The reason I can't see it coming is because it is here. Episode III is upon us in 48 hours.
I will be going to Fort Collins to see the midnight show. I might be lining up as early as noon for my seat. Tickets have been in hand for almost 3 weeks. I will have a chair, food, drink, book, and especially a camera to document the people in costume. Hopefully, I will get a good picture of the line to put up on the blog. I will definitely post my fanboyish review of the film in the days to follow.
For a longtime Star Wars fan, it is hard to believe that the Saga will be complete this week. As the following hours tick off the clock that realization will sink in and I will be giddy.
Camera to take pictures of fellow Star Wars geeks...check.
Chair so I don't have to stand for 12 hours...check.
Prepared for hours upon hours of Star Wars talk in line...check.
Voice in good enough condition to yell when the crawl hits the screen...check.
Counting the hours now...check.
Goosebumps thinking about the movie trailer...check.
Prepared to be enlightened...check.
One geek ready to shed a tear at one hopefully amazing Episode III...CHECK.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
Back at Home
The Jackson trip was cut short due to bad weather and road closures inside Yellowstone. We got to see Jackson and some of the Tetons, but just their bottom, unexciting half. We did eat at a few good restaurants and were lucky enough to nab a couple pieces of pizza from a family that left their table without finishing their dishes. The two pieces were a great appetizer before the main dish.
Anyway, I am back home in Colorado and will not have my own computer set up for a few days. I need to move my summer stuff down here from UW and that will take a while to set up. I will post more once I get situated here and figure out what exactly I will be doing this summer to earn some money. Any great ideas?
Anyway, I am back home in Colorado and will not have my own computer set up for a few days. I need to move my summer stuff down here from UW and that will take a while to set up. I will post more once I get situated here and figure out what exactly I will be doing this summer to earn some money. Any great ideas?
Friday, May 06, 2005
Laramie, Wyoming - May 6, 2005
The Ferrari 360 Modena is a rare thing in Laramie, so I felt inspired to have my picture taken by it today and to share this beautiful event with as many people as possible.
Also, I am going to Jackson for a few days and there won't be any new posts for a while. Thanks for visiting.
Four Dollar Conversation
***This is loosely based on a conversation I had with my girlfriend once***
“What the hell? You just bought that?” he said.
“What?” Kate said.
“The freaking Pillsbury pie cookbook. It cost four dollars,” he said.
“Yes, I did just buy that and I think it was worth it.”
They learned so much in Automatic Millionaire about how to save hundreds of dollars a year by eliminating such worthless purchases. “Automatic Millionaire, Kate,” was all he said.
“Oh Bryce, get a grip. It has a lot of good recipes in it.”
“Four bucks down the drain.”
“Don’t try to make me feel bad for buying the recipe book.”
“Well, if you wanted to buy it, then fine, but it was a spur of the moment purchase and a stupid one, one that you certainly didn’t think much about.” It wasn’t his four dollars. What did he care?
“Bryce, I am going to have this for the rest of my life. Four dollars spread out over the rest of my life isn’t bad.” That thing was not going to last four years. It was ten flimsy pages, stapled twice, and folded in half.
“I’ll give it a few years. Then…sayonara,” he said.
“I am glad I bought it, and you are going to be glad I bought it when I bake you some pie.”
He grabbed the book and thumbed through the pages. “Ahhh, the pictures don’t look too good Kate. Look at this Sweet Potato Pie. It looks like molded puke.”
“Gross Bryce! Just give it up will you?”
“No, I won’t. You know how many random four dollar purchases you could make in a lifetime if you keep on going like this? Let’s say…one crazy, four dollar purchase a week. That is sixteen bucks a month…one-hundred and ninety-two a year. Add that up and put it in a mutual fund with ten percent annual interest. WOW!”
Okay people, Kate thought, he really isn’t this crazy all the time. “Look at this one, you would like it. It has strawberries and blueberries. Tell me you wouldn’t like that?”
“I wouldn’t like blueberries with strawberries, just strawberries. And look at this, cranberry tartlets? Are you kidding me? Tartlets? They just made that word up for this recipe book,” he said.
“It is a word, Bryce.”
“Oh, well, ya know what I mean? A word that is used once a year when couples are arguing about the Pillsbury Pie Recipe Book.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“The word is as useless as the four-dollar cookbook.”
“We will see about that. I am going to make the chocolate mousse cheesecake when we get back to your place.”
“Fine.”
“What the hell? You just bought that?” he said.
“What?” Kate said.
“The freaking Pillsbury pie cookbook. It cost four dollars,” he said.
“Yes, I did just buy that and I think it was worth it.”
They learned so much in Automatic Millionaire about how to save hundreds of dollars a year by eliminating such worthless purchases. “Automatic Millionaire, Kate,” was all he said.
“Oh Bryce, get a grip. It has a lot of good recipes in it.”
“Four bucks down the drain.”
“Don’t try to make me feel bad for buying the recipe book.”
“Well, if you wanted to buy it, then fine, but it was a spur of the moment purchase and a stupid one, one that you certainly didn’t think much about.” It wasn’t his four dollars. What did he care?
“Bryce, I am going to have this for the rest of my life. Four dollars spread out over the rest of my life isn’t bad.” That thing was not going to last four years. It was ten flimsy pages, stapled twice, and folded in half.
“I’ll give it a few years. Then…sayonara,” he said.
“I am glad I bought it, and you are going to be glad I bought it when I bake you some pie.”
He grabbed the book and thumbed through the pages. “Ahhh, the pictures don’t look too good Kate. Look at this Sweet Potato Pie. It looks like molded puke.”
“Gross Bryce! Just give it up will you?”
“No, I won’t. You know how many random four dollar purchases you could make in a lifetime if you keep on going like this? Let’s say…one crazy, four dollar purchase a week. That is sixteen bucks a month…one-hundred and ninety-two a year. Add that up and put it in a mutual fund with ten percent annual interest. WOW!”
Okay people, Kate thought, he really isn’t this crazy all the time. “Look at this one, you would like it. It has strawberries and blueberries. Tell me you wouldn’t like that?”
“I wouldn’t like blueberries with strawberries, just strawberries. And look at this, cranberry tartlets? Are you kidding me? Tartlets? They just made that word up for this recipe book,” he said.
“It is a word, Bryce.”
“Oh, well, ya know what I mean? A word that is used once a year when couples are arguing about the Pillsbury Pie Recipe Book.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“The word is as useless as the four-dollar cookbook.”
“We will see about that. I am going to make the chocolate mousse cheesecake when we get back to your place.”
“Fine.”
Thursday, May 05, 2005
That Splinter
Have you ever had this feeling that someone was lying to you, but you pushed it aside because this person wouldn't lie? It's a familiar feeling, but how often have you been right? This splinter was planted in me years ago by one person and my own suspicion. I return to it less and less as time goes by, but what if...what if that person wasn't lying to me? Sure, they lied a lot, it has been proven, but what if what they said that one time wasn't a lie? That would mean my actions have been heard...like I wanted them to be. The problem is, that something has happened since this person told me this and I can't trust what is said anymore by this person. So, I will never know the truth. A thought...I know I am not alone here.
Monday, May 02, 2005
A ring for the...
The Ring
I gave four years of my life to swimming at UW; was made to wear the same shirt for a week; tried to drink a gallon of whole milk in an hour; drank a boot mug full of black velvet whiskey; woke up at 5:40 am four days a week; practiced 20 hours a week; practiced Saturday mornings; took it easy on Friday nights because of Saturday morning workout; studied on the clock; glared at happy people at 5:40 am; rode in crappy buses with no leg room; and while we are on the topic of buses, put up with ridiculous movies during road trips; made friends; lost friends; put on wet speedos at 5:50 am; walked in the early morning, when it was below zero, to the pool so I could jump in; swam miles after miles; lived under suffocating rules, under a suffocating coach; had short Thanksgiving breaks; had short Christmas breaks; had to swim on New Year's Day; had to share a room for two college guys with four other people; put my 6'9" frame on a pullout bed for a week; spent my vacations swimming; had to see people hurt and pushed to the wayside by a coach; spent hours talking to those people; swam and lifted during finals week at 6 am; had very limited free time; acted like I was happy with the situation at times; listened to a lot of lies; saw a team left in the dark after someone quit; was treated like a 12-year-old; wanted to quit so many times; saw favorites move to seconds, to thirds, and out; was grateful for a minute away from it all; got disconnected with friends; wondered what everyone else was doing; ran stairs at War Memorial at 7,220 ft; ran 5ks before swimming 3ks; dressed in a locker room built to house ten with twenty other guys; smelled like chlorine; skin turned to scales; went to BYU to swim; got beat; lied; took naps whenever I could; thought I wasn't going to make it to the end, even with six weeks to go; won; cried; laughed; smiled; swam as a Cowboy; was proud; screamed after my best swim; cheered for teammates; saw the end of many swimming careers; wondered about the end of mine; cried with my parents when it came; was thankful, happy, sad, serious, and was in awe; and all I got was this ring.
Saturday, April 30, 2005
Hero in Hiding
Just a few entries ago I wrote about collaborations between writers and composers. Here is a brief description of my collaboration with a composer.
This collaboration was designed as a work for children. We wanted something along the lines of Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf set in a modern urban environment. The Hero in Hiding is a simple story about a hero who rescues a young boy and will always be remembered for his bravery and humility. The goal of the composer was to accentuate and complement the text. He chose instruments that would be found in a jazz ensemble and wrote for them in a jazz-like style that would be fun for a younger audience to listen to. - L.W. and B.P.
This collaboration was designed as a work for children. We wanted something along the lines of Prokofiev's Peter and the Wolf set in a modern urban environment. The Hero in Hiding is a simple story about a hero who rescues a young boy and will always be remembered for his bravery and humility. The goal of the composer was to accentuate and complement the text. He chose instruments that would be found in a jazz ensemble and wrote for them in a jazz-like style that would be fun for a younger audience to listen to. - L.W. and B.P.
The Hero in Hiding
The hero leapt from building to building. By his definition, the night had been calm except for some petty criminals.
The robber, whose incompetence was the roadblock to a successful criminal career, was an easy catch.
And the fight he stopped. He thought as alley after alley passed beneath him, people always fight; it is in their nature to try to bring each other down. The robber will never understand this. He wished his job didn’t have to exist, but there will always be the next hero.
