Michael, Row the Boat Ashore

DDL has been posting pix of churches on his blog after he started thinking of them as vessels; ships that transport the soul to some other place. In an earlier post on my own blog I mentioned that I might have a response. I thought I was close to one, but I'm still not satisfied with it. I guess I was looking to the vessel idea to help me somehow shape my own memories into something worthy of being read. But the more I try to write about my childhood church experience, the more I find myself being distracted by some other memory; some other story to tell.

I don't have a reason not to write about my experience. I wasn't molested by a priest or beaten by nuns. I wasn't trapped under a statue of the Virgin Mary and scarred for life. My experience is nothing like that. I loved going to church every Sunday and being surrounded by smiling faces. The atmosphere was so clean and calm. Sure, there were many Sundays that I was bored out of my gourd listening to the priest give his homily in broken Spanish. I didn't understand what he was saying most of the time, figuratively and literally. But I had so many good times.

I loved the Sundays when babies where baptized because after the baby was presented to the parish, we all got to clap. Most of the time we had to be quiet in church, but on this occasion, we got to make noise. And for a kid like me, making noise was great. I also loved the Sundays when my mom, who was a Guadalupana (some magical order of superwomen, kind of like the Superfriends I think) was in charge of serving coffee and pan dulce in the church basement for one reason or another. That usually meant I'd be in the basement before mass ended, and as we walked down the side aisle, I'd grin at the kids who had to stay in church longer than me. I also got first pick of the sweet bread.

What I loved most of all about going to Mass on Sunday was going to my Grandfather's house afterward. Most folks have family reunions on Holidays or summertime, for us it was every Sunday. We'd feast on peasant food: tortillas, frijoles, huevos, cafe and spend the rest of the day celebrating life. My grandfather would tell us stories both fantastic and heart-breaking. If it was a hot day, we'd all pile into a couple of vehicles and head to the beach. Sometimes we'd walk down to Pulaski park and pick blackberries and come back home with purple everything. Most Sundays, all the cousins played until dark, until we smelled like sweat and dirt, and our throat were sore from shouting.

About 6 years ago, a long time after cynicism had set in and religion (Religion is the opiate of the people! and all that) was nothing but a phase, I was told by mother that St. Stephen's was going to close. Not only was it going to close, but it was going to be knocked down. I gave a shrug; c'est la vie. Sometime after that, Gloria and I were driving through the west side of town and as we drove down Western Avenue I happened to glance over at the church and realized I could no longer spot the steeple from over the trees. I slowed down and drove towards the church and saw a wrecking ball. I had never seen one in real life and the scene took on a surreal feel. They were knocking down the church. Memories flooded my mind and I sat there dumb founded.

The church was cordoned off, workers in orange work vests and yellow hard hats swarming the site, the wrecking ball made slow, sweet arcs. Others had stopped to look also. Some took pictures and some took video and some took bricks. Kids who had never attended that church rode by on bicycles or played tag in the dust that filled their street. The first feeling I felt was anger. I wanted to jump out of my truck and run up the wrecking ball operator and pull him out of the cabin of that destructive machine. I wanted to take peoples cameras and smash them on the ground. I wanted all of those silly kids to see what was happening. My happy Sundays were being wiped out one swing at a time. A whole childhood spent creating memories wiped out in a couple of hours.

As the church fell, I was pushed over the line I'd drawn for myself. From being agnostic to nothing. No religion. Until that day I had secretly desired to return to the church after my long absence. I wanted my children to attend Sunday Mass like I did. I wanted my kids to be baptized there so I could fill that old church with clapping again; I wanted my kids to make their first communions there, for my boys to be altar boys like me, and for my girls to have their quinceneras in that place.

A crucial part of my identity was formed there. A lot of what is good in me comes from those Sundays. To be Mexican was to grow up Catholic. Now I wouldn't even have a place to show my kids were I came from. Now they would grow up that much more removed from their Mexican selves.

As you can tell from my writing I was becoming irrational. After I slowed myself down a bit I realized that what I was really reacting to was the fear of loss. I needed to take a long look deep inside and make peace with the fact that I would not get to relive those days. Everyday I got further away from those good times, everyday I was getting further and further away from the present. I needed to grieve the end of my childhood.

I wish I could tell you that this whole experience made me Catholic again. It hasn't even made me agnostic again. After much introspection I came to realize that my time spent in the church was about making others happy. Coming to church every Sunday put a smile on the priests face, making my first communion put a smile on my mother's face, becoming an altar boy put a smile on my grandfather's face. And all of those things put a smile on my face. For one day a week it was all smiles and life was good, the rest of the week I was reminded how poor we were. The rest of the week I was witness to my mother's suffering as she tried to make ends meet, I was reminded of what a loser my father was, hunger of all types was a constant. On Sunday...opiate of the people indeed.

I can tell you though that I believe. I believe in the power of faith. I believe in the power of belief. My mother's faith in God got us through those tough times that many others fall victim to. I am not a victim. I am a believer in the power that each of us holds.

So DDL, yeah, churches are vessels. They're filled with passengers hoping to arrive to some kind of paradise. These passengers believe in their captain, believe in his power to look towards the heavens and navigate them to their destination. These churches float on faith and fill their sails with optimism.

I bid them bon voyage with both feet planted firmly on terra firma. I hope they find what they are looking for.

The wrist bone

is connected to the crocodile!

Feliz Navidad

and Merry Christmas to Juan and All!

Snow Day!

Okay, really today is/was an inclement weather day. The Library shut down for the day so I had the day off. Yipee! Gloria was waiting for the School Corp. to shut it down as well but, no. What did I do with my day off you ask? Hmm? I slept, ate a little, had some beer, did some housekeeping, had some more beer, played with my new/used laptop I got for $200, slept, showered, and had some beer.

I've been thinking lately lately about DDL's Church/Vessel idea and I've been spelunking into the darker depths of my thoughts and I feel something percolating...

Happy No Work Day to me!!

Just ain't right

Something the wife did. Yeah, it's kinda funny, but damned creepy too.

Happy Dancing Elves

About time!!

It took forever and finally, about a month late, here it is.

The pdf file is huge- beware downloading!! I'll be ordering a couple of copies for myself- damned bastards are too cheap to give em away to their writers, but I get it, they're just starting out, blah blah blah.

In recovery

Slowly recovering. Easing my way through tryptophan withdrawal. The Itis has been good to me. Must be mobile by 1 p.m. Must make it to work or be fired. Oh sweet Itis.. .

Fat and Hungry

That's how I find myself at the moment. I love to eat. I don't know any other way to explain it. Am I an emotional eater, sure, what Mexican American, raised Catholic, fat Mexican mother having, person isn't. But it's more than that. I kinda feel like the kid who cried wolf here- no really, I love to eat food. I love the flavors and the textures. Eating great food is the closest I will ever be to truly enjoying a great painting or reading a phenomenal book. Hell, cooking up a great meal is the closest I'll ever get to creating a fantastic work of art. I'm a better cook than I am writer. The veins flow, you know, with this great energy when I cook. My hands tremble as Thanksgiving gets closer. I love food, have I said that already?

A great meal puts you in touch with the universe. It bypasses the mind and the bs that lives there. Has anyone seen Big Night? Watch it and wait for the meal scene. It's so rich and heavy and sublime. The size of the meal does not matter, the quality, technique and love put into does. Simple, fluffy scrambled eggs vs. a Mexican wedding feast. They're the same thing!I'll stop talking about food here and save it for another post- maybe ten best meals ever or something.

I've just decided though, that until Thanksgiving, I will stay fat and hungry. I will no longer eat until the buttons pop. I will eat enough, the enough defined by the federal gov't, and stay hungry. I have no fear of losing my winter fat, I have enough of that to last an ice age, or two. No, instead I fear my heart exploding with joy and cholesterol; I'd like to stick around long enough to enjoy other great meals.

