The haze didn't deter his stride and soon his elbows met the wooden bartop, his gaze captured the swirling bartender's curves, and his cigarette smoke smothered those he edged between in his entrance.
"Say, pal, would you mind passing me the ashtray? It is easier than a kidney stone."
Strange looks confronted him as the tray passed his way.
"This place smells like piss! Which way to the bar? Or can someone get a bartender over by yonder urinal?"
He heard it get quieter, confusion--wasn't he at the bar?--except for the jukebox which played any dumb Green Day song you want to conjure up for the mental picture.
"I heard that Atlanta is the traffic capital of the South, but I'll be damned if I can get to it to find out!"
A beer appeared before him and it was gone it 3 big bubbles followed by a shy burp. He motioned for another, and then noting the atmosphere, signaled for the check instead. It arrived promptly and nervous conversation started in smatterings around him again.
He signed his name and hollered "TOUGH CROWD! Last time I had this much trouble was when I covered Grateful Dead tunes at a Christian Youth Convention."
No one acknowledged him and he farted a long, silent one as he walked out of the unfriendly bar.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
Lazy River Plantation
"This is fertile ground, good plantin'...this is ripe for the plantin'."
"Says you...looks like a mess of treez and hillz an'..."
"Shuddup boy!", he said with irritation, "you are here to do the labor and not think, got it?".
"Yessir...dig, plant, and hopefully pull something up..."
"you will pull...punk."
It wasn't light when we connected out cleaving instruments to fertility, it was lonely and black and quiet.
He hoe'd a great line, I'll give it to him. He cleaned it clear to the edge of the prop. line. He worked it, and came back and worked another line, and came back and cleanded another line, and edged it until after dusk. He lined it right. She was still inside.
He lined up again and had to be told to stop, to quit. The night buzzed with crickets and the moon was lower than the half-pitched wooden fence and that showed dedication. He sat on the step of the porch writing in the moonlight, writing to things that were gone, escaped, elusive, but heartfelt, in the connection of pen to paper.
That sun rose early, his body exclaimed like a mistrial, and he went about it like he was the guilty party. More lines, more rows, more dedicated, obligated labor, more presentation. A cold man sipped a warming liquidnade on the front porch watching his rows, watching his cut, his lift, his rake, his haul, his character.
The rains came and work halted. Held about by water, by the flow, he studied his field of rows, of lines cut. He saw the wolf enter and he lifted the rifle. He halted before the trigger to know, to understand the wolf. He had to share the cuts, the rows.
He wanted to die, he wanted the powderblast yet he held the gun.
Blue of sunrise, blue of innocence and blue of turmoiled sea; blue of afterlife and blue of surrounding peace. Blue cuts him--his favorite color--blue of hope is the changing horizon, of love set free.
The garden produced something, this that the other, popped up ideas of produce, vegetables and other yield. Never understood, or captured, the blue of that season. And never understood was the way his eyes burned looking into the sky, grasping for the meaning...in a color...in a season...in what a field had to offer. Or what the orchard could produce on this beautiful dreamland, down by the river...memories stir here on a lazy afternoon...I can now simply recall the prideful harvest with a smile and wonderment.
"Says you...looks like a mess of treez and hillz an'..."
"Shuddup boy!", he said with irritation, "you are here to do the labor and not think, got it?".
"Yessir...dig, plant, and hopefully pull something up..."
"you will pull...punk."
It wasn't light when we connected out cleaving instruments to fertility, it was lonely and black and quiet.
He hoe'd a great line, I'll give it to him. He cleaned it clear to the edge of the prop. line. He worked it, and came back and worked another line, and came back and cleanded another line, and edged it until after dusk. He lined it right. She was still inside.
He lined up again and had to be told to stop, to quit. The night buzzed with crickets and the moon was lower than the half-pitched wooden fence and that showed dedication. He sat on the step of the porch writing in the moonlight, writing to things that were gone, escaped, elusive, but heartfelt, in the connection of pen to paper.
That sun rose early, his body exclaimed like a mistrial, and he went about it like he was the guilty party. More lines, more rows, more dedicated, obligated labor, more presentation. A cold man sipped a warming liquidnade on the front porch watching his rows, watching his cut, his lift, his rake, his haul, his character.
