The despair that oozes through the car is thicker than the smoke that he exhales slowly
So slowly
He tells me things have to change and he tells me how they will, but ten minutes later he's doubling back again
He blames our parents, God, the police, his friends, this town, this fucking marked car
I can barely see out of the windshield, the splattered bugs and bullshit are too dense
"I'm just a compulsive liar, man. And, I get away with it."
His bloodshot eyes roll into the back of his head as he talks, as if even they want to escape this fucked up life
I try to tell him how I feel, but he already knows
"It's been fucking family all day."
Somehow he says it in a way that sounds like agony and ecstasy
I know there's some hope here, but I think it's lost somewhere in the glove compartment
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
You Can Never Go Home / You Can Never Really Leave
According to the rural legends of Philomath, Oregon, there are only two ways to get free of this town. One way is to die, obviously. The other way, it's said, is hidden in the basement of the old college that was converted into a museum. The story goes that the Natives who lived in the Willamette Valley were nearly completely wiped out by the white-man's germs before the first wagon trains made it over the Cascades. By the time the first settlers decided to pitch permanent residence next to the Mary's River, there was only one family of natives left.
There was one woman, two young boys no older than seven, a girl of about 16 and the old shaman. Story goes that the family had only been spared the catastrophe by the old shaman's powers. When the settlers moved in, the family of survivors welcomed them and taught them about the plants and animals in the area. Things were good.
Then, one night, William C. Calhoun was fishing late down by the river. He had also consumed a full bottle of whiskey, and so his recollection of what happened next is either strikingly clear or pure hallucination. Mr. Calhoun claimed that he saw the old shaman leading the girl by the hand into the river until the water was up to her mid-thigh. At some point, Mr. Calhoun realized that the girl was completely naked. The old shaman was humming a low, mournful tune. He had built a small fire by the river, and he pulled clumps of burning coal from it. He picked the coals up over his head and his low mournful hum became a wailing cry. He poured the burning coals over the girl's head and they rolled down her body. The sound of sizzling flesh, in conjunction with the whiskey, lead Mr. Calhoun to vomit. But, he was unable to look away.
With his own regurgitation dribbling down his beard, Mr. Calhoun later claimed that at this point, the shaman began to dance on top of the water. He danced in a circle around the girl and the water level began to slowly go down. The burns on the girl's body began to glow a silver-blue, and she lifted her hands up to the sky. At this point, the shaman stopped. He stood completely silent on top of the water, and the girl, her hands outstretched, didn't move a muscle.
During this moment of silence, Mr. Calhoun heard a noise coming from the bushes across the river. He peered into the undergrowth to see what it was. Soon, a deer stepped out of trees, and walked placidly up to the shaman and the girl. The shaman turned to the deer and spoke to it in his native language. The deer spoke back in the same, strange tongue. At this point, Mr. Calhoun either fainted or passed out, depending on who you ask.
This story would be little more than a trifle, had it not continued. As months passed, the little settlement of Philomath quickly grew. One of the settlers, one James O'Neil, began to show outward affection toward the Native girl. O'Neil's wife had died on the journey over of either Cholera or drowning in a misguided river fording attempted. She had left him behind with five children. O'Neil approached the old shaman about the idea of marriage, but was refused point-blank. Being Irish, O'Neil continued wooing the girl, figuring that the old shaman would die soon anyway.
One night, O'Neil hid the girl from the old shaman and brought her to his homestead for the night. The old shaman found out however, and made his way to the farmhouse, looking for blood. The ensuing argument was loud and conducted in at least the following three languages: Gaelic, English, and Kalapuya. Although later accounts would also include French, for good measure.
At some point during the heated discussion the old shaman became very quiet. It took O'Neil about four minutes to realize that he was the only one yelling. At this point, the old shaman looked O'Neil in the eye and said the following, "You want my daughter?"
"Yes." O'Neil said.
"You will never leave her." The shaman said.
"Of course I'll never leave her."
The shaman laughed. "No no, paleface. You will never leave her. Your tribe will never leave her." Then, the old shaman walked away. A little while after that, he died. And a little while after that O'Neil married the girl.