If you see me 'round (hehe), and I'm angry and cranky and start basting you in BBQ sauce, snap me out of it. Slap me and remind me T day is only around the corner.

More Hives

Ok, last Hives post. Disfruta!!

The Hives

This is a live performance, the sound sucks but you can see them live. I almost posted a video, but videos are soo canned. Enjoy!

Rock N Roll Weekend

Spent this past weekend in Detroit. Visited the Detroit Zoo (sad, sad, sad), stayed at a nice hotel (The Westin-Southfield) and caught a Maroon 5 concert (I know, I know, but I scored major points with the wife).

A nice surprise awaited me at the show however, I was totally blindsided by The Hives , Maroon 5's opening act. The Hives are from Sweden and came to public awareness at the same time as other "The" bands (The White Stripes, The Strokes, The Vines, etc.). They put on a real rock and roll show. They were facetious, rebellious, loud, lots of energy, etc. I was saddened that they only had 30 minutes. The lead singer had this Johnny Rotten/Mick Jagger attitude, and the music was Ramone-ish at times, and it was a just GREAT ROCK N ROLL. So ok, they were derivative in a good way. At the beginning of their act the lead singer promised to make fans of us all, I thought this difficult since only half of the audience cheered when they came out while the other half spoke on cell phones or stood in line for the bathrooms. By their last number everyone was cheering and waving, we were under their voodoo. If you get a chance you should check them out.

Damn, someone's taken ROCK by the balls and maybe it's time I start listening to the new stuff. I already enjoy the White Stripes but I'm so weary of listening to new music can it can be so lame and a rip off. Or it's just unbelievably bad, a good hook won't do with Rock. You need attitude, you need presence, you need to be a fighter. The Hives, White Stripes, Strokes, yeah, time to get back to it.

Speaking of rock and roll, true story: My buddy Frank got us into a Los Lobos show in Chicago sometime ago and after the show we got in backstage. I was dumb&awestruck hanging out with Cesar Rosas (the dude never took his shades off). I wanted to talk to him so bad but I felt like such a fanboy so I quietly sipped my beer while a 40 year old droopy groupie chatted on and on. At on point she dropped her pizza on the carpet and went all "oh no" and "sorry" blah blah blah and Cesar says "On no baby, that's alright, that's rock n roll. That's all that is, that's just rock n roll". I'll never forget that for the rest of my life.

So will it ruin things then if I say that to top off our Detroit Rocks weekend we went to IKEA. Yeah, I know. . . .

Can't wait to see this one

Cormac McCarthy's No Country for Old Men has been made into a movie by the Cohen Bros.



See the trailer here.

Name of the World and Slaughter House Five

I couldn't sleep last night(story of my life) so I decided to finish both books. I can't say which book I enjoyed reading more. They were both nearly the same: a man, his life, and how he deals with it. They were both short (under 200 pages), both authors pull serious literary weight, and both authors male.

Name of the World first then: Michael Reed has been floating through his life after his wife and daughter died four years ago. On the outside he puts one foot in front of the other and plays the part of College Professor, while on the inside his mind races with all kinds of thoughts about people places and things. He lives an internal life. When he's told that his contract is going to expire sooner rather than later, Michael starts to unravel and his insides start spilling out, he starts to engage his thoughts and fantasies and behaving unpredictably. Soon you get the idea that he never really got over the deaths of his wife and child, he never allowed himself to grieve. His obsession with a red haired wild child student (Siren perhaps)leads him to this conclusion. He starts seeing his daughter in this siren and is forced to acknowledge that he didn't interact with the outside world for fear of having to acknowledge that he was lost, that his loved ones were dead, and that he would have to keep on living.

I don't know how convinced I was by the psyche angle of the story or the internal journey the character makes. Even though the book is written in 3rd person and we know alot about the protagonist, we spend alot of time in his thoughts and with his judgements, we still don't know alot about him. So when he starts to lose it I don't really care. And the use of this Siren and the oddball cast of oddball professors who are drunks and surviving on the fringes of academia seems too easy. The supporting characters seem stock and stereotypical.

But, some of the more mundane details in the book are dead on. Reeds needs to make meaning and to be drawn to this pond were people skate in circles, where he's reminded of the passing of time when the snow covers everything or the summer sun reveals all. Reed's enjoyment of his rowdy neighbors who party all night is a symbol of hope. He loves thier energy and their fearlessness.

The beginning of the book has a lot of strong writing, but in the middle and end it seems to lose some energy. At times when the story failed the language picked up the slack and vice versa. The writing overall is the best feature of this book. The story is can be haunting at times and hopeful. Will I ever read this book again- no, will I read more Denis Johnson- yes!

Slaughter House 5: This was a fun book to read for many reasons. First, I like the way Billy Pilgrim travels through time and space but you don't feel like you're reading a sci fi novel. 2nd, I like the way Vonnegut tackles the story of Dresden (which he always wondered how best to tell)by not really talking about the bombing, and 3rd I like how the novel is short but packs a hell of a punch.

In the story we get to visit critical moments in Billy Pilgrim's life, along with Billy, as moves from one moment to the next. Kind of like Scrooge in a Christmas Carol. We are witness to his being thrown in a pool to sink or swim by his father. We witness his capture and survival of Dresden. We are with Billy on Tralfamadore as he lives in a zoo. Billy has become unstuck in time and is destined to review and preview his life.

I don't think Billy is unstuck in time, I think he becomes unstuck from life. I think he was damaged by the trauma of being nearly killed by his father and being nearly killed in a war and then being nearly killed in a plane crash. I think the plain crash leaves him with brain damage where he must live through memories and books and pass judgement once again on what those events mean to him.

But the book isn't about time travel or space, or aliens at all, or about Billy Pilgrim. This book is about the horrors of war, the realities of willfull and intentional killing, and the lasting affects on the psyches of those who participate in it. There are no winners.

I didn't notice the writing really, it fit the story well and it didn't get in the way of itself; it was clean and concise. The format of the book is unusual. I had to flip back after reading the first chapter to make sure I wasn't reading an introduction or interview with Vonnegut. Then I realized that this was how he was going to tell his untellable story. I really enjoyed the way Vonnegut kept inserting himself in the story, always in the shadows saying things like "that was me, I said that". Kilgore Trout is also Vonnegut in the story. I suspect Trout, the writer of hack novels who wanted to say things but didn't know how so he used sci fi to do it, was how Vonnegut felt pre- Slaughter House 5.

Definately read this one if you have a chance. I'm sorry it took me so long to finally getting around to reading it, but I'm glad I've read it now with the War in Iraq fresh in my conciousness.

What can you say about a massacre? And so it goes.

Who are you... Really?

Just found this on Talia's site and I though it was great.

Go ahead, take the quiz.

This is me:

You're Anne of Green Gables!

by L.M. Montgomery

Bright, chipper, vivid, but with the emotional fortitude of cottage
cheese, you make quite an impression on everyone you meet. You're impulsive, rash,
honest, and probably don't have a great relationship with your parents. People hurt
your feelings constantly, but your brazen honestly doesn't exactly treat others with
kid gloves. Ultimately, though, you win the hearts and minds of everyone that matters.
You spell your name with an E and you want everyone to know about it.


Take the Book Quiz
at the Blue Pyramid.

There's nothing like good fiction to leave you feeling refreshed, invigorated, and Zestfully clean. After flooding my insides with non-fiction (memoirs- The Tender Bar, The Sex Lives of Cannibals (super good), death- Spooks and Stiffs (same author both), godlessness- God is Not Great (this guy is so ANGRY), and other stuff (Kurt Vonnegut interviews), I slowly made my way back.