The rains came and work halted. Held about by water, by the flow, he studied his field of rows, of lines cut. He saw the wolf enter and he lifted the rifle. He halted before the trigger to know, to understand the wolf. He had to share the cuts, the rows.
He wanted to die, he wanted the powderblast yet he held the gun.
Blue of sunrise, blue of innocence and blue of turmoiled sea; blue of afterlife and blue of surrounding peace. Blue cuts him--his favorite color--blue of hope is the changing horizon, of love set free.
The garden produced something, this that the other, popped up ideas of produce, vegetables and other yield. Never understood, or captured, the blue of that season. And never understood was the way his eyes burned looking into the sky, grasping for the meaning...in a color...in a season...in what a field had to offer. Or what the orchard could produce on this beautiful dreamland, down by the river...memories stir here on a lazy afternoon...I can now simply recall the prideful harvest with a smile and wonderment.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Dissection
Rob yourself of glimmer harbored inside via plastic stageprops in handshakes, phone contacts, and sketchy rendevous moments smuggled into your planned destinations, inside of some uncontrolled swirl of detrimental off-course path of doom.
Pilfer gold
Blood dripping fresh from treasures
Excavated out of my interior
Out of my future
Capturing me inside
Within the cavern I've created
Repressing forward motion
Lacking oxygen to survive.
"I don't take I grab and you stuff and we shoplift these.."
"Shut up, shut up shut up! You and all your sadness is.."
"...jewels of our future that are too shiny to us right now"
"I can't stand you any-f-ing more! I'll drive us off this hillside! I'll..."
"more jewels lost, hell the whole booty will be..."
"SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP"
"gone"
(Brakes applied, tires screech, headlights jerk upward, and then the passing of air)
Monday, November 13, 2006
A Question of Fortitude
When it happens what will you do? When imagination insuinates itself into the cursory reality of your life how will you respond? When that which is dreaded or dreamed or discarded for lost suddenly presents itself, unavoidable and confrontational in front of you, in what manner will you respond?
Will you have the words, the presence of mind, the fists, the lungs, the calm, the backbone, the smoothness of touch to counter the most important challenge you'll ever face in your life? When you are forced to stand toe-to-toe with the very core challenge, desire, fear, or moment of truth--knowing that your next move, thought, impulse, reaction will dictate how you spend the rest of your living days--what will you do?
Will you have the words, the presence of mind, the fists, the lungs, the calm, the backbone, the smoothness of touch to counter the most important challenge you'll ever face in your life? When you are forced to stand toe-to-toe with the very core challenge, desire, fear, or moment of truth--knowing that your next move, thought, impulse, reaction will dictate how you spend the rest of your living days--what will you do?
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
Flow
Within each day that folds inwardly into representational shapes in orbital passing are crushed dreams, bright insights, harsh conflicts, soft connective whispers, finality; all these and more circulate upon gentle stream currents as floating origami creations set adrift with wishes from the rocky shoreline. The slow passage of clear water continually replaces the surface appearance in a flow that can be timed and marked with fragile voyages of our brightest hopes and heartfelt intentions.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Crossover
Grey day finds a face
Crowded people, shared secret
A smile lets me know
Eyes fall across words
Ask about things we don't know
Of the feelings felt
In this open world
There are forces vast and true
Touched a glimpse with you
For sci40995 11/7/06
Crowded people, shared secret
A smile lets me know
Eyes fall across words
Ask about things we don't know
Of the feelings felt
In this open world
There are forces vast and true
Touched a glimpse with you
For sci40995 11/7/06
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Anniversay Request Responses
Ok, I asked for your input for the posts that meant a lot to you, your favorites, or ones that you hated. I only received responses from a couple of folks and none of the responses included ones that were hated. So I'll list the favorite posts as sent in from some avid readers of my blog. Thank you very much for your replies and thank you for reading my stuff!