A fight far below him in an alley brought him back to reality. He saw a large man standing over someone. He swooped down with ease and once he was closer he could see the person being beaten. He was a young man, very close to the age in which he was found by his hero.
The brute towered above the boy, throwing punches in a great downward arc. The hero was moving as fast as he could toward the brute, but he didn’t get there before the hard fists of the brute had plunged deep into the boys face.
The brute saw the leg out of the corner of his eye and caught the hero’s foot in his hand. The brute’s hand engulfed the foot. The boy’s rescuer didn’t underestimate his villain though. The hero quickly bounded to his feet and threw the first punch to knock the brute away from the boy. He shouted, “Run!”
The boy ran, but not far. He wanted to see his hero in action. A crowd had amassed at the end of the alley to watch the spectacle. They yelled at the boy to move further away from the fight, but he longed to see goodness prevail. His hero threw punch after punch into the brute, but the size of the man was great, he threatened people solely with his towering frame.
The two fought for a long time. They traded punches and kicks. The hero was wearing the brute down, he slumped in exhaustion and his fist no longer traveled forward with that intense power.
The boy saw his hero step back a few feet. He leaped toward the brute and was above him when he brought his foot across the man’s face. The two men collapsed in a tumbled mess.
The boy ran to his hero, he had been slashed by a knife and was badly hurt. The boy was determined to help his weakened hero up.
Together, the boy and his savior helped each other to the end of the alley where the crowd stood cheering for the hero. Now with his hero by his side, the boy walked out of the darkness of the alley and was hugged by many strangers and friends. He turned to see his rescuer, but he had vanished from the spotlight, like a true hero should.
The robber, whose incompetence was the roadblock to a successful criminal career, was an easy catch.
And the fight he stopped. He thought as alley after alley passed beneath him, people always fight; it is in their nature to try to bring each other down. The robber will never understand this. He wished his job didn’t have to exist, but there will always be the next hero.
A fight far below him in an alley brought him back to reality. He saw a large man standing over someone. He swooped down with ease and once he was closer he could see the person being beaten. He was a young man, very close to the age in which he was found by his hero.
The brute towered above the boy, throwing punches in a great downward arc. The hero was moving as fast as he could toward the brute, but he didn’t get there before the hard fists of the brute had plunged deep into the boys face.
The brute saw the leg out of the corner of his eye and caught the hero’s foot in his hand. The brute’s hand engulfed the foot. The boy’s rescuer didn’t underestimate his villain though. The hero quickly bounded to his feet and threw the first punch to knock the brute away from the boy. He shouted, “Run!”
The boy ran, but not far. He wanted to see his hero in action. A crowd had amassed at the end of the alley to watch the spectacle. They yelled at the boy to move further away from the fight, but he longed to see goodness prevail. His hero threw punch after punch into the brute, but the size of the man was great, he threatened people solely with his towering frame.
The two fought for a long time. They traded punches and kicks. The hero was wearing the brute down, he slumped in exhaustion and his fist no longer traveled forward with that intense power.
The boy saw his hero step back a few feet. He leaped toward the brute and was above him when he brought his foot across the man’s face. The two men collapsed in a tumbled mess.
The boy ran to his hero, he had been slashed by a knife and was badly hurt. The boy was determined to help his weakened hero up.
Together, the boy and his savior helped each other to the end of the alley where the crowd stood cheering for the hero. Now with his hero by his side, the boy walked out of the darkness of the alley and was hugged by many strangers and friends. He turned to see his rescuer, but he had vanished from the spotlight, like a true hero should.
Friday, April 29, 2005
Tickets
For whoever reads this blog, I had to share my excitement with you because I bought my Star Wars Episode III: Revenge of the Sith tickets for the 12:01 midnight showing. I am not ashamed to be called a Star Wars geek.
May the Force be with you...
May the Force be with you...
The Beginning
I wrote this in the fall. It's a memory of how I found the sport that molded me for 13 years.
It’s hard to go back to the beginning, back to where it all started. Sometimes I have a hard time remembering how I got here, to this pool, to this sport, to this school, but I do know it was an innocent beginning and it will be a joyous end.
I was seven when I heard the plans for a pool just up the street from my family’s apartment in Princeton had been set in stone. My Dad had one more year of classes, and I thought great, the pool will be done in a week or so and it will be mine to enjoy for a whole year. The indoor pool didn’t spring up out of the ground like I magically expected it to, but it was finished in time to test the waters.
The pool was just a few minutes walk up Emmons Drive. My family lived in married-student housing apartment buildings. Our second story apartment faced another brick and cinderblock building. Between the two apartment buildings was an expanse of grass that proved to be great socializing grounds for all the families of Emmons Drive. Behind our building was a large parking lot and from there you could see the indoor pool silhouetted against the woods that, seemed to me, to surround the entire residential area, but they were actually only on one side.
My first trips to the pool were with my parents and my best friend, Ben. Ben and I loved the new thrill that the pool gave to the neighborhood. What did we do before it was here? It was a nice building with a thin metal roof and glass doors all the way around the pool that were constantly fogged up.
At first, Ben and I spent most of our time jumping off the ledge in the deep end. The concrete at the edge of the pool curved upward and it helped us get an extra couple of inches higher before we began our descent. When we got bored with jumping we tried flips and dives, and started bringing out a tube to land on. Even at that young age I loved challenging myself, so I started swimming the width of the pool, and then the length of the pool.
The lifeguards at the pool rarely spoke and were very talented in the art of annoyance. They were either irritated with the patrons of the pool or we were aggravated with them. One of them took notice of my swimming. I can’t remember her name, but I know I liked her and her encouragement made me believe I was good at swimming. One believer was all I needed.
“I bet’cha I can swim down and back twice,” I said.
“Oh really? Well let’s see.”
I pushed off the wall and circled my arms until I achieved some propulsion. This was easy. I didn’t think of a different method. I just knew that I was making progress because I was moving forward.
The lifeguard continued to challenge me over the weeks. Sometimes she would give me a bag of candy if I swam 6, 8, or 10 lengths of the pool.
I was going to swim for as long as I wanted to and didn’t have an inkling that those small beginnings, swimming for candy, would lead me to where I am now. Swimming has changed a lot in my life in the thirteen years since my humble beginning in Princeton and it will determine my life for one more season and then my time will be invested elsewhere. Who knows where it might take me?
It’s hard to go back to the beginning, back to where it all started. Sometimes I have a hard time remembering how I got here, to this pool, to this sport, to this school, but I do know it was an innocent beginning and it will be a joyous end.
I was seven when I heard the plans for a pool just up the street from my family’s apartment in Princeton had been set in stone. My Dad had one more year of classes, and I thought great, the pool will be done in a week or so and it will be mine to enjoy for a whole year. The indoor pool didn’t spring up out of the ground like I magically expected it to, but it was finished in time to test the waters.
The pool was just a few minutes walk up Emmons Drive. My family lived in married-student housing apartment buildings. Our second story apartment faced another brick and cinderblock building. Between the two apartment buildings was an expanse of grass that proved to be great socializing grounds for all the families of Emmons Drive. Behind our building was a large parking lot and from there you could see the indoor pool silhouetted against the woods that, seemed to me, to surround the entire residential area, but they were actually only on one side.
My first trips to the pool were with my parents and my best friend, Ben. Ben and I loved the new thrill that the pool gave to the neighborhood. What did we do before it was here? It was a nice building with a thin metal roof and glass doors all the way around the pool that were constantly fogged up.
At first, Ben and I spent most of our time jumping off the ledge in the deep end. The concrete at the edge of the pool curved upward and it helped us get an extra couple of inches higher before we began our descent. When we got bored with jumping we tried flips and dives, and started bringing out a tube to land on. Even at that young age I loved challenging myself, so I started swimming the width of the pool, and then the length of the pool.
The lifeguards at the pool rarely spoke and were very talented in the art of annoyance. They were either irritated with the patrons of the pool or we were aggravated with them. One of them took notice of my swimming. I can’t remember her name, but I know I liked her and her encouragement made me believe I was good at swimming. One believer was all I needed.
“I bet’cha I can swim down and back twice,” I said.
“Oh really? Well let’s see.”
I pushed off the wall and circled my arms until I achieved some propulsion. This was easy. I didn’t think of a different method. I just knew that I was making progress because I was moving forward.
The lifeguard continued to challenge me over the weeks. Sometimes she would give me a bag of candy if I swam 6, 8, or 10 lengths of the pool.
I was going to swim for as long as I wanted to and didn’t have an inkling that those small beginnings, swimming for candy, would lead me to where I am now. Swimming has changed a lot in my life in the thirteen years since my humble beginning in Princeton and it will determine my life for one more season and then my time will be invested elsewhere. Who knows where it might take me?
Thursday, April 28, 2005
April 28, 2005
Laramie, WY - Almost May
Yes folks. It's true. Despite Wyoming being a great place, the weather just flat out sucks sometimes. So here is to a couple weeks from now...This place will have completely skipped Spring, and Summer will be raging.
Collaboration Embarrassment
Final projects in my creative writing class are collaborations with composers. The writer and composer talked about what they wanted to produce. The writer would be sent away to come up with a story, song, poem, etc. Once the writing is done, the composers wrote the music. Final projects are being presented this Saturday. However, there was a dress rehearsal first.
So, last night I was sitting in the front row of the concert hall. The first perfomance was by a writer who wrote a song that she will sing on stage with the piano music her composer wrote for her. I sat there in such anticipation that I harbored her embarrassment within me. It was such a weird feeling. She started to sing and I couldn't even look at her. I feared her screwing up possibly more than she did herself.
Anyway, her piece turned out great and I am excited to see her performance, but it got me thinking. Where else do I have this feeling? In Church. Sitting in a pew I am more nervous for the people singing than anywhere else. This nervousness wouldn't be there if I hadn't seen genuinely bad performances in church before. I have two conclusions about this feeling. First, I shouldn't even worry about something going wrong up on stage. I should be happy that people are brave enough to use what gifts they have to express themselves, and to worship God. Second, I shouldn't have to worry about people up on stage singing and not being good. I know these two points contradict each other, but not everything I say makes sense. What can I say? I'm human.