I almost fell off the wagon when I tried reading some pop-lit (Zig Zag- by a Spanish author), I thought OK, let's support my Latino brother, I dove right into the book. Good idea, physics and time travel and mysteries of nature, ok so far so good, then that whole the heroine is not only a moody genius, she is Sophia Loren/Salma Hayek/Marilyn Monroe and the men in her life are gorgeous assholes. I almost puked up my lunch. Luckily, a level headed coworker took the book from me and turned it back in.

Now the Good stuff:

This is what I'm reading now and it makes me happy.

Slaughter House Five by Kurt Vonnegut- I'm totally digging this. I can appreciate his writing now after I've read his interviews. He was really scared by Dresden even if he doesn't say it outright, and if it wasn't for Dresden he would have be scarred by something else. Then he made this personal peace with his life that didn't make sense to anyone but himself. Much like Billy Pilgrim.

The Name of the World by Denis Johnson- I'm about 15 pages in and his writing is so unobtrusive as to really let you into the story. He's doing this thing with the protagonist where the protagonist wants you to think he's this walking dead zombie but really he's absorbing so much of his surroundings, really engaging his senses, trying to make sense of his life, that this guy really isn't dead, just acting like it.

Thirteen Moons by Charles Frazier- Cold Mountain the book, not movie, really drew in with its Odyssey-like adventure. I really enjoyed the language and the story. So I'm now about 1/4 of the way through Thirteen Moons and Frazier hasn't lost his touch. He has a really great talent for story telling. So far we have a boy who is orphaned an then sold to a merchant by his aunt and uncle and sent into the wilderness to manage a trading post. Along the way his horse is stolen, he meets the love of his life, and he befriends an Indian who is wise to the old ways, but unwise and unlucky when it comes to women. Really good writing so far.

And finally, I'm reading Last Orders by Graham Swift- This is a small story really- four men take a drive through England to spread the ashes of one of their buddies in the ocean. It's all dialogue and the tension between the men and the ashes of their friend, as they're confined to the small space of the car is stifling. You feel uncomfortable right along with them. The back story, as they become pensive, releases tiny secrets and almost secrets and things that should be thought but not said, and you realize that just because these characters live on the other side of the ocean, they're alot like you and me. I do have to admit, this one isn't so easy to read unless you're familiar with working class, pubster English. The challenge is part of the fun.

Thank You Chad- You Fuzzy Headed Ninnymuggins

Chad reminded me of a story I'd written some time ago where I was trying to copy the stylings of Cormac McCarthy. I did some things well in the story (language, setting, verisimilitude) but the story was really lacking and the payoff did not match the build up. I had decided that when I came back to the story it would have to be longer.

I pulled the story out a couple of months ago because of Chad and I decided to submit it just the way it was. Because Duotrope has very cool search functions I found a site that dealt with the kind of story I'd written. I submitted there and needless to say. . .

Twisted Tongue has picked up "A Texas Story" for November 07. You'll be able to read it in PDF format or pay for a copy. Unfortunately, I won't be getting a free copy, but I really don't care, just happy to be published.

Movin on Up

Warning: You are reading a reworded post

I have accepted the position of Readmobile Manager for SJCPL. This means two things: mo money and mo responsibility. That's ok though, I am ready for both and can't wait to start. I'll be working with a population that is happy to see me and I'll get to tell stories and be goofy and have fun. It will also look good on my resume after I get my MLS.

If you see a big ol' bus with Garfield on the side, give a honk and I'll probably honk back.

And uh, no Neil, you can't hitch a ride.

This is why I avoid bright ideas!!

A wise man once said. . .

"Beauty is in the eye of the beerholder"

REDUX

I changed the color. . .again.

Do Over

I shined the place up a bit, added some furniture, and painted the walls. Hope you like.

Check out the new links to the right.

Wordsmith, the anagram function is fun to play with. Jesus Moya: Emu Ass Joy, Jays Mouse, Amuses Joy.

Also LivePlasma is fun. Put in your favorite band or singer and it maps out relevant similar artists.

Over and out.

And because I just figured out how to do this

This is one of my favorite songs of all times and to see Los Lobos sing it with this Dutch band is too cool. I totally dig this because Anselma (the song) is a conjunto song (Bass/Guitarron, Bajo Sexto (12 string bass guitar), Accordion, and drums) and conjunto has its roots in, thanks to German settlers in Texas, in polka music. It's a crazy, raucus kind of music that I hated as a kid but I can't get enough off as an adult.

Anyway- Los Lobos and Rowwen Heze (who according to the internet plays TEX MEX and POLKA- Limewire here I come) tearing it up, wish I coulda been there.

A Thrilla in Manila

The worst thing in the world is to try to sleep and not to. -F. Scott Fitzgerald

An instructor once told me that she skips over dream sequences in books and stories.

Damn, what if someone wants to pay me by the word !?!?!?

What I wouldn’t give at this sleepless point in time for the sandman to draw his fingers through my essence and stir up images buried deep under layers of brain matter and consciousness like so much debris in a muddy river.

God, I haven’t fished in a while.

(ODB is playing in a an endless loop- dedicated to all the pretty girls in world, and the ugly girls too, because to me you’re pretty anyway baby )

Sleep.

I want deep sleep. Canyon deep sleep. Bottom of the ocean, under tons of blue water, deep sleep. I don’t care what 1 a.m. looks like or 2 a.m. looks like- it’s all the same except the commercials are sexier. But not sexier like a Sunday morning lounging in p.j.’s with a cup of coffee and the paper and sticky cinnamon fingers and pouty lips and tussled hair over dreamy eyes.

Did I mention Gloria is out of town and my bed feels immense, from see to shining see. I need binocolors to find a pillow. It takes an eternity to get even close to a gray kind of vision and soon the alarm clock begins to strangle any dream that has wandered to close to my nose as it creeps into my ears with red digital fingers wrapped around my brain.

Take two Benny Drills. Straight to the noggin. That kind of sleep feels like the moment right after you puke and the acid is etching graffiti on you teeth. It’s cotton brain. It stops. No dreams, no rest, no fun.

(ODB is playing in an endless loop- hey dirtay, baby I gotch ya money, dontcha worray)

Let me drop from the precipice. Let me fly. I want to fly.

I erased the dream sequence from my story, Damnit.

Pix from trip to Travers

Gloria and I and some friend went to Traverse City this past weekend to take in the sites and drink some wine. Here are some pix:

The Crew: Me, Gloria, Jen, and Javier at Sleeping Bear Dunes

Here's the trusty Grey Gargoyle that got us there and back in one piece- regardless of Jen's driving

Some vineyards

What a view

Awww how cute! (Talking about myself of course)

At the End of the World

Guess what's in the box

Check it out!

Just "published" today at Shine. . .The Journal!

Old Diego

I am. . . .THE MAN!

Insight totally sucks!

I realized the other day as I mentally ran thr0ugh an incident at work the other day that I am The Man. What man? The Man- the cog in the system, any system, that says "No" and denies you what you want. Cops are the Man, Principals are the Man, Dubya is the Man (really it's Cheney but you know) Hillary is the Man.

I don't like it one bit either. I hate being the man. For a system, any system, to be successful, every part must be finely tuned and working to optimum levels. But what if you're the part in the system that no one likes or people dislike because of the job you do- like the spit valve on a trombone, the toilet in a house, the bottom feed in a fish tank. These are important jobs, vital to the success of the system.

Now, I'm not saying all systems are created equal, I'm not trying to argue if having a system is good or bad, all I'm saying is I don't like my part in "the system" that is the library. I can say no, I can deny you access to what you want or need. Of course, I get to make excuses: It says in the policy manual that, the rules say, it's not my job, etc.

But I could also totally subvert the system. I can do things beyond my job description, I can access information and give it to you, I can manipulate the system to get you what you need.

It's what I would normally do in any other situation- There is no such thing as no (Ask my wife about her battle with Usa Fitness- no doesn't always mean no.

I gotta go, more on this later . . .

Lost in the Forest . . .