Reader-Supplied Favorites (in no particular order):
OneTimesTwo-10/31/2005
Testing, testing...onetimestwo
Rotation-9/24/06
Waking, worry
wiping eyes and lies away
Walking, working
washing it into embers
Each anoynmous day
Travelling, moving
passing in a blend destinations
This that for she who
Reverse undo erase
Blinking, breathing
Crunch, intesify
the whole portending gap
Love me, hate that
can't deaccelerate
Happened, coast, retract
Left shoe, lightswitch
decompress into prayer
This hurt, that demand
subtle dance dreams
Want to waken
Movement of the Spirit-7/06/06
5 A good man hates lies; wicked men lie constantly and come to shame.
6 A man's goodness helps him all through life, while evil men are being destroyed by their wickedness.
9 The good man's life is full of light. The sinner's road is dark and gloomy.
12 Hope deferred makes the heart sick; but when dreams come true at last, there is life and joy.
14 The advice of a wise man refreshes like water from a mountain spring. Those accepting it become aware of the pitfalls on ahead.
16 A wise man thinks ahead; a fool doesn't, and even brags about it!
19 It is pleasant to see plans develop. That is why fools refuse to give them up even when they are wrong.
20 Be with wise men and become wise. Be with evil men and become evil.
25 A good man eats to live, while the evil man lives to eat.
Proverbs 13, selections
How About An Orange Soda?-9/11/2006
The door to the little shop opened slowly, as if the light was having a hard time cutting the dust in the air. The hinges creaked and the handle was falling off. The rest of the shop was in no better shape. Even through all of this, she was stunning. I knew it was love at first sight for me. Her face gleamed in the light; I was breathtaken. Her beauty was immense and we were germs of normalness. I stared at her as she walked toward the barstools; I wasn't the only one. She dusted off a stool with the grace of a princess. She sat down slowly, taking her time to look around the place.
I searched my mind for something to say. How do you talk to the woman of your dreams when you've never seen her before? I guessed the best place to start was by talking to her like I would anyone else, even though she deserved much more. I was a waiter at the restaurant. That helped. I mean, it gave me an excuse to talk to her. She had a menu out and was reading it as I walked over. She looked up and I smiled at her. "What do you need?", I asked her. Oh my gosh, how stupid, retarded, etc., can you get?
She didn't seem to notice and said, "Just a Coke." Coke? What is Coke? I thought desperately. Then it registered so I went into the back and tried to pour her drink.
We were out of cola! Great, just what I needed! All we had left was orange soda. So very cautiously and coolly I walked out to her. I explained to her what had happened. "What, no Coke!", she exclaimed. Then she got up and left.
I was heartbroken. To say we had no Coke and watch the love of my life walk out the door...I had to get her off my mind so I took the rest of the day off and went into the city. I headed straight for Burger King. There I sat down and released all my worries into my Whopper. Next thing you know I had knocked over my drink, dumb klutz that I am! I went up to get a new one, cursing and wiping myself all the way.
Guess who checked me out at the register when I got there? Yes, her! The ex-love-of-my-life! Sheepishly I asked for a coke and she said, "Sorry, we're out of Coke. How about an orange soda?"
The sunset never looked so pretty. Maybe it's because the sky is so clear, and the stars are unusually bright. I think it's because she's sitting by my side. By the way, I hate orange sodas, but don't tell her that, okay?
The World of Drum and Bass (ATL)-3/26/06
Strobed light cut across faces and bodies in time to the pulsation of volume, and blood and hearts. The room sprawled to the walls free of obstructions execpt for the support columns, and the colored lights danced across angles of floor and wall and dancers. The din of the explosive bass shakes my body, vibrates my privates, locks a timeframe into my observation, forces unconscious tick and twitches of my body respoding to the flow of input.
I twisted in time to the rhythm and felt myself loosen inside, lacking that clench of stress and the soft stab of hurt, clinging to the balance of light and energy and flow and music and possibility.
My cuz, DJ Jubei, shouted something in my ear that made me smile and I kept looking to the head-bent turntablist onstage and shifting my body to the beat. The beer was cold in my hand, acting as a counter-weight to my gyrations, I suddenly felt a little pooped. My journey was in need of rest, so I found a couch. And while sitting I watched many a person on their night...seeing the skimpy buckhead chicks, the gays, the drunks, the guy that ate too many drugs, my cousin dancing. All of these separated for the girl with the twirly light thingy.