So, last night I was sitting in the front row of the concert hall. The first perfomance was by a writer who wrote a song that she will sing on stage with the piano music her composer wrote for her. I sat there in such anticipation that I harbored her embarrassment within me. It was such a weird feeling. She started to sing and I couldn't even look at her. I feared her screwing up possibly more than she did herself.
Anyway, her piece turned out great and I am excited to see her performance, but it got me thinking. Where else do I have this feeling? In Church. Sitting in a pew I am more nervous for the people singing than anywhere else. This nervousness wouldn't be there if I hadn't seen genuinely bad performances in church before. I have two conclusions about this feeling. First, I shouldn't even worry about something going wrong up on stage. I should be happy that people are brave enough to use what gifts they have to express themselves, and to worship God. Second, I shouldn't have to worry about people up on stage singing and not being good. I know these two points contradict each other, but not everything I say makes sense. What can I say? I'm human.
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
OCD
Peter hated mornings. The first thought that crossed his mind at 6 a.m. was, I always get the shitty jobs. He always got the morning shifts at Ladder Company 6 in Manhattan. Nothing ever happened in the morning. It seemed like all the rest of the guys at the station were on the exciting shifts except for him.
He walked the same path from his studio apartment on 42nd Street to the firehouse every morning; two blocks north, one block east, and two more blocks north. The walk was boring for Peter and he remembered when he used to get bored as a kid in church he would count. He was seven when he started counting the number of people with gray hair in church. He was eight when he started counting how many times he had sat in a certain pew. When he was ten, Peter graduated to counting how many pieces of glass made up the central, stain-glass window. It had been sixteen years since then and Peter still counted, but not only when boredom commanded his mood. He counted everything and now counted the blocks of cement he walked on to the way to work.
“Peter, you hear about the fire last night?” Hank said as Peter crossed into the garage from the sidewalk.
“Huh, no,” Peter said.
“Right over on forty-eighth street. It was nothing big. You didn’t miss much,” Hank said.
Hank was always polishing the trucks when Peter came in. It’s what Hank liked to do before he went home for a few hours. He was portly and his shirt became un-tucked every fifteen minutes because of his girth shifting in movement.
Peter had a soft spot for Hank because he was the only one in the house who encouraged his counting obsession.
“Hank, you’ve told me that sixty-seven times,” Peter said.
“Oh yeah? And how many days have you been working here, man?” Hank said.
“Day number four-hundred and twenty-nine right here, Hank.”
“Well, I will see you on day four-hundred and thirty because I’m outta here.”
Peter walked into the kitchen, past the long table of plates laid out for breakfast, and went to the fridge. He needed some orange juice to start off this day. He always drank in three sets of three swallows. The juice was filling his mouth for the eigth time when he heard the bell tear through the firehouse. Commotion upstairs followed and Peter dropped the orange juice and ran out to the garage. The other firefighters in the house fell more than slid down the pole in their excitement.
“C’mon Peter, let’s get going,” Gagne yelled as he slid down.
“I’m on it,” Peter answered. This was the first time an alarm had sounded this early since Peter had been on the job. He tried to keep his excitement at bay just in case it wasn’t a fire worth fighting.
Peter grabbed his gear and jumped into the rear of truck six. The cold truck soon heated up with the excitement in the air. Gagne was bouncing legs the size of tree trunks on the floor. In his nervousness Peter started counting and didn’t stop until they pulled up to an abandoned five-story building on 30th Street. Gagne’s heels hit the metal floor two-hundred and thirty-nine times until he stopped when the air brake on the truck hissed.
Peter and Gagne were inside the building with the first company and he realized this was no worthless fire. The entryway of the building was a large room that was three stories high. The fire wisped up the far wall and stretched its fingers on the ceiling almost to the roof above Peter.
“This is my second fire in a building like this,” Peter said.
“Who are you talking to Peter? Pay attention man! We have to move to the opposite side and get through that door,” Gagne ordered.
The door was fifty yards away from them. There was no debris in the way but the fire was constantly overhead. The guts of the building moaned under the contortions of the heat.
“I estimate one-hundred steps to the door,” Peter said.
“Great, let me know if you’re right when we get over there,” Gagne smirked.
“Thirty-seven, Gagne. I think I was right on the money.”
Gagne was ten yards ahead of Peter and looked back and didn’t give the laugh Peter expected, instead Gagne’s eyes darted upward. The roof was making a new noise. It was giving in to the fire. Roof tiles started to fall in between Peter and Gagne.
“Get over here Peter, quick!”
Peter started running, “Thirty-eight, thirty-nine.”
The roof shuddered and the tiles were peeling off quicker now. Gagne couldn’t see what was coming down behind the tiles until it broke through about halfway down. One side of a crossbeam had come loose and was arcing its way toward Peter. The helmet crumpled like aluminum and Peter lay prone on the cement floor.
“One,” Gagne said.
He walked the same path from his studio apartment on 42nd Street to the firehouse every morning; two blocks north, one block east, and two more blocks north. The walk was boring for Peter and he remembered when he used to get bored as a kid in church he would count. He was seven when he started counting the number of people with gray hair in church. He was eight when he started counting how many times he had sat in a certain pew. When he was ten, Peter graduated to counting how many pieces of glass made up the central, stain-glass window. It had been sixteen years since then and Peter still counted, but not only when boredom commanded his mood. He counted everything and now counted the blocks of cement he walked on to the way to work.
“Peter, you hear about the fire last night?” Hank said as Peter crossed into the garage from the sidewalk.
“Huh, no,” Peter said.
“Right over on forty-eighth street. It was nothing big. You didn’t miss much,” Hank said.
Hank was always polishing the trucks when Peter came in. It’s what Hank liked to do before he went home for a few hours. He was portly and his shirt became un-tucked every fifteen minutes because of his girth shifting in movement.
Peter had a soft spot for Hank because he was the only one in the house who encouraged his counting obsession.
“Hank, you’ve told me that sixty-seven times,” Peter said.
“Oh yeah? And how many days have you been working here, man?” Hank said.
“Day number four-hundred and twenty-nine right here, Hank.”
“Well, I will see you on day four-hundred and thirty because I’m outta here.”
Peter walked into the kitchen, past the long table of plates laid out for breakfast, and went to the fridge. He needed some orange juice to start off this day. He always drank in three sets of three swallows. The juice was filling his mouth for the eigth time when he heard the bell tear through the firehouse. Commotion upstairs followed and Peter dropped the orange juice and ran out to the garage. The other firefighters in the house fell more than slid down the pole in their excitement.
“C’mon Peter, let’s get going,” Gagne yelled as he slid down.
“I’m on it,” Peter answered. This was the first time an alarm had sounded this early since Peter had been on the job. He tried to keep his excitement at bay just in case it wasn’t a fire worth fighting.
Peter grabbed his gear and jumped into the rear of truck six. The cold truck soon heated up with the excitement in the air. Gagne was bouncing legs the size of tree trunks on the floor. In his nervousness Peter started counting and didn’t stop until they pulled up to an abandoned five-story building on 30th Street. Gagne’s heels hit the metal floor two-hundred and thirty-nine times until he stopped when the air brake on the truck hissed.
Peter and Gagne were inside the building with the first company and he realized this was no worthless fire. The entryway of the building was a large room that was three stories high. The fire wisped up the far wall and stretched its fingers on the ceiling almost to the roof above Peter.
“This is my second fire in a building like this,” Peter said.
“Who are you talking to Peter? Pay attention man! We have to move to the opposite side and get through that door,” Gagne ordered.
The door was fifty yards away from them. There was no debris in the way but the fire was constantly overhead. The guts of the building moaned under the contortions of the heat.
“I estimate one-hundred steps to the door,” Peter said.
“Great, let me know if you’re right when we get over there,” Gagne smirked.
“Thirty-seven, Gagne. I think I was right on the money.”
Gagne was ten yards ahead of Peter and looked back and didn’t give the laugh Peter expected, instead Gagne’s eyes darted upward. The roof was making a new noise. It was giving in to the fire. Roof tiles started to fall in between Peter and Gagne.
“Get over here Peter, quick!”
Peter started running, “Thirty-eight, thirty-nine.”
The roof shuddered and the tiles were peeling off quicker now. Gagne couldn’t see what was coming down behind the tiles until it broke through about halfway down. One side of a crossbeam had come loose and was arcing its way toward Peter. The helmet crumpled like aluminum and Peter lay prone on the cement floor.
“One,” Gagne said.
Monday, April 25, 2005
Su Casa, Alexander, and Today
If you ever find yourself driving along on that desolate stretch of I-80 in Wyoming, do yourself a favor and stop at Su Casa. What? You have been there? So you know that tiny Mexican restaurant in Sinclair, Wyoming? I hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Su Casa is no bigger than a dorm room, but it packs a punch. The chips are burning hot when they come to your table and the salsa doesn't look much better than Pace, but it is mysteriously good. I go with the Taquitos. They come with a liberal serving of guacamole that makes you wonder...Is it possible to have guacamole like this in the middle of Wyoming? The service is quick and the food is gone in a flash. You find yourself back on the street in Sinclair, wondering how you got there, in awe of that small building that houses such giant satisfaction.
Collin Ferrell in Alexander, is horrid. I made the mistake of seeing this movie. I left after the first 50 minutes and got a full refund for my ticket. I did get to see Ferrell in that fruittastic headpiece, trying so hard to be Mel Gibson in Braveheart.
I once calculated that the time I spent swimming the 50 free, my event, is 1/80,000 of the time I spend in the water during a whole swim season.
The Today Show, I can't stand The Today Show. My favorite is when Katie Couric says, "But first, this is today," before every commercial break. They couldn't think of a better line? Even the Today Show commercials are horrible. One commercial names the major four people on the show and then proudly proclaims them as "America's First Family." Please!!! They aren't my first family, and I hope they aren't yours either.
Collin Ferrell in Alexander, is horrid. I made the mistake of seeing this movie. I left after the first 50 minutes and got a full refund for my ticket. I did get to see Ferrell in that fruittastic headpiece, trying so hard to be Mel Gibson in Braveheart.
I once calculated that the time I spent swimming the 50 free, my event, is 1/80,000 of the time I spend in the water during a whole swim season.
