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Friday, September 28, 2007
setting down the can....Boyd, TX. writing project - II
I wasn't there when they found him. They said he was deliriously blind drunk, laying in the creek that passed behind their house. When I got there, he was already in the bathtub, and a strange silence had descended on the house. What was, a few hours before, a loud an raucous party of underage drinkers, had become a delirious vigil of sorts. I had come back from somewhere else. I'd been drinking, but I never drank much. People always wanted me to drive them somewhere because, well, because I was usually the only one with a car.
The water ran over his head as his mother fussed and cussed over him. Devin's mother. We called her Mrs. K. She and her husband had already gone to bed that night, with assurances from us that nothing worse than a little hanging around talking, a little drinking, and a lot of movie watching, was going to happen. But then, something else had happened.
I stood there in the bathroom doorway, the smell hammering my sixteen year old nose with vileness, and watched a friend...a younger friend, writhe in an absolute drunken mess. How did this happen? Why on earth did he do this to himself? Why did he let himself get so gone that his mother was forced to wash feces and vomit off of him as she would have done a baby...a baby in her bathtub, once again.
Mrs. K. let loose a string of curses in her New York accent that would have made a sailor blush when Devin's older brother walked into the bathroom to see how he was doing. "It's your fault!!" was her main argument. She blamed him...Robert...Devin's older brother, for allowing this to happen. The rest of us backed away to allow this family on the edge to argue amongst themselves. We were too afraid to interfere, but too afraid to leave, because we were concerned about Devin, who had come nearer to death that night, than any of us ever had. Watching one of us get drunk had quickly gone from funny, to terrifying.
We each looked at the empties around the room. The cans, the bottles, the cups. I had one in my hand, a benign can of light beer. It suddenly seemed out of place. Like a poison wreathed in happy marketing. I didn't drink again that night. Not even a sip. All at once, the danger of it had been presented to me in sharp relief. We silently watched our movie, and didn't talk about the incident, for a long time.
Artist - Album - Song Prince - Purple Rain - Purple Rain
This is one of my favorite times of the year. It's that time when it darkness comes earlier and earlier, when moisture from the sky returns and lingers on the grass and on the moss. It's that time of year when the trees become transparent and show the color of their blood as they slide into a deep sleep. The sun slowly drifts to the south, creating longer and longer shadows throughout the day, until in mid-winter when there are more shadows than light, even at the sun's highest point.
This is fall, autumn, Indian Summer...this is the changing of the guard, another step in the rites of aging, another milestone reached in the year. This is the wane, this is the closure, this is the beginning of the end of the year, and the start of hearth-time warmth. This is my time.
artist - album - song Flower Kings - Flower Power - Indian Summer
We had been married only a few months when he received his "Greetings from Uncle Sam" letter. He was told to report to the Army somewhere in Dallas on a particular day. His brother Bill was still in the army at the time - the war was the "police action" going on in Korea. Bill had received a similar letter, boarded the bus for Dallas, and didn't come back home that night! He was in! So that was why we felt that would be his fate also! We had a few weeks to adjust, prepare, and get things in "order", and so we even moved out of our little first apartment and into the front bedroom of my parent's home a few days before he was to leave. We had no furniture, just stuff, so it wasn't too hard. We only owned a car, a boat, and a piano!
When he reported and he went through all the necessary stuff, everything looked like he was going to be accepted until the eye exam. The doctors noted that he had a "bad" right eye, and even though they didn't consider it beyond the physical limitations, it was questionable. They consulted with other doctors, and finally one doctor looked at him and asked "Do you want to go to the Army?" Dad answered, "No, not really, sir." And the doctor promptly stamped his paper with the "4-F" rejection stamp and he was suddenly free to go home! We were amazed and I was very greatful! He stayed in the Army Reserves, went to meetings once a week, and two weeks of training every summer, for about ten years, finally getting out after we returned from living in Yuma - which was sometime after 1963.
So, there it is. A bad eye and a dubious 4-F designation is all it took to ensure the very existence of the four of us (or three of us, mom didn't mention whether she was pregnant when dad went to the selective service office, did she? I'll hear about it, I'm sure, after she reads this).
I also remember one particular late night. I remember waking up because there was some sort of commotion and noise in my sister's room, and their light was on. I remember her kneeling down on the floor in front of me, to get down to my level, and holding me tight, her sobs never ending. I didn't quite understand what was going on then, someone had died, a car wreck I think. One of her high school friends. I remember just wrapping my arms around her in return, not quite knowing what to do. I was probably only six or seven years old at the time.