Something David said about being in the woods- this is a good one by Neruda


Lost in the Forest . . .
-Pablo Neruda

Lost in the forest, I broke off a dark twig
and lifted its whisper to my thirsty lips:
maybe it was the voice of the rain crying,
a cracked bell, or a torn heart.

Something from far off it seemed
deep and secret to me, hidden by the earth,
a shout muffled by huge autumns,
by the moist half-open darkness of the leaves.

Wakening from the dreaming forest there, the hazel-sprig
sang under my tongue, its drifting fragrance
climbed up through my conscious mind

as if suddenly the roots I had left behind
cried out to me, the land I had lost with my childhood---
and I stopped, wounded by the wandering scent.

Some Good News

(Doesn't the above title sound like the name of a Christian rock band? Except the members aren't Christian at all but they're all named Christian- even the girl who plays the tambourine . . .)

Just got an email from SHINE! (online journal) editor Pamela Griffin notifying me that she liked the flash piece I submitted and that she'd like to publish it in the August edition.

Wow! This is getting fun.

The story is Old Diego- the last story I wrote in David's class. I wanted to try flash fiction and because David is a cool guy I knew he wouldn't slam me for not turning in a full story. I've worked on this story here and there, debating on making it longer, fleshing it out, but I really like it just the way it is.

SHINE!, August, Old Diego.

Swing batta batta swing!

We went to a Silverhawks game last night and I ate 3 hot dogs and had 2 Mountain Dews. I had a great time (we left before the end of the game- the Hawks were losing 3-1) and I'm trying to narrow down why. At first I though it was because it was Dollar Monday and I was all swept up in Dollar madness- but then I realized that a can of pop and a hot dog should really NOT cost a dollar a piece.

I'm not even a baseball fan- I can't watch it on TV, I can't tell you who had what stats in whatever year. But there's something so . . . tranquil? peaceful? watching a game move so slow with spurts of action. Almost like reading a sentence with an exclamation point at the end of it.

As I sat on the bleachers I was overwhelmed by everything really. The people, the grayblue clouds rolling in silently over us, the noise, the heat and the breeze, the falcon gliding over the old Studebaker buildings, the crack of the bat.

Serenity.

I even allowed myself to enjoy those things I would have found annoying and intrusive like the cheesy games between innings (racing vegetables, dancing chickens), I may have even stood up for the Chicken Dance and the YMCA, but I'm not telling.

Something about last night reminded me about church- standing and sitting, collective simultaneous responses as if on cue (a hit! a steal!). Everyone communing under one roof (or sky).

Maybe I've found a new house of worship.

June's a Goin'

The first fabulous summer month that we call June is almost over and I haven't posted a thing. There have been many almost posts such as. . .

Gloria and I went camping together for the first time ever at Turkey Run and it was awesome! We didn't realize there was this whole camping culture: people walk up and down the campsite roads, just strolling or riding their bikes. We even saw people cruising through the campsite! Campers and RV's decked out with all kinds of crazy lights, strolling troubadours (really!), dogs everywhere. I'm not trying to down the experience, I just wasn't ready for it. Everyone was so friendly, I didn't know this until someone told us before leaving town for Turkey Run, but you can leave all of your stuff set up on the campsite and NO ONE WILL STEAL FROM YOU.

Turkey Run State Park is a beautiful place. Gloria and I tackled their toughest trail (ladders, steep inclines, wading, rock crawling, etc.) on the first day and we fell in love with the place. Some people get turned on by nature and they want to write poems or paint or take pix or whatever, I on the other hand, turn off that creative part of me. The urge to create disappears, and the desire to be kicks in. I don't know why, maybe it's because I want to create a certain image of whatever, but when I'm faced with something so grand or awe inspiring, I'm happier just to be a part of it. I don't think about stories I could set there or stories based on my feeling of being in such a great environment. I haven't really wanted to write anything or even review some of my old stuff, mostly I just think about Turkey Run.

Another post would have gone something like this:

We have decided to end the placement of our current foster child. We let the MAN get to us and we don't feel we're in a situation to beat the system. It sounds so cold doesn't it, to sacrifice the livelihood of a child because we can't handle the bureaucracy that is as much a part of her as the rest of her baggage. So many people, upon hearing our decision, have reacted differently but the same:

"It's all for the best"
"Things happen for a reason"
"You're doing the right thing"
"Where will she go"
"What would you have done with your own child"
"You're probably wouldn't be able to handle any child"
"You've done alot for her in two years, more than others"
"Later on she'll realize just how much you did for her"

I am no Mother Theresa and it's taken me nearly 30 years to shake off Catholic guilt: you have to look out for yourself first and make sure you're the best you can be BEFORE you should even attempt to help someone else. Again, it's a cold and selfish statement, but it's true and I've seen too many people hang on to marriages, relationships, jobs, because they worry what will be thought of them. I don't care really what others think, negative or positive, all I know is that I tried, I failed, and now it's time to grow and move on.

Or another post would have been:

I just caught the biggest fish I've ever caught out of the St. Joe River. I was fishing for Rock Bass and Bluegill and Pumpkin Seed when a Smallie decided to go after the bubble bee like bait I was using. I've got photos of it and will post it later, sorry I take horrible fish pictures, but it was a couple of pounds at least. To understand why I'm so excited, I've fished out of Howard Park for a couple of years now and never really caught anything to get excited about, most of my success came from fishing at Potato Creek. This year Potato Creek seems to be a waste of gas for me and Howard Park is golden.

So these are the things I've been wanting post and so now I have.

Gone Fishin'

Okay, this little guy is all I caught during two hours of fishing at Potato Creek today. Went out with my brother Sal and nephew Estevan. I normally go for the blue gill and other pan fish, bass fishing is too complicated? for me. I want to cast, let the bait float under a bobber and chill in the shade of a tree until I get a blue on the hook. This young large mouth is the 2nd or 3rd I've caught at the Creek only after I get bored and start casting with Bass Stoppers just to get the blood flowing.

However, I was happy for the rest of the morning.

I've been tagged

Um, took me a while to figure this out, I guess I'm supposed to list 5 songs that knock my socks off- at this very moment in time it's the following:

"Passionate Kisses" Lucinda Williams
"Telephone Song" B.B. King (SRV song)
"Anselma" Los Lobos
"Let's Stay Together" Al Green
"Jambalaya" Hank Williams

Some more Paz

Motion- Octavio Paz

If you are the amber mare
I am the road of blood
If you are the first snow
I am he who lights the hearth of dawn
If you are the tower of night
I am the spike burning in your mind
If you are the morning tide
I am the first bird's cry
If you are the basket of oranges
I am the knife of the sun
If you are the stone altar
I am the sacrilegious hand
If you are the sleeping land
I am the green cane
If you are the wind's leap
I am the buried fire
If you are the water's mouth
I am the mouth of moss
If you are the forest of the clouds
I am the axe that parts it
If you are the profaned city
I am the rain of consecration
If you are the yellow mountain
I am the red arms of lichen
If you are the rising sun
I am the road of blood

Henry Darger Images

Read more about Henry Darger here or here or maybe aqui!

I've only recently cracked open the book I found at the library about Henry Darger. I'm still not sure what to make of him, I only know that I'm intrigued by his work and his life. Why did he paint what he painted or write the things he wrote? Maybe this isn't the correct question.

Homes and Gardens and Bestiality- and more memoirs/biographies

The house has been on the market for about 4 weeks now and we will have our fourth showing tomorrow. It's the same response over and over again: It's cute! but the neighborhood sucks!

However, if the house does sell soon, there is a nice old house on Lilac on about 1 1/2 acres that really could be a forever house. The house was built in 1860 and would take a lot of elbow grease to get it where we want it. But, there's alot of room to roam both inside and out and it's close to the river.