The Today Show, I can't stand The Today Show. My favorite is when Katie Couric says, "But first, this is today," before every commercial break. They couldn't think of a better line? Even the Today Show commercials are horrible. One commercial names the major four people on the show and then proudly proclaims them as "America's First Family." Please!!! They aren't my first family, and I hope they aren't yours either.
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Some Distant, Some Near
The field had absorbed the last snow quickly and the sun had dried the ground so it wasn’t too soggy for a game of football. I sat down on the steps leading down to the drop-off zone for the buses and watched the game. I would occasionally play and I was damn good at running…if I caught the ball. I had developed a reputation of not being able to catch and had been named “Butterfingers” by the popular kids at school who busied themselves with bringing down everyone they knew.
I soon got bored with the football game—I didn’t want to play today. I might have had some fun, but then it would have ended and so would my freedom with another chime from the speaker. I looked across the street, through the park, and onto passing cars. I walked down to the sidewalk and stared at my bike and thought of Trey, my best friend and next-door neighbor. He was one year older than me and now went to the high school in town. He was getting out of school right now because he didn’t have a class the last block of the day. He would probably zoom by any minute if I kept looking at the street. The thought of hopping on my bike and riding to his house crossed my mind. I could spend the rest of the afternoon with my best friend and miss a couple of classes. I had never skipped school, but I had a good reason to try it this one time. No one would notice.
My classmates would probably think I was going for a brief ride. I would pass from sight and they would never notice whether I came back. I untangled my bike lock and coiled it around the stem of my bike seat. I looked behind me while I was straddling the bike to make sure no one was watching and pushed off with one leg. The first pedals were hard; someone was going to see me, they were going to tell, and I was going to get in trouble. But having a great afternoon with my best friend was a lot more tempting than two more hours of school—I sped off.
The bike ride passed quickly because I was distracted. The anticipation of the afternoon’s fun was building. Trey and I didn’t have to do much of anything to have fun, so I knew we would. On the way home, I rode through a couple of intersections and couldn’t remember if the light was green or red. I pulled up to the side of my garage and leaned my bike up against the house. I walked across the gravel side yard and into the grass that neatly lined all sides of Trey’s house. Crouching down next to the basement window well I could see Trey in front of the TV. He spent all his time in the basement when he was home and sure enough he was sitting cross-legged in front of his old TV framed by cheap wooden paneling. He was playing his Nintendo and the glow from the TV danced across his face, his nose casting a pointed shadow back to his ear. I reached out over the window well, making sure I didn’t fall in, and tapped the window. The window well scared me because of the huge wolf spiders that lived in them. I had this fear of falling into the hole and being eaten alive by spiders, their hairy legs all around me. Trey didn’t turn around before he bolted up the stairs to come to the door; he always knew it was me. I was the only one who tapped on this window.
I walked around the front of his house past the great window that looked into the living room. I could hear his loud steps up the stairs. He skipped two, maybe three steps with each lunge and made a racket that his mom couldn’t stand. Trey opened the door with a startled look on his face. His hair billowed upward in uniform waves that jerked when he gave a cautious look back into the house.
“Trey!” His mom’s yell escaped the house just as Trey slid out and shut the door behind him.
“What’s that all about?” I said.
“Nothing, she wants me to do my homework now,” Trey replied.
“So…nothing serious then. Phew! Thought she was going to chase after us there for a second.”
The lawns in our neighborhood were not fenced so Trey and I began walking from his front yard to my backyard.
“Wait, aren’t you supposed to be at school?” Trey said.
“Yeah, I ditched. I don’t know what got into me today. I couldn’t take anymore classes after Algebra. Just wanted that part of my day to be over.”
“That’s fine with me,” Trey said.
“I knew it would be.”
We jumped on my trampoline and I tried to bounce Trey higher than ever. I was getting big enough that I couldn’t jump too high without hitting the ground through the trampoline—that stung a little. We jumped for an hour and then mimicked the wrestling moves we had seen on TV earlier in the week. We were pretty good at them and we should have been because Trey and I watched six hours of wrestling per week. We also had plenty of time to practice because Trey and I didn’t concern ourselves with homework. We would try homework, but we had too much energy back then and couldn’t take our minds away from our own fun for more than ten minutes.
Eventually we got bored and picked some crab apples from a tree in Trey’s yard. Our backyards faced a busy residential street that our old elementary school was on. The fence lined the backyards of the houses that faced the street. Trey and I each got a handful of crab apples. I stood at an angle to the fence so I could see, through the slats of the wooden planks, the next car that was coming up the street. We launched our handfuls over the fence. The car didn’t stop. We continued hitting car after car. There were a few boring people who kept on driving after we drilled them, but finally one car stopped right in the middle of the road.
“Run like hell,” Trey yelled.
“Good idea, dude.” I took off after him because he was the faster runner. He led the way to the front yard between our houses. From there we could hear the driver’s door slam, like he had stepped out to chase after us. We quickly caught our breath before walking to the end of the cul-de-sac. We took a few steps toward the corner of the fence and saw the car through the slats. A man was slowly driving up the street toward us.
“Go, go, go! He’s right there!” I yelled. We cut through backyards, jumping over shrubs, and rocks, and dodging through trees. The trampoline was a soft place to land. We stood up in time to see the driver turn the corner.
“That was a close call, Trey.”
“I know. He almost got us.”
We lay on the trampoline on opposite ends so we wouldn’t slide toward the middle where the trampoline would sag. When my family moved into this house we planted a small maple tree in the backyard and it had grown tremendously over the years. The maple now gave Trey and me shade from the hot afternoon sun and prevented the trampoline’s surface from being uncomfortably hot to touch. Before we hunkered down for the night with thirty blankets we made sure the trampoline rested under the maple tree so it would shade us from the streetlight. In a few years the maple was big enough to keep the light out from my parents second story bedroom.
The next five minutes passed in silence. We caught our breath. I stared at the clouds rolling across the sky and followed a rare maple leaf that had been brushed off by the rustling of the branches in the wind, fall down in-between us. Trey’s serious face caught me by surprise.
“We’re moving, Brian,” Trey said.
I took it in before I replied. He must not have known an easier way to break the news and it was impossible to break it lightly.
“Uhh…you are?” Silence.
“Yep, I would have told you sooner but I’ve been dreading this conversation with you because there’s no way to make it easy.”
“Well, no there isn’t. Where to? And why?”
“My Dad found a new job in some town about an hour south of here.” We had both returned to our backs, too afraid to face each other and the truth.
“That sucks. Well, what I mean is that sucks for you and us…good for your dad. When are you moving?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks, Trey? That’s so soon. You haven’t even put the house up for sale.”
“I know. My parents have already found renters and they closed on the new house last week.”
There was nothing I could say that would make Trey stay here, living next to me. I wanted it to be a lie, but I could see a tear sliding down his cheek. I rolled over on my stomach and elbows. My head drooped and I paid ridiculous attention to the blades of grass through the tarp of the trampoline, trying so hard to wish this away. My tears ran down my nose, falling to the trampoline. Our silence thickened the air. I sorted through my memories of Trey. I feared not having anyone to talk to. Who was I going to cause mischief with? When were we ever going to practice our new wrestling moves? When were we going to see each other again after he moved? And the years left of high school…I badly wanted to experience those with Trey. The double dates we could have gone on, the proms, and graduation parties. Those years now expanded in front of me, endless on the horizon. Each remaining year of high school was going to feel like a decade.
I wasn’t wise enough to enjoy the time we had left as neighbors and friends. To me, this news meant Trey was going to die in two weeks. Sixty miles away is just the same as a thousand miles away when you don’t have cars.
I think I’m heading inside, Brian,” Trey said as he rolled off his side of the trampoline. I expected him to break the silence with that, but I couldn’t tell if that was an open invitation for me to follow or not, so I just lay still.
“Okay, see ya later, man.” Maybe if I weaned Trey off like some bad habit it would make the move easier for the both of us.
I was foolish then. I should have spent as much time with Trey as possible over those weeks, but I didn’t.
Over the next few months Trey and I managed to see each other almost every weekend, but that was only through the summer. We got distracted from our friendship when school started. Our visits were mostly around holidays or three-day weekends when we had a lot of time on our hands.
The visits we had were less and less eventful. We always seemed to be reminiscing about what it was like when we lived next to each other. We tried wrestling on the trampoline, even threw crab apples at buses leaving the elementary school, but we weren’t into it like before. The experiences Trey and I had, the things we did, made any time apart insignificant because they could bring the closeness back, but whenever conversation shifted to the present I felt disengaged. We couldn’t achieve the comfortable level of friendship we had before by reminiscing about our experiences. We needed originality and it was not to be found by either one of us.
After one visit I realized that we would never have enough time to fully catch-up. Trey would always have friends I didn’t know, and I would always be involved in activities that he would never hear the details of, even if we had a week together. That wasn’t enough time to establish familiarity again. I thought Trey and I were living the same life. It was easy to think that because we liked the same stuff, thought the same stuff, and did the same stuff. Now it seems like they were always separate when I look back on those years.
* * *
Seven years later I find myself in a similar situation. College brought many new experiences and friends, but I didn’t expect it to bring a friend that I cherished as much as I had cherished Trey. Zvika is three years older than I and graduated a year ahead of me. I had accepted the fact that when I went to college I would have friends from all over the country, but Zvika is from Israel.
The morning before I took Zvika to the airport one last time, I lie on my bed and shuffled through the memories of my friend. For years I had confided in him all my internal struggles. The first year we lived in the same hall. I often walked down a few doors to his room to vent my frustration with life. He helped me through relationships with girls, or the lack thereof. I would lie on my floor staring at my ceiling after a girl rejected me. I busied myself with finding faces in the drywall pattern until Zvika came into my room and talked things over. He had served three years in the Israeli army before coming overseas. I always thought of him as being more experienced. I respected my elders, so I expected Zvika’s advice to be good. He had been through a long distance relationship with his girlfriend for years; I admired that, so I listened. In return, I offered up what little advice I had for him and occasionally I would correct his English.
I swung my legs over the side of my bed, waking my tired eyes for this day. On my trip to the bathroom I stopped and looked at the door Zvika slept behind.