In 1978, my oldest sister married and moved away from Boyd. In 1979, my second sister married and moved away from Boyd. In 1980, my older brother graduated high school and moved away from Boyd. In 1980, when I was ten years old, I had the house in Boyd to myself, I was ten.
NOTE: I will occasionally add a streaming music to these posts. Most of the time, it will be a b-side from some 1980's iconic group. I've chosen 1980s music specifically because it was a strange time musically, and that it was the decade in which I came of age. Artist - Album - Song: Duran Duran - Seven and the Ragged Tiger - The Seventh Stranger
chatty things...car woes...bus people...and a warning to my mother....
Our one and only car became quite ill earlier this week and left me on the side of the road for a short while. I'm very unhappy to say that after over $1200 of repairs, it is now not quite as ill as it was.
While our car was two days in auto-hospital having major surgery, I was forced to try my hand at using Spokane Public Transportation. Spokane has a wonderful network of bus routes through the city that could confuse the most advanced orienteering expert. However, I prevailed, and was able to make my way home in the evening, and back to work, the next day, via public transport. This was an adventure, to say the least.
There are interesting people on the bus also, like the guy who sat next to me with the giant hawk-like nose that curved down over his non-existent lips and missing chin. I'm fairly certain he had no teeth, and he smelled of something...well...something indescribable. No matter though, I wish him well.
Lastly, I'd like to mention something with regard to the upcoming Boyd, TX writing project that I'm slowly and "indeterminantly" undertaking under no pretense of regularity. I'd like to warn those of you who read this blog, who are of the familiar sort...by that I mean, family members. These memories will be real, and complete. They may be things that you never knew I engaged in, or was a part of...I think it's time now to take off the blinders, don't you? However, I will preface any of the memories I feel might be frightening or unsettling, or indeed, unsavory, to some, with the following signage.
In 1988, I graduated from Boyd High School, near the bottom of my class, after thirteen long years of trying. Graduating at this level was quite an achievement, since there were only fifty people in my graduating class. I was in band. I was a in drama. That was about it. I didn't do much in High School but complain about being in .. well .. High School.
Next year, in May, it will be twenty years since I graduated from Boyd High School. I don't plan on attending the festivities, that is, if they even decide to have any sort of get together. Oh sure.. it would be interesting to see what some people have been doing in the last ten years, but not interesting enough to make the trip back. It might be neat to see the people who made the journey with me from kindergarten, through 12th grade, but I'll just ask a couple of people I'm still in contact with to get the dirt, and to pass on information about myself. I'll let them be the conduit through which I keep in touch.
Over the next few months, over the fall and into the spring, I plan on doing a little writing journey through the personalities, places, and feelings of this long ago time. A time when I was such a different person, as I'm sure many of my classmates were as well.
As my first assignment on this journey, I'll dredge up an old post about Boyd, TX. itself. You can find it on Google Maps, and even on Google Earth. It's not much to look at, but it's the place I grew up. It's the place that, from age four on, helped to shape who I am today, for better or for worse. The post below, is called donut shoppe. I hope you enjoy it.
At four am they start to trickle in, talking louder than is usually allowed this early elsewhere. They've been wreathed in silence, however, on the fifteen or twenty minute drive to this small town meeting place. They breathed in fully the coveted early cool moisture that is still lingering before the dawn for they knew that this would pass away soon. The heat would come and the dry air return as the moisture and coolness sank back into the earth from whence it came.
Wearing overalls with tiny blue stripes over denim, and covering their grey heads with feed store hats or John Deer hats, they drove away in that pre-dawn hour to come together with their peers over coffee and donuts. There's dirt on the white tiled floor, there's cigarette smoke in the air, the counter is coffee stained and cracking with age and use. The lights are fluorescent and harsh, the questionable cleanliness of the tables is thrown into sharp relief.
This place is beautiful. It is a welcome place in the minds of it's patrons during this special hour. They aren't here for the coffee, for the donuts, or for the ambiance, though they soak it all in. They are here, right now, because they can connect with each other. Before most of the rest of the world gets out of bed, they will be back at their farms, their ranches, and be getting on with their day in quiet solitude under an unforgiving sun.
This post inspired by "West Texas," a poem by A. Scott White: link here.
