Saturday, June 18, 2005
we love them when they're gone.
that's how hindsight works. memories get linked to the fabric. even the steel. they were dysfunctional. at times maddening. but they took us somewhere. maybe not closer. but somewhere. so many times. and we never thanked them. we were too busy cursing.
my father was turning the ignition. the sound was half whining animal- half twisting metallic embrace. over and over. he had no key. this car needed no key. the locks on the doors didn't work either. the ignition turned freely. it was a car easy to steal---if you could get it to start---and wouldn't mind being seen in it. but my father knew it's secrets. he knew just the right tempo and duration. he knew how to push it's buttons. it was a faded blue late sixties chevy four-door. and it was a piece of crap.
peeking up and over the dash I noted all the dust on the windshield. their were many splotches of organic material shooting across it's surface- the temporary documentation of a perfectly decent bug's expiration. and I sniffled. there was a thick cold in my head. an upper respiratory infection. my father's negotiations with the chevy were coming along nicely. the engine was waking up. it even turned over a couple times.
I sniffled thickly. solidly. and continued looking up at the window. then sniffled again. without turning his head, my father took his hand off of the ignition and reached over to my face. placing his thumb and index finger on my nose he squeezed and pulled. twisting it gently, he snatched up every bit of snot within my front sinus. it was like he was a tax collector. smearing my snot on his right pant-leg, he quickly lifted his hand back up to the ignition. 'so that's what being a father is like', I thought to myself. turning the ignition, he coaxed the chevy into life. it was awake. the engine was purring sickly. and it's drunken wheels would soon be moving over the ground. taking us somewhere. maybe not closer. but somewhere.
---
my father was turning the ignition. the sound was half whining animal- half twisting metallic embrace. over and over. he had no key. this car needed no key. the locks on the doors didn't work either. the ignition turned freely. it was a car easy to steal---if you could get it to start---and wouldn't mind being seen in it. but my father knew it's secrets. he knew just the right tempo and duration. he knew how to push it's buttons. it was a faded blue late sixties chevy four-door. and it was a piece of crap.
peeking up and over the dash I noted all the dust on the windshield. their were many splotches of organic material shooting across it's surface- the temporary documentation of a perfectly decent bug's expiration. and I sniffled. there was a thick cold in my head. an upper respiratory infection. my father's negotiations with the chevy were coming along nicely. the engine was waking up. it even turned over a couple times.
I sniffled thickly. solidly. and continued looking up at the window. then sniffled again. without turning his head, my father took his hand off of the ignition and reached over to my face. placing his thumb and index finger on my nose he squeezed and pulled. twisting it gently, he snatched up every bit of snot within my front sinus. it was like he was a tax collector. smearing my snot on his right pant-leg, he quickly lifted his hand back up to the ignition. 'so that's what being a father is like', I thought to myself. turning the ignition, he coaxed the chevy into life. it was awake. the engine was purring sickly. and it's drunken wheels would soon be moving over the ground. taking us somewhere. maybe not closer. but somewhere.
---
Thursday, June 16, 2005
rabbit hole
"when I was growing up in germany we learned alot about the native americans---the way they would track things---put their ear to the ground to listen to the earth---then when I came here I asked- 'where are all the natives?' someone told me 'they're on reservations.' so I asked, 'what the hell is a reservation?'"
sometimes my job is to listen. verbalizing is how some people work through things. many kinds of things. you see, the body and mind are of the same essence. closely intertwined. you may believe that. you may not. either way- it's true. I see it firsthand. and I hear it as well. and the more I hear, the younger I feel, because I realize how simple my life is compared to many others'.
looking up at the ceiling, her old rugged face pushed itself into a pensive frown. the many lines on it folded inward deeply, making way for an expression that seemed to have taken up all of her waking lifetime. "this place will never be right---never..."
she talked more: about racism in the US in a post world war II society (she married a 'negro'), and being a german citizen at the end of the war. "I walked up onto a hill and looked at the sky and said- 'never. ever. will I be patriotic. or believe a government.' they'll tell you- 'oh, we have to go to war.' and they'll make it sound like a good idea."
she afforded herself a laugh. "oh, why am I telling you this?" I imagined it was linked to bitterness. or that's what my gut told me. I could feel it. triggering memories stored in tissues, twinges of blocked emotional responses making anchor throughout the body. unresolved regret has many deep roots. but I'm really not very good at explaining these things. I talk too much as it is. besides, we all know it's true inside. so I kept it simple.