My home was Zvika’s home away from home. He had joined us for Thanksgiving breaks and Easter breaks. He had been there when my family surprised me with a Nissan Maxima one morning. My mom took snapshots of us the first time we got in the car—smiles from ear to ear. My family took him in, welcomed and enjoyed his presence.
Before Zvika flew home to Israel this morning, he spent one last night in my parent’s house. I expected it to be a profound night, but just because someone is leaving doesn’t mean something magical is going to happen. We sat around and drank Coronas while watching Sportscenter. ESPN was a luxury we didn’t have at our apartment.
I knocked on Zvika’s door, opening it up to see him sprawled on top of the covers. “Hey, you ready?” I said.
“What time is it?”
“5:30. There’s a clock right there.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll be down shortly.”
“Alright, see you then.” I shut the door. Just like last night I had expected something great to happen, I expected our last conversations to be profound, but by now I know it is our friendships that make the everyday talks memorable.
My parents weren’t up yet, they had said goodbye to Zvika last night. I stood at the top of the stairs leaning over the banister listening to their goodbyes. I thought if I didn’t see it, I wouldn’t cry myself, but I did. Unlike my last weeks with Trey, I had spent as much time with Zvika as possible. I had known this day would come for three years. The brevity of friendships forces you to treasure them. I had learned that much from Trey, but you couldn’t learn to make these departures easy and I feared that most this morning.
“No breakfast?” I said to Zvika as he hauled his suitcase down the stairs.
“Nope, no time.”
“Okay, it’s up to you.” Zvika had always obsessed about being on time, and on time for him was early.
The drive to the airport was long; I had a lot of time to determine when I should give Zvika his letter. I had tried to write everything I felt, but it just turned out to be a jumbled mess. Finding the exact words that would encapsulate my emotion was impossible, this was a feeling that I couldn’t write about, at least not yet, maybe never.
I drove intently so it looked like I was too busy to talk. Zvika wasn’t saying anything either. The rift in our friendship was on the horizon. We silently cowered before it, afraid to take the next step on this journey.
“Man, I am glad you shipped all your other stuff home,” I said as I lifted Zvika’s suitcase out of the trunk.
“Got everything?”
“Hope so.” I could see tears in his eyes. Mine soon flooded with their own.
I hugged him tightly, trying to remind myself that I would see him again, but this was the end for this stage in our friendship. Backing off, I held out my hand to give him the letter.
He looked confused. “What’s this?”
“You’ll see,” I said.
I held out my hand for a parting handshake and Zvika firmly grasped it.
“Goodbye, my friend,” I said.
“Until next time.”
I laughed and stood on the edge of the curb leaning up against my car. Zvika turned and walked into the terminal. The tinted automatic doors shut behind him and he was gone.
It was silent in my car, absent of Zvika’s boisterous voice and joyful laugh. I thought of all the laughs we had shared then. The drive home was hard. I started to reminisce about the times with Zvika, the parties, the trips home, but mostly the conversations. We knew each other so well. I didn’t worry so much as to who would take his place like I did after Trey left. I knew no one would ever take his place, just as no one had replaced Trey. There would be another great friend down the road, but Zvika and Trey were now memories, some distant, some near.
I soon got bored with the football game—I didn’t want to play today. I might have had some fun, but then it would have ended and so would my freedom with another chime from the speaker. I looked across the street, through the park, and onto passing cars. I walked down to the sidewalk and stared at my bike and thought of Trey, my best friend and next-door neighbor. He was one year older than me and now went to the high school in town. He was getting out of school right now because he didn’t have a class the last block of the day. He would probably zoom by any minute if I kept looking at the street. The thought of hopping on my bike and riding to his house crossed my mind. I could spend the rest of the afternoon with my best friend and miss a couple of classes. I had never skipped school, but I had a good reason to try it this one time. No one would notice.
My classmates would probably think I was going for a brief ride. I would pass from sight and they would never notice whether I came back. I untangled my bike lock and coiled it around the stem of my bike seat. I looked behind me while I was straddling the bike to make sure no one was watching and pushed off with one leg. The first pedals were hard; someone was going to see me, they were going to tell, and I was going to get in trouble. But having a great afternoon with my best friend was a lot more tempting than two more hours of school—I sped off.
The bike ride passed quickly because I was distracted. The anticipation of the afternoon’s fun was building. Trey and I didn’t have to do much of anything to have fun, so I knew we would. On the way home, I rode through a couple of intersections and couldn’t remember if the light was green or red. I pulled up to the side of my garage and leaned my bike up against the house. I walked across the gravel side yard and into the grass that neatly lined all sides of Trey’s house. Crouching down next to the basement window well I could see Trey in front of the TV. He spent all his time in the basement when he was home and sure enough he was sitting cross-legged in front of his old TV framed by cheap wooden paneling. He was playing his Nintendo and the glow from the TV danced across his face, his nose casting a pointed shadow back to his ear. I reached out over the window well, making sure I didn’t fall in, and tapped the window. The window well scared me because of the huge wolf spiders that lived in them. I had this fear of falling into the hole and being eaten alive by spiders, their hairy legs all around me. Trey didn’t turn around before he bolted up the stairs to come to the door; he always knew it was me. I was the only one who tapped on this window.
I walked around the front of his house past the great window that looked into the living room. I could hear his loud steps up the stairs. He skipped two, maybe three steps with each lunge and made a racket that his mom couldn’t stand. Trey opened the door with a startled look on his face. His hair billowed upward in uniform waves that jerked when he gave a cautious look back into the house.
“Trey!” His mom’s yell escaped the house just as Trey slid out and shut the door behind him.
“What’s that all about?” I said.
“Nothing, she wants me to do my homework now,” Trey replied.
“So…nothing serious then. Phew! Thought she was going to chase after us there for a second.”
The lawns in our neighborhood were not fenced so Trey and I began walking from his front yard to my backyard.
“Wait, aren’t you supposed to be at school?” Trey said.
“Yeah, I ditched. I don’t know what got into me today. I couldn’t take anymore classes after Algebra. Just wanted that part of my day to be over.”
“That’s fine with me,” Trey said.
“I knew it would be.”
We jumped on my trampoline and I tried to bounce Trey higher than ever. I was getting big enough that I couldn’t jump too high without hitting the ground through the trampoline—that stung a little. We jumped for an hour and then mimicked the wrestling moves we had seen on TV earlier in the week. We were pretty good at them and we should have been because Trey and I watched six hours of wrestling per week. We also had plenty of time to practice because Trey and I didn’t concern ourselves with homework. We would try homework, but we had too much energy back then and couldn’t take our minds away from our own fun for more than ten minutes.
Eventually we got bored and picked some crab apples from a tree in Trey’s yard. Our backyards faced a busy residential street that our old elementary school was on. The fence lined the backyards of the houses that faced the street. Trey and I each got a handful of crab apples. I stood at an angle to the fence so I could see, through the slats of the wooden planks, the next car that was coming up the street. We launched our handfuls over the fence. The car didn’t stop. We continued hitting car after car. There were a few boring people who kept on driving after we drilled them, but finally one car stopped right in the middle of the road.
“Run like hell,” Trey yelled.
“Good idea, dude.” I took off after him because he was the faster runner. He led the way to the front yard between our houses. From there we could hear the driver’s door slam, like he had stepped out to chase after us. We quickly caught our breath before walking to the end of the cul-de-sac. We took a few steps toward the corner of the fence and saw the car through the slats. A man was slowly driving up the street toward us.
“Go, go, go! He’s right there!” I yelled. We cut through backyards, jumping over shrubs, and rocks, and dodging through trees. The trampoline was a soft place to land. We stood up in time to see the driver turn the corner.
“That was a close call, Trey.”
“I know. He almost got us.”
We lay on the trampoline on opposite ends so we wouldn’t slide toward the middle where the trampoline would sag. When my family moved into this house we planted a small maple tree in the backyard and it had grown tremendously over the years. The maple now gave Trey and me shade from the hot afternoon sun and prevented the trampoline’s surface from being uncomfortably hot to touch. Before we hunkered down for the night with thirty blankets we made sure the trampoline rested under the maple tree so it would shade us from the streetlight. In a few years the maple was big enough to keep the light out from my parents second story bedroom.
The next five minutes passed in silence. We caught our breath. I stared at the clouds rolling across the sky and followed a rare maple leaf that had been brushed off by the rustling of the branches in the wind, fall down in-between us. Trey’s serious face caught me by surprise.
“We’re moving, Brian,” Trey said.
I took it in before I replied. He must not have known an easier way to break the news and it was impossible to break it lightly.
“Uhh…you are?” Silence.
“Yep, I would have told you sooner but I’ve been dreading this conversation with you because there’s no way to make it easy.”
“Well, no there isn’t. Where to? And why?”
“My Dad found a new job in some town about an hour south of here.” We had both returned to our backs, too afraid to face each other and the truth.
“That sucks. Well, what I mean is that sucks for you and us…good for your dad. When are you moving?”
“Two weeks.”
“Two weeks, Trey? That’s so soon. You haven’t even put the house up for sale.”
“I know. My parents have already found renters and they closed on the new house last week.”
There was nothing I could say that would make Trey stay here, living next to me. I wanted it to be a lie, but I could see a tear sliding down his cheek. I rolled over on my stomach and elbows. My head drooped and I paid ridiculous attention to the blades of grass through the tarp of the trampoline, trying so hard to wish this away. My tears ran down my nose, falling to the trampoline. Our silence thickened the air. I sorted through my memories of Trey. I feared not having anyone to talk to. Who was I going to cause mischief with? When were we ever going to practice our new wrestling moves? When were we going to see each other again after he moved? And the years left of high school…I badly wanted to experience those with Trey. The double dates we could have gone on, the proms, and graduation parties. Those years now expanded in front of me, endless on the horizon. Each remaining year of high school was going to feel like a decade.
I wasn’t wise enough to enjoy the time we had left as neighbors and friends. To me, this news meant Trey was going to die in two weeks. Sixty miles away is just the same as a thousand miles away when you don’t have cars.
I think I’m heading inside, Brian,” Trey said as he rolled off his side of the trampoline. I expected him to break the silence with that, but I couldn’t tell if that was an open invitation for me to follow or not, so I just lay still.
“Okay, see ya later, man.” Maybe if I weaned Trey off like some bad habit it would make the move easier for the both of us.