And the night shortly changed after I asked her if I could buy her a drink. And the beat played onward and the buckheads still danced and the gays still showed me how to dress better...but she defined the night, the moment, and the future...which is up to her.
I remember hearing High Contrast...and that's about it.
And I'll add my favorite posts to date. This was a very, very hard decision because a part of me is in each writing I put out there, and therefore I love each one in a different way. So I couldn't decide. I'll put my three favorites and also my favorite visual post.
Erosion-4/29/06
Cut away the fat, carve the meat from the bone, dice and slice and mince and pinch and tense the calm, the good, the right, the positive in the carver's kitchen, in the meat locker, in the court room, in the pitch-black bedroom, inside yourself in an unconcerned crowd.
Do it again the next day, the day following, the rest of the week, the week after that, then continue onward as if that is what life is...the beating on yourself, the hobbling, the binding, the bending, the breaking.
Turn off your eyes and ears and heart and mind and life and blood for things you cannot change but are married to, enjoined with, infused into, burned by, melded...and stop making them hurt you long after the caustic bright chemical reaction, emotional poignancy, intellectual delve, sexual twist or careless cluelessness disperses.
Leave these rainy nightmares of the sticky, putrid past to fade, discard that dark hue that climbs out in rancid, acidic sweat to taint the sweet-rose dawn of each breaking day, and believe there is more, so much more, beyond now.
The Blackest Night-5/16/06
Fear--it raped my sense of security, of boundaries, in a scythe swipe. I shook, my body racked with confusion and panic and adrenaline. I heard the noises again and tried to process in my overloaded mind my next move. The gun, a trigger, turn out the lights and tiptoe. Breathe quietly, silently...and don't forget to breathe...while my very alert senses configured my next action. The gun was hardly a noticeable weight in my tense hand but it was a comfort, and a concern. Would I put a bullet into someone, maybe. This decision struck me as odd, as I tensed against the wall out of the light to avoid shadow movements. These new standards of living and dying were the products of fear. I began to pray with my eyes wide open.
Luck-8/31/06
The battered team breathes heavily, beaten by the unfulfillment of the projected gameplay that has gone horribly awry, and sweats rivers under the heavy cloudcover of dismay. No one can look at the other players for shame, for guilt. He stares at the blade of grass, the other looks into space for answers, one holds his head in his hands, one scratches his groin, the coach seems catatonic. Not the captain, not Mr. Can-Do 4 Years In a Row Team Captain. Oh no, his furrowed brow tells the story before the eyes even reach the spit-flying lips. The gestures on the chalkboard are in Chinese, actually they are riddles in Chinese. Finally sound seems to penetrate into our sorry lot, a phrase, a certain term...what was it that snapped us back into the moment from our self-pity doldrums? Oh yes, Captain used the term "no chick is going to separate the left from the right for a bunch of losers like us". I stopped at "chick"; my girlfriend was in the stands, groaning through this agony along with the faithful families of the players, the band nerds, and other goobers with nothing better to do on a Friday night than come watch us get our asses handed to us in a brutal and, frankly, impolite manner. I could feel her yawn from the field, but quickly lost that thought because I had shifted to the geometery of the separation of the left and the right...and I finally felt energy again, and it wasn't from the 3-gallons of Gatorade I drank even though I spent most of the first half riding the bench with our comatose coach.
Captain kept spitting out phrases that didn't register into my dull helmet-protected skull, mainly because they lacked any connection to "chick", as he emphatically gestured, pointed, threw down the chalkboard, and made us all slap hands in a big circle. I didn't feel the surge of motivation--I felt the sore butts of the spectators, the shifting-foot impatience of the other team, the disappointment of my girlfriend, and the complete disinterest of the hotdog vendor as he closed up shop on a night of disappointing sales. But the spit was really flying out of Captain's mouth mixed with hoarse slogans of "teamwork" and "go the mile" and other crap, and we slapped our weary hands as best we could and broke the huddle.