I'm not hesitating to review this little cafe because it's not good. It is. It's great. It's couches, nice view of Audubon Park, warm coffee and tasty quiche. It's relaxing, free wireless, soups and sandwiches, and warm art covered walls. It's all these things...and the thing is, I want it all to myself. I don't want to share with the rest of Spokane. Oh, sure, the Audubon Park and Audubon Terrace area folks here on the north side, sure...they can come by...and probably some select South Hill-ers (JBelle might like the place, for example.). But that's it. Please don't come by...well, not too often at least. There's probably just enough of us patronizing the place to keep it going for years, and to provide the friendly family owners a wonderful livelihood.
But, I suppose I must share it anyway. The little cafe, aptly named Little Garden Cafe opened in late August. Those of us who live in the area, as I do, have been collectively waiting for a nice little place like this for a long time. As was mentioned in the Spokesman Review article (read article by clicking here), some 200 of us dropped by during the renovation of this little space at the end of the small Audubon Center pink shopping center to inquire about the progress. Now, it's here, and so am I.
I love reviewing a place, from right there, inside, the place. I can look across at Audubon Park, I can hear the friendly chatter and talk from the other room, filtering into the couch decorated room that I'm in, I can hear the espresso machine whirring away...but it's not Starbucks. It's not the "McDonalds" of coffee, in other words. This is family. This is friendly. This is homey and warm. This is, what a neighborhood cafe should be like. Good job Little family. We love you.
Sometimes, a piece of music hits me. Sometimes, I can't get enough of a song. I replay it and replay it...hoping to have that same experience over and over again. Just like the first time I heard it...most songs don't do this for me. Sometimes, however, a song just gets better with each play. The emotional response is stronger each time, the mental images more vivid. I'm not sure what it is, but I enjoy it, so I run it back, and play it again.
This is unusual behavior for me, you have to understand. I'm usually an "album" guy. I'm the guy who tells people, a "song" is only one part of a larger picture presented to us by the artist in the form of an "album." While I still feel this is true, there are those times when I just can't get enough. Like a seductive drug, I run it back again, and close my eyes, and re-listen.
Today's drug comes in the form of "Darkmatter." This is the final track on the Porcupine Tree 1996 album Signify. I'm not sure what it is about this song that has me in it's clutches today. I've used this song as writing inspiration before...see the post a few weeks ago called nonstop from timbuktu. But today, I'm writing about the song explicitly. Not sure why, I just feel so compelled.
....a reminder that we are human, that we make mistakes. A reminder that we've hurt each other in the past, and that it is likely that we'll hurt each other in the future. A reminder that, through all of this, we will love each other.
Johnny Cash died on this day in 2003. He was imperfect. He hurt his loved ones sometimes, but loved them as well. He hurt himself sometimes, as we all do from time to time. We are not perfect, we cannot be. There ever was only one perfect human described in the history of mankind, and none of us, could ever, be that man.
To the Man in Black, and is family, three years on, I wish peace.
Edit: I said "three years on." This is incorrect and exposes my mathematical inadequacies. It has been FOUR years since Cash passed on...
"I liked your gargle bubble splash." came a voice.
...my hand to my ear, looking up at the young girl sitting atop the high chair above me...
"I blubber gargle flibble scissor kick!" She repeated.
"Oh!...pant...pant... Thanks!" I reply. "It's one of my favssbbldlblddd...spit...cough..."
...nervous silence...pant...pant....taking my pulse again, 154..not bad...
"You know...you'd probably never know from my Adonis-like physique that I use to be one heck of a swimmer, you know, back in the day!!" I yell over the splashing of the pool's edge.
...nervous laughter from the 19 year old disgustingly fit and half naked life guard...
"A lot can happen in twenty years! Let this be a warning!" I yell again, as I turn around and prepare to push off...then I kick off from the side, and scissor kick my way into another college student's nightmare of how they could turn out...
Another kid, warned and terrified. Another life, scared straight and saved. It's been a good day.
Many years ago I loaned my late 1960s edition paperback copy of Fellowship of the Rings to a friend (you know, the version that hit college campuses like a wildfire, causing the phrase "FRODO LIVES" to appear). At the time, my lovely wife told me that this was probably not a good idea, and that I would likely never see the book again. I was dubious, and dismissed her concern.
As usual, when my wife expresses concern like this, I was wrong.
Long years have passed since then, and the book's two other companions sit alone on my shelf, grieving for their long lost brethren. I often speak to them, in words of sorrow, asking for forgiveness at my folly. I have promised them, and myself, that I would one day purchase the 50th Anniversary Edition of Lord of the Rings, to replace their fallen comrade. I've never been able to justify the money needed, however, to make this purchase.