"it's interesting", I said, a sincere smile making it's way across my face. and I continued listening. she smiled back. and for a moment, as I stared into the dark clouds billowing throughout her pupils, I imagined a light in her eyes- a flash of happiness. just a flicker. very briefly.
---
sometimes my job is to listen. verbalizing is how some people work through things. many kinds of things. you see, the body and mind are of the same essence. closely intertwined. you may believe that. you may not. either way- it's true. I see it firsthand. and I hear it as well. and the more I hear, the younger I feel, because I realize how simple my life is compared to many others'.
looking up at the ceiling, her old rugged face pushed itself into a pensive frown. the many lines on it folded inward deeply, making way for an expression that seemed to have taken up all of her waking lifetime. "this place will never be right---never..."
she talked more: about racism in the US in a post world war II society (she married a 'negro'), and being a german citizen at the end of the war. "I walked up onto a hill and looked at the sky and said- 'never. ever. will I be patriotic. or believe a government.' they'll tell you- 'oh, we have to go to war.' and they'll make it sound like a good idea."
she afforded herself a laugh. "oh, why am I telling you this?" I imagined it was linked to bitterness. or that's what my gut told me. I could feel it. triggering memories stored in tissues, twinges of blocked emotional responses making anchor throughout the body. unresolved regret has many deep roots. but I'm really not very good at explaining these things. I talk too much as it is. besides, we all know it's true inside. so I kept it simple.
"it's interesting", I said, a sincere smile making it's way across my face. and I continued listening. she smiled back. and for a moment, as I stared into the dark clouds billowing throughout her pupils, I imagined a light in her eyes- a flash of happiness. just a flicker. very briefly.
---
Tuesday, June 14, 2005
from the cyclades to ramstein
"save it, my friend- for special occasions." nico is an expert in ouzo. he's from an island where he swears by it, and his trusty mp3 player, to keep him company on one of the most beautiful beaches in the world. and I'm invited to join him. "playing pool with you is a special occasion, nico", I reply, taking another plug from the bottle of mataxa in my right hand. "that's right, my friend. build a tolerance. you will need it."
inside the house, moshoula and beth are talking about our travel plans and frisking through beth's swimsuits. both women move with graceful determination. and both talk with a confidently sweet potency, moshoula being just a little more combustible. she's an artist- and a total socialist. naturally, we get along great.
"you can make alot of money selling vinyl in greece, my friend." nico eyes over my records, noting he 'payed alot' for several of them- while I bought them at bargain prices at garage sales, goodwill, and record stores. "have you heard this one?", I ask, motioning toward joni mitchel 'blue'. he shakes his head. soon I follow with another question: "you can hear the influence on tori amos- huh?" "yes", he replies with a smile.
and I'm thinking about my brother, who lives in germany. he has a car we can borrow if we want to drive places- like paris, for example. we've never been to europe- and both of us wish to go everywhere. I just don't know how much time we'll have. we want to take the train from munich to frankfurt. and I prefer quality over quantity. I like to smell the roses. or whatever flower it is adorning the side of the road. and, of course, there's always next year. and the year after.
"once you guys get on the island you're not going to want to leave." moshoula warns. and with that, our friends are out the door and into another mild portland evening. they will walk three blocks home and pack. it's doubtful we'll see them again until august. and the anticipation is starting to become a flavor in my mouth. or maybe that's just the ouzo.
---
inside the house, moshoula and beth are talking about our travel plans and frisking through beth's swimsuits. both women move with graceful determination. and both talk with a confidently sweet potency, moshoula being just a little more combustible. she's an artist- and a total socialist. naturally, we get along great.
"you can make alot of money selling vinyl in greece, my friend." nico eyes over my records, noting he 'payed alot' for several of them- while I bought them at bargain prices at garage sales, goodwill, and record stores. "have you heard this one?", I ask, motioning toward joni mitchel 'blue'. he shakes his head. soon I follow with another question: "you can hear the influence on tori amos- huh?" "yes", he replies with a smile.
and I'm thinking about my brother, who lives in germany. he has a car we can borrow if we want to drive places- like paris, for example. we've never been to europe- and both of us wish to go everywhere. I just don't know how much time we'll have. we want to take the train from munich to frankfurt. and I prefer quality over quantity. I like to smell the roses. or whatever flower it is adorning the side of the road. and, of course, there's always next year. and the year after.
"once you guys get on the island you're not going to want to leave." moshoula warns. and with that, our friends are out the door and into another mild portland evening. they will walk three blocks home and pack. it's doubtful we'll see them again until august. and the anticipation is starting to become a flavor in my mouth. or maybe that's just the ouzo.
---