I trotted over to the order of players, taking my position in the back. Somehow, some miraculous way, we had managed to squeak, edge, blunder, luck-out, and magically make our way into field goal position. We certainly paid the price for it as well. Grover, the runningback, well...he won't be running anytime soon. Both wide receivers caused 20 minute delay of games as they were carried off the field. And our offensive line looks like survivors of a war, with more red than white on their uniforms; I doubt they even know their own names at this point. But, with the fate of fortune smiling upon us out of heavenly pity, we had undoubtedly ended up in field goal territory. And that's when coach quit responding, though we checked for breathing twice.
I moved to my position and waited for the snap and placement. All I had to do was run, plant, kick and connect, and make it go between those two big-ass posts that look the the devil's pitchfork with a prong missing. If I do these steps, in the order they are meant to be done, I might...I just might...separate left from right. The QB is hollering the theory of relativity while our line is quaking from the strain of gravity. The other team looks rabid and mean and anything but tired out. I look at the scoreboard and see the clock dropping past the 5-second mark and it makes me want to puke up all the orange Gatorade I sucked down in my bench-sitting boredom. But then the ball is snapped and there is motion, and the line of devils are rushing over our line like they are ghosts and I see evil running at me with blue jerseys on, and the ball is placed. I'm running, I'm running, I want to puke, I'm placing my foot, I'm swinging my leg, I'm thinking of separating left leg from right leg, I'm closing my eyes and holding back bile and connecting with the ball and it is all I can do not to barf right there in front of the spectators that have finally got off their asses to see what happens to end this disasterous waste of their life. The roar goes up, I get mashed into the cool, damp grass and smell the foul smell of angry, opposing-team humans, and I wonder if I separated left from right as the buzzer ends the game.
Unforgettable-6/17/06
Reader-Supplied Favorites (in no particular order):
OneTimesTwo-10/31/2005
Testing, testing...onetimestwo
Rotation-9/24/06
Waking, worry
wiping eyes and lies away
Walking, working
washing it into embers
Each anoynmous day
Travelling, moving
passing in a blend destinations
This that for she who
Reverse undo erase
Blinking, breathing
Crunch, intesify
the whole portending gap
Love me, hate that
can't deaccelerate
Happened, coast, retract
Left shoe, lightswitch
decompress into prayer
This hurt, that demand
subtle dance dreams
Want to waken
Movement of the Spirit-7/06/06
5 A good man hates lies; wicked men lie constantly and come to shame.
6 A man's goodness helps him all through life, while evil men are being destroyed by their wickedness.
9 The good man's life is full of light. The sinner's road is dark and gloomy.
12 Hope deferred makes the heart sick; but when dreams come true at last, there is life and joy.
14 The advice of a wise man refreshes like water from a mountain spring. Those accepting it become aware of the pitfalls on ahead.
16 A wise man thinks ahead; a fool doesn't, and even brags about it!
19 It is pleasant to see plans develop. That is why fools refuse to give them up even when they are wrong.
20 Be with wise men and become wise. Be with evil men and become evil.
25 A good man eats to live, while the evil man lives to eat.
Proverbs 13, selections
How About An Orange Soda?-9/11/2006
The door to the little shop opened slowly, as if the light was having a hard time cutting the dust in the air. The hinges creaked and the handle was falling off. The rest of the shop was in no better shape. Even through all of this, she was stunning. I knew it was love at first sight for me. Her face gleamed in the light; I was breathtaken. Her beauty was immense and we were germs of normalness. I stared at her as she walked toward the barstools; I wasn't the only one. She dusted off a stool with the grace of a princess. She sat down slowly, taking her time to look around the place.
I searched my mind for something to say. How do you talk to the woman of your dreams when you've never seen her before? I guessed the best place to start was by talking to her like I would anyone else, even though she deserved much more. I was a waiter at the restaurant. That helped. I mean, it gave me an excuse to talk to her. She had a menu out and was reading it as I walked over. She looked up and I smiled at her. "What do you need?", I asked her. Oh my gosh, how stupid, retarded, etc., can you get?
She didn't seem to notice and said, "Just a Coke." Coke? What is Coke? I thought desperately. Then it registered so I went into the back and tried to pour her drink.
We were out of cola! Great, just what I needed! All we had left was orange soda. So very cautiously and coolly I walked out to her. I explained to her what had happened. "What, no Coke!", she exclaimed. Then she got up and left.