This brings me to last Friday. We received in the mail, the Red Leather edition of the book you see pictured (left). Who purchased this for us? We do not know. It was a complete and utter surprise, with no note attached. I have my suspicions as to who the anonymous benefactor might be, but my lips are sealed. Suffice it to say, however, I must give them a huge thank you from myself, my family, and my other Tolkien books, who are quite pleased that their loss has been restored.
There was no shadow, because there was no light. There was no silence, because there was no air. There was no nothingness, because there was no being. There was only paradox...an idea without a mind. A creator without a creation. A something, contained within a complete nothing.
Then something started. Some prime mover flipped a switch. Some threshold was crossed. Either way, somehow, it expanded, instantly...or so fast as to have seemed to be instantly. That instant explosion was silent. Nothing. No noise. No "bang" at all. There was no air. There was nothing, and yet there was everything, all at once. It raced outward from a center that didn't exist, to an outer that wasn't there. It was born. Don was born. In that instant. We were all there too, just not yet. Don watched the things needed for our existence drift past in silence. He followed. Watched. Listened. Learned.
If you lay on your back on a grassy hill, somewhere in the Palouse hills south of Spokane Washington, you can still hear Don watching. His breath is low, and his eyes are billions upon billions and can only be seen at night. Sometimes he inspires one of us to listen to what's beyond our dust speck, to listen, and hear, the ever expanding creative nothingness of which we've become the most interesting and ultimate expression. You can hear it in the buzz of the bugs on the ground near you, in the rustle of the newly cut wheat, in the laughter of your children and the breath of your sleeping lover. That beginning, that prime mover's touch, is still evident in all of these, and continues still today.
"So yeah.. it's like, the first day of second grade and all.. and I'm all, hey man.. don't harsh my mellow... cuz, you know, I'm all chasin' girls and gettin' chased... I'm all cuttin' an' pastin' like a cool mo fo.. you know?"
It's all good, he doesn't really talk like that. But you wouldn't know that from this picture. He looks like essence of laid back and mellow in this picture, but he's actually a bit crazy. He reads like a maniac, plays computer games and saves the princess like a pro, and eats Lucky Charms and Cream of Wheat like there's no tomorrow. He's our second grader. He's the oldest. There's a lot riding on his shoulders, but fortunately, he doesn't know that...he's still just a kid...and I plan on keeping him that way as long as he can stand it...
It's not the kind of film you'd see in a theater in Spokane. It's just too odd, I think, for this little town. It's the kind of film you'd see in San Francisco, New York, or various art centers around the world. It's different. Some people wouldn't like it, but this reviewer (that's me, you understand), did.
I rented this movie this past weekend, knowing that I'd get something unique. With a combination like Neil Gaiman, Dave McKean, and the great folks over at The Jim Hensen Company, I knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, this wasn't going to be an ordinary movie, but rather, an artistic film. I was right. It gave me hope that film, as an art form, hasn't died, just yet.
Oh, to be sure, I enjoy many simple films Hollywood cranks out too...I likes me some explosions and some car chases too. But for me, those aren't really "films." Those aren't really "art." They're entertaining movies. That's all. Art can be entertaining, but it doesn't always have to be entertaining. Sometimes it's just intriguing, or interesting, moving, or just cool. Mirrormask, in my estimation, is interesting, cool, and indeed, for me, entertaining. It's entertaining to me because I enjoy looking at it over and over again and picking up different little things here and there....a glint of light here, or a well placed shadow there.
One thing that must be mentioned when talking about Mirrormask, without fail, is computer generated images, or CGI. The bulk of this film is CGI shot on a green stage where the main actors interact with both costumed live action characters, and characters that are entirely CGI. This is difficult in many respects, and many people don't see this as art, and in some cases in other CGI films, it isn't art. CGI can become a crutch instead of a tool, and too often does, in the shoot-em up Sci-Fi stuff that I in fact, really enjoy. So, my film school brain often thinks of CGI in terms of the technology, and how it takes away from real acting and real film making. In the case of Mirrormask, however, the filmmaker seems to recognize CGI as a tool to make the film even more amazing.
The film is like a painting. Instead of trying too hard to make the CGI look earthly and real, the filmmaker, and the artists, use it to its full potential of making the world of Mirrormask look very dreamlike and disorienting. Watch Mirrormask for yourself, and see what I mean. It shimmers, its out of focus in some places, but it really is, in this reviewers (that's me, again) eyes, a well done artistic film.