Gloria and I were working on the yard yesterday and we decided to let the dogs hang out with us. They were catching rays and we were working when some weirdo drove by and said "Can I fuck your dogs?". It took me a second to realize what he said because I was listening to the Blues Revue on 88.1 but I could tell from the look on Gloria's face that she was disturbed. What does it take for someone to say something so ridiculous?

I can't get away from reading memoirs. I'm currently reading "Bento Box in the Heartland". It's Linda Furiya's take on being Japanese and growing up in Indiana and how she uses food to understand her situation. Pretty good so far!

Also checked out a huge artbook about Henry Darger. He was this outsider art/ folk art guy from Chicago. He was a janitor by day and painted watercolors and made collages by night. Really interesting, intriguing stuff. I can't wait to read it.

And we're back

Thanks to all of the new folks who've been checking out the blog- Bienvenidos!

Just turned in my final portfolio- I want to give those stories one more lookie before I start submitting again. I think they're pretty good, but I find myself, now that I finally understand revision (to a small degree- something is better than nothing) wanting to gut my stories. That's too much like starting over. I have to learn to curb my cravings and allow any new ideas I get for old stories to become new stories. But I believe I now know where books, novellas, and really good short story collections come from and no it isn't from having sex with the computer. Those things come from asking questions and more questions and then more questions until there are no more honest sincere answers to give or you run out of questions. But I can truly see some of my characters really coming to life in a book. No book attempts however until I publish a couple of short stories.

Damn, writing is hard work.

Anyway, I expect to start blogging here once a week and be more disciplined about it.

Oh yeah, I gradute on Tuesday, May 8 from Indiana University-South Bend with a degree in English- writing concentration.

I plan on staying on at the Library and hope that a better position will open up. I have been asked to job shadow at the reference desk and I hope this is a good thing/sign.

Why I write

Here's the essay I wrote for my personal aesthetic assignment. I don't think I quite fulfilled the requirments, but I really like what I wrote (or maybe my caffiene goggles are on too tight!).

Sometimes the Magic Works

Ok, so I stole the title for this essay from Terry Brook’s excellent memoir based on his writing life. However, I’m pretty sure that I heard somewhere that if someone else has said something you’ve always wanted to say, but they said it better, than it’s ok to say what they’ve said. And so, this leads me to the purpose of this essay. My literary aesthetic and purpose for writing are deeply informed by my grandfather. I inhabit the same storytelling place as he does, mostly because it’s the first one I ever visited, and consequently, it’s the one I feel most comfortable in. I try to use the same paintbrush as my grandfather, just not the same paint. Where his stories approach life’s teachings using the spoken format, my stories seek life’s teaching’s using the short story. And in this format I seek to use what I’ve learned from him: I draw on the power of a strong image conjured by simple words to ensconce emotion and knowledge into the mind of the reader in the hopes that my themes will resonate deep inside.

I can still recall, with vivid memory, sitting at my grandfather’s elbow at the kitchen table on any given Sunday, and listening to him tell stories from his life in Mexico. I remember his massive brown hands moving like a conductor’s baton keeping time over his gruff voice: loud, dissonant, silent, tender, etc. He told adventure stories, fantasy stories, ghost stories, work stories, death stories. He told them as though they were true, as though they happened yesterday, and I took them as such. Sometimes his stories happened to him, sometimes to an uncle or a cousin, but always there was a lessoned to be taught and a lesson to be learned. His stories created a certain space in time where beauty sprung forth from horror and wonder could birth wisdom. As a child his stories held me in a trance from which the powerful magic of images could work into my soul and later be drawn upon when needed. My literary aesthetic comes from this place.

In my writing, and more obviously in my grandfather’s stores, there exists what Joseph Campbell would probably call the “hero’s journey.” What appealed to my grandfather, I believe, and to myself, is the idea that these “heroes” could teach the listener/reader truth. These truths reveal themselves as the character commits trials and errors in an attempt to quell some desire or nagging feeling; a journey of self discovery. After the hero gets to know himself better and is aware of his needs and society’s demands, he is then able to negotiate a path for himself. Joseph Campbell gained much attention for his work after he discovered this basic story telling element in the diverse myths of the world’s cultures.

But why is this “truth” so important? Personally, it’s my own hero’s journey that I am on when I write. This is a journey that I must take to discover who I am in a world where my insides don’t match my outsides. I cannot recreate the life my grandfather lived: cowboy, railroad worker, farmer, laborer, etc. My grandfather had the luxury, if it can be called that, to act and make mistakes and to learn out in the open world. I, on the other hand, have the luxury of sitting on my ass to read and write and not worry where my next meal is coming from or if someone is coming to steal my land out from under me. I search for my truth’s then in the open world of my mind and in the shared knowledge of all those storytellers who have come before, and I struggle to make their hard earned lessons fit my modern psyche.

The themes that my “heroes” tend to explore include culture clash/mash, familial obligation in a self-centered society, class structure, and the divided self. Growing up with a foot in two cultures (Mexican and American), I was in a position to feel the effects of two places struggling to invade my senses; one world was internal and the other external. The internal world was created by my Mexican family: the food I ate, the language I spoke, the traditions I followed. . . and the external world was created by American television, public school, white and black childhood friends and their families. This created a dichotomy within me that, at any given moment, seemed to battle for control. Octavio Paz once said that the Mexican-American was like a pendulum swinging back and forth between two worlds; he insinuated that we would never be at rest, never find peace. However, much like the Chinese idea of Yin-Yang, I tried to get both sides to coexist; the tortillas next to loaf of bread at the dinner table. But this was a Herculean task and in all of the negotiating and peace making I developed strong powers of observation as I witnessed my two worlds collide over and over again.

The protagonists in “A Season for Bears” (ASB) which I wrote last year, and “Juice and Kookies” (JK), are both young Latino males growing up in the Midwest, far from the influence of their homeland. Mijo from ASB is gifted student who feels the obligation placed on him by his Mexican family and white teachers to use his talents to “save his people” as an oppressive sensation. He feels that the world is “pressing down on him.” Mijo’s black sheep Uncle Gonzo arrives at a critical point to allow Mijo to shed the weight of obligation and to allow himself the freedom to be who he wants to be. Junior, from JK, also tries to discover who he is as he clears mud from his eyes that is placed there by his family (work hard, measure of a man, help your family, etc) and the American world of privilege and adolescent sex.

The language I use in both stories purposely seeks the meaningful, profound image that emerges from the observations of the characters. In JK Junior is witness to “plump and purple skies”, “crying walls”, and a painted fragile sailboat in the middle of the sea. In ASB, Mijo sees “shadows dancing on walls”, “eyes that talk”, whispers that hide their speakers, and questions that “disappear into pockets.” By using these images I hope to convey that what the characters are seeking (self discovery and a place in their world that will allow happiness) can be an elusive, abstract thing if you don’t know what you’re looking for in the first place. All the characters know is that they feel like they’re being pulled in a million directions and they don’t know why, and what I hope these images, and the language I use to create them, will create the same sensation in the reader.

Some could argue, I guess, that really the magic I’m describing, and the techniques my grandfather used, are the natural consequences of living in a society that values Magical Realism as a genre. To invoke the powers of the strange and the wondrous for a character to reflect upon can be an easy way to get your point across. However, I feel that, even though I approach that point, I try to not indulge in it. I am happiest when I am able to have my characters create the magic inside of themselves (via language and images), where it is available only to them and the reader. And by allowing the reader to view this magic, I involve them in a way that is intimate, and therefore, hopefully, make the story and its truth meaningful while spanning cultures, gender, beliefs, etc. This internal magic also allows me to find the truth of the character and hopefully the truth that I seek.