I was heartbroken. To say we had no Coke and watch the love of my life walk out the door...I had to get her off my mind so I took the rest of the day off and went into the city. I headed straight for Burger King. There I sat down and released all my worries into my Whopper. Next thing you know I had knocked over my drink, dumb klutz that I am! I went up to get a new one, cursing and wiping myself all the way.
Guess who checked me out at the register when I got there? Yes, her! The ex-love-of-my-life! Sheepishly I asked for a coke and she said, "Sorry, we're out of Coke. How about an orange soda?"
The sunset never looked so pretty. Maybe it's because the sky is so clear, and the stars are unusually bright. I think it's because she's sitting by my side. By the way, I hate orange sodas, but don't tell her that, okay?
The World of Drum and Bass (ATL)-3/26/06
Strobed light cut across faces and bodies in time to the pulsation of volume, and blood and hearts. The room sprawled to the walls free of obstructions execpt for the support columns, and the colored lights danced across angles of floor and wall and dancers. The din of the explosive bass shakes my body, vibrates my privates, locks a timeframe into my observation, forces unconscious tick and twitches of my body respoding to the flow of input.
I twisted in time to the rhythm and felt myself loosen inside, lacking that clench of stress and the soft stab of hurt, clinging to the balance of light and energy and flow and music and possibility.
My cuz, DJ Jubei, shouted something in my ear that made me smile and I kept looking to the head-bent turntablist onstage and shifting my body to the beat. The beer was cold in my hand, acting as a counter-weight to my gyrations, I suddenly felt a little pooped. My journey was in need of rest, so I found a couch. And while sitting I watched many a person on their night...seeing the skimpy buckhead chicks, the gays, the drunks, the guy that ate too many drugs, my cousin dancing. All of these separated for the girl with the twirly light thingy.
And the night shortly changed after I asked her if I could buy her a drink. And the beat played onward and the buckheads still danced and the gays still showed me how to dress better...but she defined the night, the moment, and the future...which is up to her.
I remember hearing High Contrast...and that's about it.
And I'll add my favorite posts to date. This was a very, very hard decision because a part of me is in each writing I put out there, and therefore I love each one in a different way. So I couldn't decide. I'll put my three favorites and also my favorite visual post.
Erosion-4/29/06
Cut away the fat, carve the meat from the bone, dice and slice and mince and pinch and tense the calm, the good, the right, the positive in the carver's kitchen, in the meat locker, in the court room, in the pitch-black bedroom, inside yourself in an unconcerned crowd.
Do it again the next day, the day following, the rest of the week, the week after that, then continue onward as if that is what life is...the beating on yourself, the hobbling, the binding, the bending, the breaking.
Turn off your eyes and ears and heart and mind and life and blood for things you cannot change but are married to, enjoined with, infused into, burned by, melded...and stop making them hurt you long after the caustic bright chemical reaction, emotional poignancy, intellectual delve, sexual twist or careless cluelessness disperses.
Leave these rainy nightmares of the sticky, putrid past to fade, discard that dark hue that climbs out in rancid, acidic sweat to taint the sweet-rose dawn of each breaking day, and believe there is more, so much more, beyond now.
The Blackest Night-5/16/06
Fear--it raped my sense of security, of boundaries, in a scythe swipe. I shook, my body racked with confusion and panic and adrenaline. I heard the noises again and tried to process in my overloaded mind my next move. The gun, a trigger, turn out the lights and tiptoe. Breathe quietly, silently...and don't forget to breathe...while my very alert senses configured my next action. The gun was hardly a noticeable weight in my tense hand but it was a comfort, and a concern. Would I put a bullet into someone, maybe. This decision struck me as odd, as I tensed against the wall out of the light to avoid shadow movements. These new standards of living and dying were the products of fear. I began to pray with my eyes wide open.
