. The floor was a blank concrete stained with all manners of black, oily freckles. The sound of some far off machine rattled rhythmically and everything was either metal or stone.<br /><br />Henry neared the bottom and he saw the red light bulb hanging over the sub-basement door. It was shining bright. He came to the door, pressed the buzzer, and then waited for the lock to disengage. A rattling bzzzzt confirmed the door was open. As soon as the door cracked open, the sound of a strong, passionate voice resonated through the stairwell.<br /><br />"That--that---that's, that can't--thatthathat's wrong, man. Just wrong. A zillion times wrong. Wrong as wrong gets and wrong can be. Just wrong, man. Wrong." Henry walked in and shut the door behind him. In front of him was a glass-paned sound room, only accessible from another corridor unseen. Behind the glass, a bearded, heavy-set man sat with his face buried into the foam of a craned, multi-arm microphone, hunched over a Lite-Brite-looking soundboard littered with dials, knobs, levels, and Post-It notes. To Henry's left was the CD stacks room and his right, the vinyl stacks room. They weren't just "rooms", no, they were more like libraries with dozens of metal bookshelves chocked so full that the shelves bent scarily inward and the aisles were hardly two feet apart. You could be suffocated and die under an avalanche of music if you accidentally knocked one of the towers over. <br /><br />"You're willing to get here, on the air, in front of the entire nation and say sh--stuff like that? Say some government-brainwash stuff, feeding the monster, perpetuating the system, breeding the cycle? No, no, no, nonononono, you're wrong, man, I'm seeing the light, I know how it is out there, I spent seven years of my life on a nuclear sub in the middle of the Cold War doing things that never happened, okay? And I know what I saw out there and I know what it's like and you don't."<br /><br />Henry walked to the glass and tapped it. The man looked up from his waffle mic. Henry held up the bag. The man's smile broke from beneath his explosive beard and he fiendishly smiled and nodded his head in a motion that could mean nothing other than "get your ass in here, you beautiful bastard". Then, instantly, he shot right back into his furious argument into the microphone.<br /><br />"Good bye, good bye, sir, have a pleasant weekend, bye bye. You're wrong man, good bye. This is Conrad Blue, on the air for Air Freedom of America, or, as the wolves in the night like to say..." Conrad Blue hit his sound board and a raucous wolf call shot out, "ARF ARF ARF AROOOO!" and he howled along with the soundbite. "Keeping you awake and burning with talk and gossip about the state of our union when no one else but the true patriots are listening. We're gonna take a quick break to give you a word from our sponsors who are, lemme see, today our sponsors are," a quick pause as he shuffled through papers, "mayonnaise. Okay, yes, we are being funded by ...Treemount Farms Mayonnaise tonight. Yum yum." He paused and sighed. "Yes, that's right, we're brought to you tonight by Treemount Farm Mayonnaise. Yes, mayo. Aaaaand, here are some commercials."<br /><br />Conrad Blue thumbed the commercial button and threw his over-sized headphones onto the sound board and popped out of his swivel chair to open the door to the sound room just as Henry was raising his hand to turn the knob.<br /><br />"Henry," he said with a mock seriousness.<br /><br />"Walt," Henry said back with a stern brow and a curt nod. They both grunted at each other like cave men, then Walt reached up and bashed his closed hand on Henry's shoulder. Henry wolloped his hand on Walt's shoulder right back. They both nodded and grunted again. Then Walt hit on Henry's shoulder. And Henry on Walt's. They did this back and forth like two monkeys bashing each other until they both broke into smiles and fell into the sound room calling each other a litany of mother-fuckers and sons-of-bitches. <br /><br />Walt, or Conrad Blue as the listeners knew him, assumed his chair again and Henry sat on a chair in the corner on the opposite side of the soundboard. Walt swung a mic around to him and Henry plopped the bag on the soundboard.<br /><br />"Not glazed, please, not glazed," Walt pleaded.<br /><br />"Boston creme."<br /><br />"Any jelly?"<br /><br />"There was one, but I threw it out, I know how you hated those."<br /><br />"Asshole," Walt said with a smile, grabbing out a donut and leaning back in his chair.Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-234482375542195965.post-56266470707173553572010-03-19T11:21:00.000-07:002010-03-19T11:34:54.041-07:00Gosh Darn<meta equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8"><meta name="ProgId" content="Word.Document"><meta name="Generator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><meta name="Originator" content="Microsoft Word 12"><link rel="File-List" href="file:///C:%5CUsers%5CVic%5CAppData%5CLocal%5CTemp%5Cmsohtmlclip1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml"><link rel="themeData" 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mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-priority:99; mso-style-qformat:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin-top:0in; mso-para-margin-right:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:10.0pt; mso-para-margin-left:0in; line-height:115%; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Calibri","sans-serif"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-ascii-theme-font:minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-theme-font:minor-fareast; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-theme-font:minor-latin;} </style> <![endif]--> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">I got an ice pick just itching to say hi to your eyeball.</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">You see, I really was afraid that I wouldn't be able to do it, if I saw you.<span style=""> </span>Who am I kidding?<span style=""> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">When</span> I see you.<span style=""> </span>You never go <span style="font-style: italic;">too </span>long without needing something from my house, do you?<span style=""> </span>Or, without needing me, whenever everyone else in your life realizes how much they hate you and I'm the only one left you have to run to.<span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">But, now, I know I could.<span style=""> </span>I could do it, I really could. I <span style="font-style:italic;">really </span>could.<span style=""> </span>I know you never believed me, but this time, I'm serious.<span style=""> </span>When I said I would be there at 7:30 and it was really 7:35, I know, I messed up.<span style=""> </span>But, this time, I'm promising.<span style=""> </span>I could dip this pick deep into your pretty blue eye so you'll be seeing the inside of your head and looking at me at the same time.</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">Funny...wouldn't it be nice if I were in your head?<span style=""> </span>Thinking about me?<span style=""> </span>Then when I picked ya, your eye would be seeing me and then me again, in your head, but we both know that's not true.<span style=""> </span>It's okay, though, because I was always thinking of other things, too.</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">Like when to pick up your mother because she threw her back out again and you were too busy with...something.<span style=""> </span>I forget what it was.<span style=""> </span>There I go forgetting again!<span style=""> </span>You were right, I am a real klutz.</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">But, this time, I've got it all planned for you, baby.<span style=""> </span>You're gonna walk in and I'm gonna whack ya.<span style=""> </span>I hope to hit your eyeball square.<span style=""> </span>I think that would be the perfect place.<span style=""> </span>I always know how you cared more for appearances than actuality.<span style=""> </span>We never held hands while walking in crowded places so you never felt like my girl, even though I changed my shifts to be free when you wanted me to be free.<span style=""> </span>So, if I got ya square in the eye, well, it'd be a perfect way to go.</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">The shock on your face would be preserved, none of that nasty skull-cracking (on the pretty parts of the face), and it would be instant.<span style=""> </span>Well, instant...I've heard that.<span style=""> </span>From, y'know, people.<span style=""> </span>The same people who probably told you that you needed thirty thousand magazines to tell you how to please your man, and then, you never did a single thing in the pages of those magazines.<span style=""> </span>Except lie there and ask me "are you done yet?"</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">Gosh darn, baby, I do love ya.</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">And my ice pick is gonna, too.</p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNoSpacing">I just don't know what I'm gonna do with the new set of golf clubs I just bought you.<span style=""> </span>They're too short for me and I took the tags off.</p> Novadoshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07033654319778946033noreply@blogger.com0