I was foolish then. I should have spent as much time with Trey as possible over those weeks, but I didn’t.
Over the next few months Trey and I managed to see each other almost every weekend, but that was only through the summer. We got distracted from our friendship when school started. Our visits were mostly around holidays or three-day weekends when we had a lot of time on our hands.
The visits we had were less and less eventful. We always seemed to be reminiscing about what it was like when we lived next to each other. We tried wrestling on the trampoline, even threw crab apples at buses leaving the elementary school, but we weren’t into it like before. The experiences Trey and I had, the things we did, made any time apart insignificant because they could bring the closeness back, but whenever conversation shifted to the present I felt disengaged. We couldn’t achieve the comfortable level of friendship we had before by reminiscing about our experiences. We needed originality and it was not to be found by either one of us.
After one visit I realized that we would never have enough time to fully catch-up. Trey would always have friends I didn’t know, and I would always be involved in activities that he would never hear the details of, even if we had a week together. That wasn’t enough time to establish familiarity again. I thought Trey and I were living the same life. It was easy to think that because we liked the same stuff, thought the same stuff, and did the same stuff. Now it seems like they were always separate when I look back on those years.
* * *
Seven years later I find myself in a similar situation. College brought many new experiences and friends, but I didn’t expect it to bring a friend that I cherished as much as I had cherished Trey. Zvika is three years older than I and graduated a year ahead of me. I had accepted the fact that when I went to college I would have friends from all over the country, but Zvika is from Israel.
The morning before I took Zvika to the airport one last time, I lie on my bed and shuffled through the memories of my friend. For years I had confided in him all my internal struggles. The first year we lived in the same hall. I often walked down a few doors to his room to vent my frustration with life. He helped me through relationships with girls, or the lack thereof. I would lie on my floor staring at my ceiling after a girl rejected me. I busied myself with finding faces in the drywall pattern until Zvika came into my room and talked things over. He had served three years in the Israeli army before coming overseas. I always thought of him as being more experienced. I respected my elders, so I expected Zvika’s advice to be good. He had been through a long distance relationship with his girlfriend for years; I admired that, so I listened. In return, I offered up what little advice I had for him and occasionally I would correct his English.
I swung my legs over the side of my bed, waking my tired eyes for this day. On my trip to the bathroom I stopped and looked at the door Zvika slept behind.
My home was Zvika’s home away from home. He had joined us for Thanksgiving breaks and Easter breaks. He had been there when my family surprised me with a Nissan Maxima one morning. My mom took snapshots of us the first time we got in the car—smiles from ear to ear. My family took him in, welcomed and enjoyed his presence.
Before Zvika flew home to Israel this morning, he spent one last night in my parent’s house. I expected it to be a profound night, but just because someone is leaving doesn’t mean something magical is going to happen. We sat around and drank Coronas while watching Sportscenter. ESPN was a luxury we didn’t have at our apartment.
I knocked on Zvika’s door, opening it up to see him sprawled on top of the covers. “Hey, you ready?” I said.
“What time is it?”
“5:30. There’s a clock right there.”
“Oh, okay. I’ll be down shortly.”
“Alright, see you then.” I shut the door. Just like last night I had expected something great to happen, I expected our last conversations to be profound, but by now I know it is our friendships that make the everyday talks memorable.
My parents weren’t up yet, they had said goodbye to Zvika last night. I stood at the top of the stairs leaning over the banister listening to their goodbyes. I thought if I didn’t see it, I wouldn’t cry myself, but I did. Unlike my last weeks with Trey, I had spent as much time with Zvika as possible. I had known this day would come for three years. The brevity of friendships forces you to treasure them. I had learned that much from Trey, but you couldn’t learn to make these departures easy and I feared that most this morning.
“No breakfast?” I said to Zvika as he hauled his suitcase down the stairs.
“Nope, no time.”
“Okay, it’s up to you.” Zvika had always obsessed about being on time, and on time for him was early.
The drive to the airport was long; I had a lot of time to determine when I should give Zvika his letter. I had tried to write everything I felt, but it just turned out to be a jumbled mess. Finding the exact words that would encapsulate my emotion was impossible, this was a feeling that I couldn’t write about, at least not yet, maybe never.
I drove intently so it looked like I was too busy to talk. Zvika wasn’t saying anything either. The rift in our friendship was on the horizon. We silently cowered before it, afraid to take the next step on this journey.
“Man, I am glad you shipped all your other stuff home,” I said as I lifted Zvika’s suitcase out of the trunk.
“Got everything?”
“Hope so.” I could see tears in his eyes. Mine soon flooded with their own.
I hugged him tightly, trying to remind myself that I would see him again, but this was the end for this stage in our friendship. Backing off, I held out my hand to give him the letter.
He looked confused. “What’s this?”
“You’ll see,” I said.
I held out my hand for a parting handshake and Zvika firmly grasped it.
“Goodbye, my friend,” I said.
“Until next time.”
I laughed and stood on the edge of the curb leaning up against my car. Zvika turned and walked into the terminal. The tinted automatic doors shut behind him and he was gone.
It was silent in my car, absent of Zvika’s boisterous voice and joyful laugh. I thought of all the laughs we had shared then. The drive home was hard. I started to reminisce about the times with Zvika, the parties, the trips home, but mostly the conversations. We knew each other so well. I didn’t worry so much as to who would take his place like I did after Trey left. I knew no one would ever take his place, just as no one had replaced Trey. There would be another great friend down the road, but Zvika and Trey were now memories, some distant, some near.
Saturday, April 23, 2005
The State of Wyoming
Prior to my attending the University of Wyoming, I didn't have any affiliation with this state. Actually, I don't even remember if I had any knowledge about this state, other than it being the home to Yellowstone.
I can't even remember thinking about Wyoming. It was a great big piece of land that I drove through a few times to get to California or Washington. Wyoming, a place so big, and so close, only occupied a sliver of my thoughts, or none at all.
If someone asked me what I thought about Wyoming when I was in high school, I would have probably been critical of the state. I had been there for a family vacation, and once for a swim meet in elementary. And I probably only affiliated the state with Matthew Shephard, as many people still do.
Someone suggested that I go to the University of Wyoming to further my swimming career, and of course to get an education. At a time I was ready to give up a large portion of my life, swimming, in order to avoid that great expanse just north of me.
Wyoming has proven me wrong. I found out I was full of misconceptions, but I would have never known this if I didn't come to this place. Laramie and Wyoming didn't win me over immediately, but each year I have returned, the people of Wyoming and UW have held a greater place in my heart.
The most unattractive place I could think of four years ago has snatched away a piece of my heart that I am not going to take back. It's going to stay here, where I found more of myself, friends, family, and a peace that can only be found in a place like this.
I can't even remember thinking about Wyoming. It was a great big piece of land that I drove through a few times to get to California or Washington. Wyoming, a place so big, and so close, only occupied a sliver of my thoughts, or none at all.
If someone asked me what I thought about Wyoming when I was in high school, I would have probably been critical of the state. I had been there for a family vacation, and once for a swim meet in elementary. And I probably only affiliated the state with Matthew Shephard, as many people still do.
Someone suggested that I go to the University of Wyoming to further my swimming career, and of course to get an education. At a time I was ready to give up a large portion of my life, swimming, in order to avoid that great expanse just north of me.
Wyoming has proven me wrong. I found out I was full of misconceptions, but I would have never known this if I didn't come to this place. Laramie and Wyoming didn't win me over immediately, but each year I have returned, the people of Wyoming and UW have held a greater place in my heart.
The most unattractive place I could think of four years ago has snatched away a piece of my heart that I am not going to take back. It's going to stay here, where I found more of myself, friends, family, and a peace that can only be found in a place like this.
Friday, April 22, 2005
12:00 a.m., Thursday, May 19, 2005
May 19, 1999. I was a sophomore in high school and I was unable to see the midnight showing of the first Star Wars film in 16 years. The Phantom Menace came out in the middle of the week. I couldn't camp out and ditch school. However, I had friends that took more drastic measures to win their ticket to the midnight showing. Dan decided to streak through the line of tents that were set up in a vacant lot next to the movie theater. Star Wars geeks had assembled there almost a week in advance to get their midnight tickets. Dan sported a white cape and shoes. On the back of the cape in bold black lettering was written White Lightning. He was successful in his streak and someone in my geography class was kind enough to record the event and play it back in class the next day. I had to wait until Friday night to see Episode I.
May 16, 2002. I was a freshman in college. With two finals on the morning of the 16th, and not living in a town which had a midnight showing, I was destined to be denied once again the joy of seeing a Star Wars movie with other bona fide geeks. I had to wait one more day until I was done with finals and moving back home to see Episode II. I saw it the first Friday it was out at 10:35 p.m. with one of my great friends, Trey. We started the line for that show at 6:30 p.m. much to the surprise of the theater's employees. I admit, I was being selfish that day. I wanted to be the first in line. I didn't want to be shafted twice, with not being able to get the prime seats in the house.
May 19, 2005. I am a senior in college. Finals are done before Episode III hits the big screen. Finally, I will be able to see the midnight showing of the missing chapter in the Star Wars saga.
Writing this blog brings back fond Star Wars memories. I get goosebumps. I spent the summer of 1999 drinking a lot of Pepsi products because there were 24 collectible cans, each with a different character from Episode I on them. I got them all. All 24 cans, unopened and full, are stacked on a shelf in my room at home among other SW memorabilia. Below them rests a June 1983, LIFE magazine, with Return of the Jedi on the cover.
It has been a long time coming for this fanboy and what a way to go out with finally being able to see the last SW movie made at the midnight showing where the popcorn flows like water, the fans choreograph lightsaber battles in line, cheering is encouraged, and it's a standing room only when the 20th Century fanfare music starts the night off with a bang.
May 16, 2002. I was a freshman in college. With two finals on the morning of the 16th, and not living in a town which had a midnight showing, I was destined to be denied once again the joy of seeing a Star Wars movie with other bona fide geeks. I had to wait one more day until I was done with finals and moving back home to see Episode II. I saw it the first Friday it was out at 10:35 p.m. with one of my great friends, Trey. We started the line for that show at 6:30 p.m. much to the surprise of the theater's employees. I admit, I was being selfish that day. I wanted to be the first in line. I didn't want to be shafted twice, with not being able to get the prime seats in the house.