Luck-8/31/06
The battered team breathes heavily, beaten by the unfulfillment of the projected gameplay that has gone horribly awry, and sweats rivers under the heavy cloudcover of dismay. No one can look at the other players for shame, for guilt. He stares at the blade of grass, the other looks into space for answers, one holds his head in his hands, one scratches his groin, the coach seems catatonic. Not the captain, not Mr. Can-Do 4 Years In a Row Team Captain. Oh no, his furrowed brow tells the story before the eyes even reach the spit-flying lips. The gestures on the chalkboard are in Chinese, actually they are riddles in Chinese. Finally sound seems to penetrate into our sorry lot, a phrase, a certain term...what was it that snapped us back into the moment from our self-pity doldrums? Oh yes, Captain used the term "no chick is going to separate the left from the right for a bunch of losers like us". I stopped at "chick"; my girlfriend was in the stands, groaning through this agony along with the faithful families of the players, the band nerds, and other goobers with nothing better to do on a Friday night than come watch us get our asses handed to us in a brutal and, frankly, impolite manner. I could feel her yawn from the field, but quickly lost that thought because I had shifted to the geometery of the separation of the left and the right...and I finally felt energy again, and it wasn't from the 3-gallons of Gatorade I drank even though I spent most of the first half riding the bench with our comatose coach.
Captain kept spitting out phrases that didn't register into my dull helmet-protected skull, mainly because they lacked any connection to "chick", as he emphatically gestured, pointed, threw down the chalkboard, and made us all slap hands in a big circle. I didn't feel the surge of motivation--I felt the sore butts of the spectators, the shifting-foot impatience of the other team, the disappointment of my girlfriend, and the complete disinterest of the hotdog vendor as he closed up shop on a night of disappointing sales. But the spit was really flying out of Captain's mouth mixed with hoarse slogans of "teamwork" and "go the mile" and other crap, and we slapped our weary hands as best we could and broke the huddle.
I trotted over to the order of players, taking my position in the back. Somehow, some miraculous way, we had managed to squeak, edge, blunder, luck-out, and magically make our way into field goal position. We certainly paid the price for it as well. Grover, the runningback, well...he won't be running anytime soon. Both wide receivers caused 20 minute delay of games as they were carried off the field. And our offensive line looks like survivors of a war, with more red than white on their uniforms; I doubt they even know their own names at this point. But, with the fate of fortune smiling upon us out of heavenly pity, we had undoubtedly ended up in field goal territory. And that's when coach quit responding, though we checked for breathing twice.
I moved to my position and waited for the snap and placement. All I had to do was run, plant, kick and connect, and make it go between those two big-ass posts that look the the devil's pitchfork with a prong missing. If I do these steps, in the order they are meant to be done, I might...I just might...separate left from right. The QB is hollering the theory of relativity while our line is quaking from the strain of gravity. The other team looks rabid and mean and anything but tired out. I look at the scoreboard and see the clock dropping past the 5-second mark and it makes me want to puke up all the orange Gatorade I sucked down in my bench-sitting boredom. But then the ball is snapped and there is motion, and the line of devils are rushing over our line like they are ghosts and I see evil running at me with blue jerseys on, and the ball is placed. I'm running, I'm running, I want to puke, I'm placing my foot, I'm swinging my leg, I'm thinking of separating left leg from right leg, I'm closing my eyes and holding back bile and connecting with the ball and it is all I can do not to barf right there in front of the spectators that have finally got off their asses to see what happens to end this disasterous waste of their life. The roar goes up, I get mashed into the cool, damp grass and smell the foul smell of angry, opposing-team humans, and I wonder if I separated left from right as the buzzer ends the game.
Unforgettable-6/17/06
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
Alone
He stuck out this thumb on a dark highway shoulder, pointing a prayer up to God on the end of an unchecked, grimy thumbnail, and hoped for some kind of anything. The sun was beginning to settle into its bed for rest and colored the sky like the drunken distractions of a Christmas tree strung with cheap lights. His feet crunched loose gravel, the wind kicked across his denim jacket and whipped the frayed ends of his hair around and around, and the silent highway stretched forward and backward and didn't judge or comment or lend a hand to his path. The thumb, hitchhiker sign style that has a desperate pitch and poignancy in the gesture, was just for practice. Heck, he'd never taken rides from strangers and really never needed one until now, until this point, until this path became his walk. The road was barren and removed from care, the wind was enacting revenge, the light of day retreating, the underfoot gravel barked insults from the countless footsteps; where was the circle of fate to rescue him from days and nights of bad calls and wrong ways and diluted decisions? Fate had lost interest and he was walking against time, marked alone.
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