Some Neruda

We are the clumsy passersby

by Pablo Neruda

We are the clumsy passersby, we push past each other with elbows,
with feet, with trousers, with suitcases,
we get off the train, the jet plane, the ship, we step down
in our wrinkled suits and sinister hats.
We are all guilty, we are all sinners,
we come from dead-end hotels or industrial peace,
this might be our last clean shirt,
we have misplaced our tie,
yet even so, on the edge of panic, pompous,
sons of bitches who move in the highest circles
or quiet types who don't owe anything to anybody,
we are one and the same, the same in time's eyes,
or in solitude's: we are the poor devils
who earn a living and a death working
bureautragically or in the usual ways,
sitting down or packed together in subway stations,
boats, mines, research centers, jails,
universities, breweries,
(under our clothes the same thirsty skin),
(the hair, the same hair, only in different colors).

Another Paz Poem

Between going and staying the day wavers
by Octavio Paz

Between going and staying the day wavers,
in love with its own transparency.
The circular afternoon is now a bay
where the world in stillness rocks.

All is visible and all elusive,
all is near and can't be touched.

Paper, book, pencil, glass,
rest in the shade of their names.

Time throbbing in my temples repeats
the same unchanging syllable of blood.

The light turns the indifferent wall
into a ghostly theater of reflections.

I find myself in the middle of an eye,
watching myself in its blank stare.

The moment scatters. Motionless,
I stay and go: I am a pause.

Writing. . .ugh!

I've been suffering lately from "Senior-itis" (which should not be confused with "The Itis" which is something totally different). I'm only taking one writing class this semester and it only meets once a week, but I can't seem to focus, or frankly, care much about it.

But here are some thoughts on my process:

I haven't written anything new in a while but I finally have a grip on this whole revision thing. I have learned this semester that I write to help me understand some "thing", not just to be clever or share a story. Previously I thought I wrote because I had something to say, but now I realize I write because I have something to learn. (Sure that sounds arrogant, Welcome to the School of Me: Everything I Write is Law, Dogma, Truth etc.). So I write a story and then it takes on a life of its own. The story becomes a "thing" in and of itself that must be dealt with, wrestled, made to obey. For the story to work successfully, it must be made more fluid, and the Idea that I was chasing/sharing/understanding must be brought into a sharper focus. That's when it's time to take out distractions, filler, other crap, etc.

This extraneous stuff comes from me having a vague idea of the Idea. So as I'm writing and searching I get a vague impression of what I'm truly trying to understand. I've been told my writing has a certain mysterious quality about it and I think this is where it comes from. I don't notice it really until someone points it out, and, hey, I can't help not enjoying mystery since I was raised by a hard core Roman Catholic and indoctrinated into the Great Mystery blah blah blah you get the idea.

So I think I'm closer to understanding my aesthetic. Or am I?

Today's post doesn't contribute much to the greater good, but it gives me a good start for an assignment due today.

One more

Here's another memoir I read last year.


Heat- Bill Buford
An investigative piece for a major newspaper becomes a year long and then life changing experience for Buford. Buford is given an insiders look into the inner workings of a trendy, NYC restaurant owned by Mario Batali. Really strong writing makes Bufords passion for cooking and the history of Italian cooking infectious and, of course, the stories and behind the scenes happenings are fun to read.

Member? You member. You don member? I member.

I've really been enjoying reading memoirs lately, especially memoirs by writers. Real life can be so much more interesting than fiction.

Here's a list of the memoirs I've read during the last year or so:

Native State- Tony Cohan
I came across Tony's memoir after reading both of his Mexico books. He was a Hollywood kid before Gary Coleman or (insert favorite kid actor/musician here) and had a dad who couldn't let go of Radio's Golden Days and a mom who was a drunk. In this memoir he goes back home to be with his dying father and recalls his childhood in Cali and his time in Europe, oh yeah and his time as a kick ass jazz drummer.

Stranger Than Fiction- Chuck Palahniuk
Mostly essays and stuff about his out of the ordinary, true life experiences he's had. I enjoyed this better than Choke, his only work of fiction that I've read.

Somtimes The Magic Works- Terry Brooks
I became a fan of Brooks in high school after reading one of the Shannara titles. Sure, the Shannara stuff is derivative of Tolkiens work but he sort of addresses this point in his memoir, but mostly I like hearing about how he broke into the biz.

On Writing- Stephen King
Similar to Brooks' memoir, King tells you about his childhood and his obsession with rock and roll, pulp fiction, and writing. He also shares what his life was like after he was hit by a car.

Bird by Bird- Anne Lamott
In her memoir, Lamott is extremely honest about her childhood and college life and her dad- but what I like most are the parts, like in King's and Brooks' memoirs, where she puts on a writing how-to for the rest of us.

I feel so rejected!!!

Got my first real rejection today. Here it is in all of its glory. One down and many hundreds to go!

"Dear Mr. Moya,

Thank you for your submission.  Although this particular piece does
not meet our current needs, we wish you the best in your work and hope
you will continue to enjoy 971 MENU.

Sincerely,
Gregory Napp"

Imitation of Lance Olsen

Went to the Lance Olsen reading last night @ ND with 401 class. I was interested in what he had to say about experimental fiction and I found his writing to be strong and completely accessible. In other words, I was expecting some kind of crazy free form jazz thing but instead found a nice little Miles Davis Kinda of Blue vibe instead. Of course I really did know better, for class we had to read an excerpt (dig around until you find the excerpts link) of his work from nietzsche's kisses, and i was surprised by how easy it was to comprehend even if he did play with POV.

Lance was very approachable and was very easy to talk to. After the reading a small group of us including Neil and Kelcey headed over to Steve Tomasula's house to hang out. Steve and his wife Maria were excellent hosts and even though most of the crowd was composed of Domers it was a great experience and I'm glad I didn't pass it up.

Below is the assignment from class to imitate the excerpt we read for class, no title yet, but the more I read it the more it grows on me.

************************************************************************************

You stand there and try to register politeness and interest on your face as you mask your disdain and try to ignore the pain in your lower back. The Patron talks down to you like a child. You smile and nod and repeat:

“Sir, I’m not sure I understand-“

But he cuts you off. Be nice you remind yourself. Keep smiling. The pain in your cheeks and back equal a 5% raise. You need this money. Your future self needs all of the money you can make now. It’s evaluation time and the boss is watching this transaction from his office. Your eyes begin to wander and you notice just how flammable this Patron is. His breathe is stinging vodka, his hair is matted grease, his skin is white flakes. The heat from the LCD screen that now stares blankly at you would be enough for this Patron to immolate himself. You hope that he will step closer; he would make an interesting sacrifice to the Library Gods.

“Sir, I believe you’ve been misinformed. What you are looking for is on the 3rd floor. Ask the information desk.”

You can’t help but notice he is now wavering. He is now falling. He is now bleeding from the head and peeing in his pants. The liquids run in opposite directions from one another. The security guard rushes over to the Patron while other Patrons gather. Some Juvenile Patrons point and laugh. You stand there with that smile on your face. It is now genuine. You marvel at how wonderful it feels to be honest.

2007 Chicago Auto Show

It was a boys day out and we had a ton of fun. Above you'll find some pics of a couple of concept cars that really caught my eye. There were a ton of cars and spent nearly 3 hours wandering around the place. Jeep had this great setup where people could get a ride in a new Jeep on their indoor track- but the wait was over an hour so we didn't do it. Didn't get to see all of the cars, but there is alway next year.

Fender Bender

I don't want to get too deep into the story, but on Tuesday morning I was involved in a harmless fender bender, in fact the guy that hit me didn't even knock the snow off of my bumper (he did smash up his hood though), but my ANGER was stirred up. Apparently, the young IUSB student driving ahead of me decided she needed to pull over, in the middle of the street, to get out of her car and yell at me. "Stop tailgating me, you're tailgating!" I was dumbfounded, how the hell could I be tailgating her if we had just left the light! We were in the middle of the intersection! We drove no more than 30 feet in bad weather! TAILGATING!