May 19, 2005. I am a senior in college. Finals are done before Episode III hits the big screen. Finally, I will be able to see the midnight showing of the missing chapter in the Star Wars saga.
Writing this blog brings back fond Star Wars memories. I get goosebumps. I spent the summer of 1999 drinking a lot of Pepsi products because there were 24 collectible cans, each with a different character from Episode I on them. I got them all. All 24 cans, unopened and full, are stacked on a shelf in my room at home among other SW memorabilia. Below them rests a June 1983, LIFE magazine, with Return of the Jedi on the cover.
It has been a long time coming for this fanboy and what a way to go out with finally being able to see the last SW movie made at the midnight showing where the popcorn flows like water, the fans choreograph lightsaber battles in line, cheering is encouraged, and it's a standing room only when the 20th Century fanfare music starts the night off with a bang.
Thursday, April 21, 2005
On Writing
I recently finished If You Want to Write, by Brenda Ueland. The book was recommended to me by my Mother, who isn't a writer herself but she is a living card catalogue due to her infatuation with the library. I am grateful for this.
Back to the book. Ueland is very opinionated, but who isn't? Ueland caught my attention because she doesn't try to hide herself. She shouts her thoughts onto the paper. I can imagine a reader being totally turned off by her though, but it's like she is reading my mind when she writes. Let me take a minute to clarify that every sentence she has written has been previously conceived in my head.
So, not all the words in this entry will be mine. I am obligated to share what I believe to be wise observations about society and writing. I relate much to what she says because it holds true to the person I am and the experiences I have had.
"Then we go to school and then comes on the great Army of school teachers with their critical pencils, and parents and older brothers (the greatest sneerers of all) and cantankerous friends, and finally that Great Murderer of the Imagination - a world of unceasing, unkind, dinky, prissy Criticalness." - Ueland (XI)
Having English professors examine every word and every syllable of mine in papers for a few years has really paved the way for this quote to sweep in on me and beat me around with its honesty. Obviously, I realize these professors are doing their job and not all criticism is bad criticism. In my experiences though I believe much of the criticism that is unloaded on students, especially in secondary education, leads to the suffocation of the original voice in us all. We ultimately mill into line and try as best as we can to produce formulaic, bland ideas that work toward the so-called betterment of society.
This book isn't just about writing, it's about expressing whatever is inside of you. Ueland makes her point again and again that just because you might not make money from it and you might not be praised for it, IT needs to be expressed and you should go to great lengths to protect it from the suffocation of this world.
Back to the book. Ueland is very opinionated, but who isn't? Ueland caught my attention because she doesn't try to hide herself. She shouts her thoughts onto the paper. I can imagine a reader being totally turned off by her though, but it's like she is reading my mind when she writes. Let me take a minute to clarify that every sentence she has written has been previously conceived in my head.
So, not all the words in this entry will be mine. I am obligated to share what I believe to be wise observations about society and writing. I relate much to what she says because it holds true to the person I am and the experiences I have had.
"Then we go to school and then comes on the great Army of school teachers with their critical pencils, and parents and older brothers (the greatest sneerers of all) and cantankerous friends, and finally that Great Murderer of the Imagination - a world of unceasing, unkind, dinky, prissy Criticalness." - Ueland (XI)
Having English professors examine every word and every syllable of mine in papers for a few years has really paved the way for this quote to sweep in on me and beat me around with its honesty. Obviously, I realize these professors are doing their job and not all criticism is bad criticism. In my experiences though I believe much of the criticism that is unloaded on students, especially in secondary education, leads to the suffocation of the original voice in us all. We ultimately mill into line and try as best as we can to produce formulaic, bland ideas that work toward the so-called betterment of society.
This book isn't just about writing, it's about expressing whatever is inside of you. Ueland makes her point again and again that just because you might not make money from it and you might not be praised for it, IT needs to be expressed and you should go to great lengths to protect it from the suffocation of this world.
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
Always Listening
*All names, events, and places are purely coincidental.*
My hand had never felt something so hard before. It was Craig’s body, but with the life and warmth drained out of him—cold and hard. I pulled back in shock and regained my composure to touch him one last time.
Craig lay in a cherry wood casket inside the funeral chapel. He was dressed in his favorite Abercrombie and Fitch clothing, with tokens from his life set snugly in the coffin between the wall of the casket and his bitter body. A stuffed monkey, a mix CD of Craig’s favorite band, the Beastie Boys, and a shot glass, usually filled with bootlegged vodka, placed in the casket down by his feet.
I touched Craig on the shoulder and looked for the bruising around his neck from the noose, but the shirt was buttoned all the way up to his chin, hiding any evidence of pain. My eyes stuck to Craig’s face a long moment before they looked away. I hoped that I would be able to call upon the image at any point in my life to recall the person I once knew. As soon as I turned away, however, the image left me and I realized that images of Craig alive would be the only ones I would be able to remember.
* * *
I knocked on the door. No one. After a few minutes I saw Craig come down the stairs and motion to me that the door was open. I would have just walked in, but I didn’t feel comfortable.
“What’s up, bud?” I said.
“Not much. You coming out tonight?”
“Maybe. What’s going on?”
“Party somewhere.”
I sighed and thought about telling Craig how we could be better friends if he wasn’t relentlessly bent on drinking. I would have loved Craig to stay sober tonight. We got along so well when he didn’t drink, but when he did I could never relate to the Craig I wanted to know. I resigned myself to change and didn’t try to persuade him into not attending the party. I tried to change the subject.
“So, when do you think Lauren is going to marry your brother?” I said.
“Which one? Brian?”
“Of course, man.”
“I don’t know. It is pretty serious though. You know, once they get married, we will be like brothers.”
“I have always wanted a brother."
My ceiling glowed dark silver, reflecting light from the window blinds that were collecting the moon’s rays. This night I lay in bed for an hour, like the previous three nights, and tried to picture Craig in Heaven. Heaven was a mysterious place to me, but I lay there in contemplation of my friend enjoying its bountiful treasures.
I had found some comfort in talking to Craig, as though he were standing beside me, the last nights as I fell asleep. I can’t claim to know about the ability of the dead to communicate with the living, but I held on tight to a thin line of faith that he would be able to hear me. I might have known a thing or two about Heaven, but I was unsure about Craig’s ears for my words.
“Craig? I don’t know if you hear me, but I just wanted to let you know that I was thinking of you. I just wanted to say that I hope whatever peace you couldn’t find in this world you found in the next.”
I held back enthusiasm and emotion when I spoke to him, thinking that if I spoke clearly and smoothly my voice would be more discernable to Craig.
“I miss you, and your friends miss you. We’ll never forget you.”
The words didn’t last long before the exhaustion of the week overtook them and changed them into an incoherent slur.
I dreamt I was in my high school’s main hallway. The hum of the white, tube lighting overhead could hardly be heard above the commotion of students leaving for the day. My last block of classes had finished and I joined the lemmings headed for the parking lot. We were propelled toward the doors by our desire to leave school.
It was freezing outside and my height gave me ample opportunity to scan the drop-off zone of the parking lot for the cars and their drivers that would be able to spare me the cold, long walk to my car. A red Honda Prelude caught my eye. I had seen the car before and recognized the cheap hub-caps that could have been bought at a gas station’s convenience shop. I was soon by the side of the Prelude. I bent over and cupped my hands over my eyes on the frosty window to see Craig staring blankly at me.
The window rolled down. “You want a ride, man?” Craig said.
I was thrilled that Craig was back. He was dead, but now he was very much alive, and I was going to get a chance to ride in his car, something I hadn’t experienced prior to his death.
“Would you give me a ride? That would be awesome, dude. I wasn’t looking forward to the walk,” I said.
“Hop in. Where are you parked?”
“The far side of the tennis courts.”
His composure was casual. He seemed to evade the mood of suicide that lingered in the air, making it thick. He started to drive and loop through the parking lot in order to get to the opposite side. I sat there, half expecting him to start telling me why he’d done it, and half expecting, the next time I glanced to my left, to see anyone else but Craig driving the Prelude. But it was always Craig at the wheel, and he never said a word.
I had so many questions about his death, but now that he was here all I could do was sit in silent reverie. My mind muddled through the questions, trying to pick one because I felt as though I had only one shot at getting a reply before my ride ended.
The Prelude pulled to a stop, and I saw my Accord to the right. I opened the door and put one foot outside. I hesitated and gazed at my car for a moment. I didn’t want to waste my opportunity. I slowly turned to Craig. His face was expectant, as if he knew my question before I had even chosen the one to ask.
“Can you hear me when I talk to you, Craig?”
His eyes glanced down and a smile flicked through his complexion as though he was happy I had chosen this question above the others.
“All the time,” he replied.
I couldn’t put into words the joy his answer gave me; anyway, no words were necessary. We smiled, and I nodded one last goodbye. We wouldn’t see each other again until my time came. I didn’t stare at him, trying to grasp again one last image before I stood up out of the car. The door shut and I watched the silhouette of Craig disappear down the street.
I was staring at my ceiling again, but this time it was a bright white, with the reflection of the sun off the rain-soaked street bending through the slits of the blinds. I remembered my dream in its entirety and tears found their best path down either cheek. I wasn’t trying to cry; the tears just came forth without effort. I find that these tears, the joyful ones, come unexpectedly and are welcomed.
My hand had never felt something so hard before. It was Craig’s body, but with the life and warmth drained out of him—cold and hard. I pulled back in shock and regained my composure to touch him one last time.
Craig lay in a cherry wood casket inside the funeral chapel. He was dressed in his favorite Abercrombie and Fitch clothing, with tokens from his life set snugly in the coffin between the wall of the casket and his bitter body. A stuffed monkey, a mix CD of Craig’s favorite band, the Beastie Boys, and a shot glass, usually filled with bootlegged vodka, placed in the casket down by his feet.
I touched Craig on the shoulder and looked for the bruising around his neck from the noose, but the shirt was buttoned all the way up to his chin, hiding any evidence of pain. My eyes stuck to Craig’s face a long moment before they looked away. I hoped that I would be able to call upon the image at any point in my life to recall the person I once knew. As soon as I turned away, however, the image left me and I realized that images of Craig alive would be the only ones I would be able to remember.
