I sped my car down a small hill on a tree-lined autumn road. It was raining, so the street was glistening, asphalt like still dark water, dotted with orange and yellow fallen leaves. The wiper blades thunked again and again in a steady, almost hypnotizing way. At the bottom of the decline there was a reflective black puddle of rainwater over a slow storm drain. The passenger side tires caught in its surprising depth. The car lurched sharply to the right as water sprayed up in a fan shape. I felt the pull against my steering and felt the sickening moment where control of this hurtling downhill object was not mine. I recovered before going off the road, but my palms were chill and tingly.
I remembered a dream I had a few days ago that I had completely forgotten. In the dream I was in a car wreck, the vehicle spinning out of control, the steering completely useless in a dream like way. I saw pieces of the car starting to crumple like cardboard. Instead of a violent impact I found myself rolling down a hill of clover - no car, no wreck.
Thursday, November 04, 2010
Wednesday, October 06, 2010
Back to the Forge
Figuratively, he feels as dull as a butter knife working on a tough steak. The travel and the work have been incessant. "To what end?" he wonders. Up at 4:30 AM, on the road by 6:00. Winding home in the late afternoon trying to keep energy up with music on CD, wishing he had Satellite radio and a new car. He decides he will not go back to the office.
Stopping in a bohemian cafe he has rarely visited, still wearing a suit and tie, his presence drew attention and perhaps disapproval. Was he an advanced agent of gentrification? A real estate developer scouting to evict little old ladies and the infirm?
At the next table a hipster couple talked to a dreary emo friend. The hipster father dawdled a toddler on his knee, propping her in front of a portable DVD player (or perhaps it was blu ray?) so she could be anesthetized by Finding Nemo. They ate the day's soup, marveling at the bowl-like size of the cup serving. Chipotle pear pomegranate with Gruyere. Side of rustic crust.
He was by far the most overdressed individual within a couple of blocks, but he felt pretty certain the hipster couple probably had satellite radio in their hybrid vehicle. The emo friend probably had a carton of American Spirits. Scent of old bonfire. A reek of vanity. A lot of tousled hair and black natural fibers.
He supposed he could have taken the tie and the jacket off - just white collared shirt and sharply pressed wool pants. That might have made him look a little too much like an insurance agent from the strip mall plaza on King Street, slumming for a piece of twirler candy, or just lost. No, he decided. He is who he is. Not lost. Not slumming. Crossing the color line, bringing his bright DK Menswear tie into the black natural fiber neighborhood. Game on.
Conversation hushed, or was it his imagination? A grim shaven-headed woman steered a wary course, going wide of his path as they passed in mid floor. He ordered, waited, noting no one made eye contact. He took his drink and sat at a table. To really make a statement he took out his Blackberry. An older man in a stained t-shirt, sporting a frizzy pony tail and gray at his temples approached him after a long stare-down.
"What is it that you do?"
"I ask myself that same question every morning"
His blade flashed in the candlelight. Newly minted.
Stopping in a bohemian cafe he has rarely visited, still wearing a suit and tie, his presence drew attention and perhaps disapproval. Was he an advanced agent of gentrification? A real estate developer scouting to evict little old ladies and the infirm?
At the next table a hipster couple talked to a dreary emo friend. The hipster father dawdled a toddler on his knee, propping her in front of a portable DVD player (or perhaps it was blu ray?) so she could be anesthetized by Finding Nemo. They ate the day's soup, marveling at the bowl-like size of the cup serving. Chipotle pear pomegranate with Gruyere. Side of rustic crust.
He was by far the most overdressed individual within a couple of blocks, but he felt pretty certain the hipster couple probably had satellite radio in their hybrid vehicle. The emo friend probably had a carton of American Spirits. Scent of old bonfire. A reek of vanity. A lot of tousled hair and black natural fibers.
"Well I've got your old I.D., and you look just like The Cure."
Ben Folds
Ben Folds
He supposed he could have taken the tie and the jacket off - just white collared shirt and sharply pressed wool pants. That might have made him look a little too much like an insurance agent from the strip mall plaza on King Street, slumming for a piece of twirler candy, or just lost. No, he decided. He is who he is. Not lost. Not slumming. Crossing the color line, bringing his bright DK Menswear tie into the black natural fiber neighborhood. Game on.
Conversation hushed, or was it his imagination? A grim shaven-headed woman steered a wary course, going wide of his path as they passed in mid floor. He ordered, waited, noting no one made eye contact. He took his drink and sat at a table. To really make a statement he took out his Blackberry. An older man in a stained t-shirt, sporting a frizzy pony tail and gray at his temples approached him after a long stare-down.
"What is it that you do?"
"I ask myself that same question every morning"
His blade flashed in the candlelight. Newly minted.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Fire Mere
Her drama consumes all in her path,
Except for those who know the old
Smokejumper trick:
Counterburn
Make your own circle of
Devastation
and step into the center of it
Wet blanket over your head
Failing that
or no time for that
Set yourself alight
And run at her screaming
Best game of chicken
You will ever have
Except for those who know the old
Smokejumper trick:
Counterburn
Make your own circle of
Devastation
and step into the center of it
Wet blanket over your head
Failing that
or no time for that
Set yourself alight
And run at her screaming
Best game of chicken
You will ever have