Having been in one other fender bender before, I knew that the guy behind me was financially responsible, however, I was so pissed off I told her that if she left the scene I would accuse her of leaving the scene of an accident. As we waited for the police, she approached my window with her cell phone and said "He wants to talk to you." I asked who. She said "my dad". MY DAD. Are you friggin kidding me! Your DAD!

So anyway, what has me the most pissed off is that she can pull crap like this all day and never be held responsible. Just because we don't have a law against stupidity doesn't mean people can act as they wish. Whatever happened to accountability, responsibility, maturity?? Just because the law says that the person who hit me is at fault doesn't mean that young lady is completely w/o fault . She, and her ridiculous, dangerous behavior are directly at fault.

Working where I do, I notice the public (which means all of us) more and more everyday is doing what it can to shirk responsibility for its actions.

Pitiful, pitiful, pitiful!

juice and kookies

Hey guys! Here's my newest story. It started out one way and ended another. This is the first draft so please feel free to tear it up. There are places a I want to go back and add detail and solidify the story arc ( now that I know in my head what I want from this story), but I want to hear from you. Thanks!


**********************************************************************************

juice and kookies

Junior curls the orange power cord around his hand and elbow, his sleepy gaze following it up and down over his sweaty dark skin. The smell of work is overpowering, it’s the same smell on his father every evening, and it makes him feel useful. Junior’s thoughts also turn round and round; thoughts of Mexico, of the hedges to be cut, of his new school which starts in a week, of his mother who’ll have dinner waiting on the table in a couple of hours. Mostly though, his thoughts swirl around the bouncing images of the blonde gringas two doors down, step-sisters both 15 years old like him, trapped, like him.

Junior, would you like some juice and cookies?

Uh, no thank you Mrs. Dukes.

Juice and kookies, that’s how your mother says it kookies. Her accent is so sweet. Kookies. She’s a delight, just a delight! Ok then, they’ll be here for you. Juice and kookies, oh my!

Junior would like to respond and tell her that the only kookies in that house are the two kooks who live there. But even that simple thought makes him feel shameful.

Mrs. Dukes moves back into the house like a balsam wood boat upon a stormy sea. Junior had started practicing CPR when he began working for the Dukes, considering their fragile existence, but then stopped when he also considered he might have to actually do it. Instead he ran a phone line down into the basement and one next to the back door of the house, the two places where he was most that didn’t have a phone.

He finished wrapping up the power cord and began pushing the electric mower back towards the garage. The sky was turning purple and plump, and when he walked by the juice and kookies (he’d have to practice his mother’s pronunciation with her) the cookies were dry and crumbly and about 5 years old. Their texture reminded him of the basement walls in the Duke’s home. The Dukes home was on the same plane as the nearby river and whenever the rain fell, the basement walls cried. The basement, where he would have to spend the rest of the day waterproofing the deteriorating cinder blocks that smelled of mold and moisture.

Hey Junior!

Hey Dr. Dukes!

Come on up here son, I’ve got a new tune for you.

Sure thing Mr. Dukes, be up in a minute.

He wanted to add and don’t call me son, I already have a father, but Dr. Dukes was going senile and there would be no point. Junior could talk to him in Spanish y no me llames hijo, ya tengo papa, and Dr. Dukes would probably just smile and laugh and pat him on the head and say you don’t say son, you don’t say. Just like the time Dr. Dukes was in the garage, practicing with his fly fishing rod, wrapping the line around a bag of fertilizer and crying out I got one, I got one! It broke Junior’s heart to see the excitement on that simple face. Junior remarked sadly that it was only a fertilizer bag, and not a fish. Dr. Dukes looked child like and had replied you don’t say son, you don’t say.

The screen door slammed behind him as fat raindrops began splatting against the driveway. It’s going to be a work in the basement kind of day for sure he thought. Junior moved through house, making his way past stacks of newspapers and dodging piles of clothes. Most of the surfaces he saw had opened packages of cookies, candy, and chips. His mother had been sick for a month with severe migraines and hadn’t been able to clean house for the Dukes. Mrs. Dukes had told Junior to tell his mom to not worry, that she and Dr. Dukes would chip in and keep the place clean until she was healthy enough to do her job. This meant herding trash or anything else that needed cleaning into piles so that Loopey could clean it up quickly when she finally got back.

Junior, come in son come in, said Dr. Dukes

Don’t get up Dr. Dukes, pleaded Junior, but Dr. Dukes did and revealed himself to be wearing faded pinstriped boxers with his dress shirt, tie, black socks and leather shoes. It could have been worse; Dr. Dukes could have simply revealed himself.

It’s no worry son, I just have to get my clarinet. Now, have you ever heard of the great musician, Satchmo?

Uh, sure, Louis Armstrong.
Right right, you’re so smart. Now, he had this little song not too many people know about called What a Wonderful World, and I’ve been practicing this sheet music all week. Tell me what you think. One, two, one, two, three, four SQUEEK, SQUAWK, BLEET BLEET. . .

Dr. Dukes choked the song from his beat up clarinet, much as he did the many other songs he played for Junior. In his time, Dr. Dukes had been a man of prestige in South Bend. The walls in his office were covered with certificates, awards, and photographs with other powerful and influential members of the community to prove it. Dr. Dukes had opened clinics for the poor, had served on several boards for art and education, and had served on a panel in Washington D.C. testifying to the health hazards of lead paint. Dr. Dukes even had a Purple Heart and Bronze Star awarded to him after serving proudly in World War II. Dr. He’d been a man of distinction and integrity. If only the certificates and photographs could talk, what would they say? Would they chastise him for answering the front door with no pants on, or for wandering into the basement at night and picking up an old shoe and calling in for reinforcements?

The Dukes had disappeared from community life some time ago, when Dr. Dukes’ episodes became too much to explain away. Mrs. Dukes had always been the strong woman behind the man, and now was content with just being a woman who could still thread her own needles and who could still drive her own car, albeit slowly, to the weekly sewing cirlce. Mrs. Dukes also enjoyed visits from the grandkids, who didn’t come often enough, chats with her neigbors. She was so neighborly in fact that she was more than happy to loan out her Loopey and Junior whenever someone else in the neighborhood needed a job well done. In fact, she enjoyed the celebrity like status her neighbors granted her for having the best help. She showed off her landscaped yard, or organized kitchen whenever she could. Oh, they’re wonderful people, she’d say, just wonderful.

Junior moved over to Dr. Dukes’ office window because over the sound of a dying goose that Dr. Dukes was imitating, he heard what was truly music to his ears. He heard the high pitched squeals of Amanda and Sarah. Dr. Dukes had closed his eyes and was playing away and didn’t notice what Junior had noticed. The girls were jumping on their trampoline, and from Dr. Duke’s office window he had a bird’s eye view of their frolicking. They were dressed in bathing suits and jumping in the rain. Their breasts moved in delayed reaction and the girls laughed into the sky, full throated laughing, pushing that glorious sound into the heavens.

Junior had first spotted the girls a month ago at orientation. The freshman class had gathered in the gym to pray for a great start and a great school year. Most of the kids held hands and had bowed their heads as instructed by the priest, Father Marques. He looked down at the pale white hands that held his own and he was amazed at the softness of them. He’d never touched a gringo for this long before, he could feel their pulses thudding away in their fingertips and it was disconcerting.

He was quick to pull away at amen and began looking for the exit but was forced to look around when one of the football players called out his name.

This is Junior guys, he’s from the Westside, he’s been holding his own out there.

Junior had been practicing two a days for two weeks and recognized some of the faces now approaching him.

Did you think you were trying out for futbol? asked a strawberry blonde haired girl.

Junior gave her a deadly stare as the group laughed.

Come on, lighten up, she said, it was only a joke.

This is as light as I get he replied and continued staring at her.

What an asshole, she said and as she walked away the brunette girl who had been standing next to her called out for her to wait up.