* * *
I knocked on the door. No one. After a few minutes I saw Craig come down the stairs and motion to me that the door was open. I would have just walked in, but I didn’t feel comfortable.
“What’s up, bud?” I said.
“Not much. You coming out tonight?”
“Maybe. What’s going on?”
“Party somewhere.”
I sighed and thought about telling Craig how we could be better friends if he wasn’t relentlessly bent on drinking. I would have loved Craig to stay sober tonight. We got along so well when he didn’t drink, but when he did I could never relate to the Craig I wanted to know. I resigned myself to change and didn’t try to persuade him into not attending the party. I tried to change the subject.
“So, when do you think Lauren is going to marry your brother?” I said.
“Which one? Brian?”
“Of course, man.”
“I don’t know. It is pretty serious though. You know, once they get married, we will be like brothers.”
“I have always wanted a brother."
* * *
My ceiling glowed dark silver, reflecting light from the window blinds that were collecting the moon’s rays. This night I lay in bed for an hour, like the previous three nights, and tried to picture Craig in Heaven. Heaven was a mysterious place to me, but I lay there in contemplation of my friend enjoying its bountiful treasures.
I had found some comfort in talking to Craig, as though he were standing beside me, the last nights as I fell asleep. I can’t claim to know about the ability of the dead to communicate with the living, but I held on tight to a thin line of faith that he would be able to hear me. I might have known a thing or two about Heaven, but I was unsure about Craig’s ears for my words.
“Craig? I don’t know if you hear me, but I just wanted to let you know that I was thinking of you. I just wanted to say that I hope whatever peace you couldn’t find in this world you found in the next.”
I held back enthusiasm and emotion when I spoke to him, thinking that if I spoke clearly and smoothly my voice would be more discernable to Craig.
“I miss you, and your friends miss you. We’ll never forget you.”
The words didn’t last long before the exhaustion of the week overtook them and changed them into an incoherent slur.
I dreamt I was in my high school’s main hallway. The hum of the white, tube lighting overhead could hardly be heard above the commotion of students leaving for the day. My last block of classes had finished and I joined the lemmings headed for the parking lot. We were propelled toward the doors by our desire to leave school.
It was freezing outside and my height gave me ample opportunity to scan the drop-off zone of the parking lot for the cars and their drivers that would be able to spare me the cold, long walk to my car. A red Honda Prelude caught my eye. I had seen the car before and recognized the cheap hub-caps that could have been bought at a gas station’s convenience shop. I was soon by the side of the Prelude. I bent over and cupped my hands over my eyes on the frosty window to see Craig staring blankly at me.
The window rolled down. “You want a ride, man?” Craig said.
I was thrilled that Craig was back. He was dead, but now he was very much alive, and I was going to get a chance to ride in his car, something I hadn’t experienced prior to his death.
“Would you give me a ride? That would be awesome, dude. I wasn’t looking forward to the walk,” I said.
“Hop in. Where are you parked?”
“The far side of the tennis courts.”
His composure was casual. He seemed to evade the mood of suicide that lingered in the air, making it thick. He started to drive and loop through the parking lot in order to get to the opposite side. I sat there, half expecting him to start telling me why he’d done it, and half expecting, the next time I glanced to my left, to see anyone else but Craig driving the Prelude. But it was always Craig at the wheel, and he never said a word.
I had so many questions about his death, but now that he was here all I could do was sit in silent reverie. My mind muddled through the questions, trying to pick one because I felt as though I had only one shot at getting a reply before my ride ended.
The Prelude pulled to a stop, and I saw my Accord to the right. I opened the door and put one foot outside. I hesitated and gazed at my car for a moment. I didn’t want to waste my opportunity. I slowly turned to Craig. His face was expectant, as if he knew my question before I had even chosen the one to ask.
“Can you hear me when I talk to you, Craig?”
His eyes glanced down and a smile flicked through his complexion as though he was happy I had chosen this question above the others.
“All the time,” he replied.
I couldn’t put into words the joy his answer gave me; anyway, no words were necessary. We smiled, and I nodded one last goodbye. We wouldn’t see each other again until my time came. I didn’t stare at him, trying to grasp again one last image before I stood up out of the car. The door shut and I watched the silhouette of Craig disappear down the street.
I was staring at my ceiling again, but this time it was a bright white, with the reflection of the sun off the rain-soaked street bending through the slits of the blinds. I remembered my dream in its entirety and tears found their best path down either cheek. I wasn’t trying to cry; the tears just came forth without effort. I find that these tears, the joyful ones, come unexpectedly and are welcomed.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
The Collage
***I tried here to take pieces of other works to make one complete scene. This is what I came up with.***
What I recall isn’t pain but a sense of jarring reversal, as of all motion, sound, and light encountering their massive opposites. I felt grass and dirt against my cheek, and sorrow that Dad was shot, and confusion that I couldn’t reach him. (1)
As I saw the last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation before I opened another. (2)
I shut my eyes, the old morte settled its grip, and the next country gathered itself under my feet. (1)
The grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise. (3)
I waded ashore with measureless relief. The bank was an even slope of waving knee-high grasses and I came up into them and turned to look back. It was a wide river, mistakable for a lake or even an ocean unless you’d been wading and knew its current. Somehow I’d crossed it and somehow was unsurprised at having done so. (1)
There came into view a man, or so it seemed. (4) He had a blue coat and a long brown beard; his eyes were blue and bright, and his face was red as a ripe apple, but creased into a hundred wrinkles of laughter. In his hands he carried on a large leaf as on a tray a small pile of white water-lilies. (4)
“This is what we all find when we reach this country. We’ve all been wrong! That’s the great joke. There’s no need to go on pretending one was right! After that we begin living.” (5)
The words uttered by the person without, affected me as somewhat singular, but what chiefly rendered them remarkable was the tone that accompanied them. It was wholly new. I cannot pretend to communicate the impression that was made upon me by these accents or to depict the degree in which force and sweetness were blended in them. They were articulated with a distinctness that was unexampled in my experience. But this was not all. (6)
“We do not want you to become lazy, but to imitate those who through faith and patience inherit what has been promised.” (7)
It (the words) imparted to me an emotion altogether involuntary and uncontrollable. When he uttered the words my heart overflowed with sympathy and my eyes with unbidden tears. (6)
He sat down on a rock and swung his feet in a stream – it was deep and swift; it would take him in a moment. I seized his arm.
Please, I said.
Soon, he replied, which makes better sense under the rules of that country than ours. Very soon! He added, clasping my hands; then unable to keep from laughing, he pushed off from the rock like a boy going for the first cold swim of spring; and the current got him. (1)
Is there a single person on whom I can press belief?
No sir.
All I can do is say, Here’s how it went. Here’s what I saw.
I’ve been there and am going back.
Make of it what you will. (1)
(1) Enger, Leif. Peace Like a River. Atlantic Monthly: New York, 2001.
(2) Irving, Washington. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Other Stories. Penguin: New York, 1978.
(3) Tolkien, J.R.R. Return of the King. Houghton Mifflin: Boston, 1955.
(4) Tolkien, J.R.R. The Fellowship of the Ring. Houghton Mifflin: Boston, 1954.
(5) Lewis, C.S. The Great Divorce. Harper: San Francisco, 1946.
(6) Brown, Charles Brockden. Wieland. Oxford: New York, 1994.
(7) Hebrews 6:12. The Bible.
What I recall isn’t pain but a sense of jarring reversal, as of all motion, sound, and light encountering their massive opposites. I felt grass and dirt against my cheek, and sorrow that Dad was shot, and confusion that I couldn’t reach him. (1)
As I saw the last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation before I opened another. (2)
I shut my eyes, the old morte settled its grip, and the next country gathered itself under my feet. (1)
The grey rain-curtain turned all to silver glass and was rolled back, and he beheld white shores and beyond them a far green country under a swift sunrise. (3)
I waded ashore with measureless relief. The bank was an even slope of waving knee-high grasses and I came up into them and turned to look back. It was a wide river, mistakable for a lake or even an ocean unless you’d been wading and knew its current. Somehow I’d crossed it and somehow was unsurprised at having done so. (1)
There came into view a man, or so it seemed. (4) He had a blue coat and a long brown beard; his eyes were blue and bright, and his face was red as a ripe apple, but creased into a hundred wrinkles of laughter. In his hands he carried on a large leaf as on a tray a small pile of white water-lilies. (4)
“This is what we all find when we reach this country. We’ve all been wrong! That’s the great joke. There’s no need to go on pretending one was right! After that we begin living.” (5)
The words uttered by the person without, affected me as somewhat singular, but what chiefly rendered them remarkable was the tone that accompanied them. It was wholly new. I cannot pretend to communicate the impression that was made upon me by these accents or to depict the degree in which force and sweetness were blended in them. They were articulated with a distinctness that was unexampled in my experience. But this was not all. (6)
“We do not want you to become lazy, but to imitate those who through faith and patience inherit what has been promised.” (7)
It (the words) imparted to me an emotion altogether involuntary and uncontrollable. When he uttered the words my heart overflowed with sympathy and my eyes with unbidden tears. (6)
He sat down on a rock and swung his feet in a stream – it was deep and swift; it would take him in a moment. I seized his arm.
Please, I said.
Soon, he replied, which makes better sense under the rules of that country than ours. Very soon! He added, clasping my hands; then unable to keep from laughing, he pushed off from the rock like a boy going for the first cold swim of spring; and the current got him. (1)
Is there a single person on whom I can press belief?
No sir.
All I can do is say, Here’s how it went. Here’s what I saw.
I’ve been there and am going back.
Make of it what you will. (1)
(1) Enger, Leif. Peace Like a River. Atlantic Monthly: New York, 2001.
(2) Irving, Washington. The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Other Stories. Penguin: New York, 1978.
(3) Tolkien, J.R.R. Return of the King. Houghton Mifflin: Boston, 1955.
(4) Tolkien, J.R.R. The Fellowship of the Ring. Houghton Mifflin: Boston, 1954.
(5) Lewis, C.S. The Great Divorce. Harper: San Francisco, 1946.
(6) Brown, Charles Brockden. Wieland. Oxford: New York, 1994.
(7) Hebrews 6:12. The Bible.
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