Junior turned around and walked out of the gymnasium.

Those two girls were now doing somersaults in the rain. In two piece bikinis. The whiteness of their skin in sharp contrast to the dark of the trampoline made Junior think of the sun. Indeed, they reminded him of shooting stars. He wanted to reach out to them, to touch them, to hold their hands in his. The closest he’d gotten was when they discovered he was working only two doors down. They waited for him in the alleyway most days at the end of the evening as brought out garbage, or yard waste, or just to getaway for a moment in the cool dark provided by the trees hanging over the back of the garage. At first they would just peek around their fence and giggle and duck back into their yard. Soon they would just stand and stare, sometimes drinking beers and sometimes smoking cigarettes and sometimes doing both.

Once they spoke to him, just once, in soft girl voices. They wanted to know if he remembered them and he said he did. They wanted to know if he had a girlfriend and he lied and said he did. They wanted to know if he had ever kissed a white girl and he lied again and said he did. They stepped closer to him and the butterflies in his stomach were as heavy as stones and he couldn’t move. The girls told him a story of being home alone and trapped like prisoners, but he didn’t listen to much of it. Instead he watched their eyes and mouths. He liked the way they moved. He stared at the angles of their lips and eyelids and was mesmerized by the way their skin pulled and relaxed. The blonde, Sarah, had freckles and her skin was lighter than Amanda’s. Amanda had darker skin, olive colored. The girls smelled like a sunny day. They were stepsisters but they loved each other they said. And they kissed each other to prove it.
The stiffness in Junior’s underwear was proof enough that he believed them. They pointed at his pants and started giggling. Junior became shameful and angry. He moved back into the Duke’s yard and slapped the gate shut. They begged and pleaded for him to come back out into the coolness of the alley, but he moved into the garage instead. He found a couple of two by fours and some nails and set them aside for later.

Well, look at those ripe melons, wouldja said Dr. Dukes. He was now standing next to Junior and was looking out the window also. Nothing compared to these though, said Dr. Dukes as Junior backed away in panic.

Take a look at these Junior said Dr. Dukes. He had opened an envelope that had appeared in his hand and pulled out a photo. Come on, take a look, he said.

Junior reached out and held the photo in a shaking hand. It was the image of a nude black woman in a banana skirt. It was signed, love Josephine.

That’s a dancer I met in France, before I came back from the war. That was a time I don’t wish on anyone. I was young and full of vinegar Junior, just full of it. I was just a medic then, but I could shoot just as straight as the rest of them, and I was out to keep those good for nothing jerrys away from America.

Junior was taken aback by the doctor’s sudden lucidity. His eyes twinkled and his brow was furrowed deep in thought. He no longer had the blank look of lumpy dough. This was the Dr. Dukes of the medals and certificates, not the Dr. Dukes of food stained t-shirts and bad body odor.

This woman, she was a dancer, he said. And when she danced she made me forget where I was. I was back in New York City where I shipped out from. Hell! I was back in Chicago where I grew up. I met her briefly, once, she said hi and smiled back at her. She asked me how she should sign the photo and I said sign it anyway you like. She gave me a quick peck on the cheek and was on to the next joe standing in line. The next day I was shipped home, the war had ended, I was no longer a man, I was a college student. That time over there, those dead boys, bits of them are still stranded over there with bits of me.

Dr. Dukes moved to a leather sofa in a dark corner of the office. The sky thundered and the rain fell as if thrown. Junior looked out the window again and noticed that the girls were no longer there. The trampoline was empty except for the water that now created a heavy belly on it.

Gerald?

He’s sleeping Mrs. Dukes.

Dr. Dukes was indeed asleep, a balsam wood plane, a WWII replica of a Grumman Bearcat, resting on his chest, moving up and down. Dr. Dukes slobbered on himself.

Oh, that man. That’s all he does. Well, what do you think of my new painting?

Junior reviewed the image and was immediately taken in by the bright colors of the painted sunset. Two people in a tiny sailboat in the bottom corner of the frame, sailing into a vast pink and orange and purple ocean. The boat was so small and there was no land in sight. It made Junior wonder if they would make it to wherever they were headed. Would anyone make it?

I feel so special

So I'm scrolling down to the bottom of the blog cuz it's fun to do when you're bored and I notice that one of my posts has additional comments and I log and to find. . .BLOG SPAM! How great is that? NO really, just when I thought that despret bastards had found all nooks and crannies to bother the shit out of us, they have gone and found the blogs. Can dream spammers be far behind. Ooh, that's mine and you can't have it- the title of my next, first sci fi short story: The Legend of the Dream Spammer.

Superbowl Time!!!

Wow, I can't believe I'll actually get to watch the Superbowl this year for more than just the commercials (which have been sucking lately anyway), only problem is- Who do I root for? I definately have a soft spot in my heart for the Bears. They're the main reason I began watching football anyway- the Superbowl Shuffle, the Fridge, and all the rest of that shit. But the Colts . . . they've been so good for so long, it's about time they won one dontcha think?

I don't like the whole playing in Miami thing. Why can't they play at Notre Dame or something? Keep in the Midwest with all of the snow and cold and big fluffy jackets.

Do you know where you'll be Feb. 4th?

From Nelson Mandela

Well, not really. This quote is attributed to Nelson Mandela's 1994 inaugural speech, however it was really written by Marianne Williamson. I took my favorite parts, the parts that really resonate deep inside me and posted them here. If you want to read the complete poem go here.

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deep fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us...

And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to be the same.
As we are liberated from our own fears, our presence automatically liberates others.

Someone said I should've posted it on my blog

Here's the poem I wrote based on Charmi's exercise from David's poetry class:


Lightly, under sprinting clouds

We find each other translucent.

Heavily: blades and blades crush and stab

Underneath us. We find ourselves

Hiding in our angles, in the shadows

Of our pleasure. The collar chokes,

Pinches, ebbs, flows, tighter, tighter-

Wooden smells, pine and oak, cherry.

Heavily, under melting clouds

I find myself obsidian.

Lightly: verdant stains burn impressions

On my skin. Pulsing muscle, steady drops

Race the rabbit to its hole.

Do you own a dog?

If so you should consider signing up with the St. Joseph County Humane Society Dogpark. It's only $60 a year (I have two dogs, it may be cheaper for solo dogs), you fill out some paper work, and get your vet to verify the health of your dog and you're set. So far we've taken our dogs to the dog park twice. From what we could tell our dogs loved it. They ran and played until they couldn't anymore. The weather was bad and kept other owners away, but we can't wait until our dogs have other dogs to play with.


This is Ella (german shep mix) and Marley (afgan/irish setter mix) come on out an meet us at the dogpark sometime.

Just write dammit!

Well, let's see. . .

Today at work I saw a kid I hadn't seen in over 3 years. He was part of a troubled group of kids at a public school that I had worked at several years ago. They were dissaffected white youth, too poor and too aware of their situation. These were the kinds of kids that felt the sting of words such as "the world is yours go out and take it." Anyway "Stan" recognized me immediatly and started telling me about how well he was doing. It took him hitting rock bottom about three times before realizing he had his whole life ahead of him. He's turned a new leaf he says. He's happy to report there's a brain in his head after all. He's going for a GED- too many burned bridges and bad experiences in school. He's not sorry to miss out on high school life- he's lived more teenage experiences to satisfy at least three teenagers. No, he's looking for a trade, he's looking to distance himself from his stupidity and anger. He remembers me though not like he remembers the other adults at the school. They made him feel like a fool, inadequate, and worthless, and he was more than happy to live up to their expectations. He remembers me taking the time to listen to his bullshit and then calling him on it, giving him space and taking control when he couldn't. Mostly though, he respected me for never coming down to his level, never treating him like a jerk.

Given "Stan's" track record, his future isn't as bright as it could be, and I expect his life to be filled with trouble. However, I have hope him.