Twenty years later, the girl, now a woman, died. After she died, the Mary's River stopped flowing for a week. The town of Philomath was eerily silent. No birds sang. Dogs didn't bark. Even teething babies seemed to stop crying. After her funeral, William C. Calhoun, now a reformed alcoholic and minister of the local community church, went out to the grave site on the O'Neil homestead with a bottle of whiskey. Before he could take a single drink, however, he saw that standing on top of the mound of fresh dirt, was a deer. It turned to him.
"The only way free," The deer said in English, "is to burn it."
One of James O'Neil's sons went on to found a college on his father's homestead. It did pretty well for a while, but for some reason, none of the graduates ever seemed to make it farther than Portland. And, most of them ended up coming back to Philomath after a few short years. The college went under, and the building was converted to a museum of local history. The grave of the Native girl was dug up during the construction of the college, and today the body is kept in a casket in the basement of the building.
Eventually the town reverted to the logging industry. On the outside, it looks like any other small town in Oregon, but anyone who's lived there will tell you, when you leave the city limits, you can feel it pulling you back, like a rubber band around your soul.
Every few years a group of high-school boys will sneak into the college building with plans for mischief. I was in one such group. We all knew the story, so we made our way down to the basement. We found the casket, and someone pulled out a lighter and set it on top of the casket. We all stared at it. None of us wanted to do it. We stood there for what seemed like hours. Sometimes we glanced at one other and gestured with our eyebrows that they should be the one to light it. Eventually, I picked the lighter up and put it in my pocket.
"Hey," One of the boys said, "What's the matter, you chicken?"
"No." I said walking away, "I just can't destroy my home."
There was one woman, two young boys no older than seven, a girl of about 16 and the old shaman. Story goes that the family had only been spared the catastrophe by the old shaman's powers. When the settlers moved in, the family of survivors welcomed them and taught them about the plants and animals in the area. Things were good.
Then, one night, William C. Calhoun was fishing late down by the river. He had also consumed a full bottle of whiskey, and so his recollection of what happened next is either strikingly clear or pure hallucination. Mr. Calhoun claimed that he saw the old shaman leading the girl by the hand into the river until the water was up to her mid-thigh. At some point, Mr. Calhoun realized that the girl was completely naked. The old shaman was humming a low, mournful tune. He had built a small fire by the river, and he pulled clumps of burning coal from it. He picked the coals up over his head and his low mournful hum became a wailing cry. He poured the burning coals over the girl's head and they rolled down her body. The sound of sizzling flesh, in conjunction with the whiskey, lead Mr. Calhoun to vomit. But, he was unable to look away.
With his own regurgitation dribbling down his beard, Mr. Calhoun later claimed that at this point, the shaman began to dance on top of the water. He danced in a circle around the girl and the water level began to slowly go down. The burns on the girl's body began to glow a silver-blue, and she lifted her hands up to the sky. At this point, the shaman stopped. He stood completely silent on top of the water, and the girl, her hands outstretched, didn't move a muscle.
During this moment of silence, Mr. Calhoun heard a noise coming from the bushes across the river. He peered into the undergrowth to see what it was. Soon, a deer stepped out of trees, and walked placidly up to the shaman and the girl. The shaman turned to the deer and spoke to it in his native language. The deer spoke back in the same, strange tongue. At this point, Mr. Calhoun either fainted or passed out, depending on who you ask.
This story would be little more than a trifle, had it not continued. As months passed, the little settlement of Philomath quickly grew. One of the settlers, one James O'Neil, began to show outward affection toward the Native girl. O'Neil's wife had died on the journey over of either Cholera or drowning in a misguided river fording attempted. She had left him behind with five children. O'Neil approached the old shaman about the idea of marriage, but was refused point-blank. Being Irish, O'Neil continued wooing the girl, figuring that the old shaman would die soon anyway.
One night, O'Neil hid the girl from the old shaman and brought her to his homestead for the night. The old shaman found out however, and made his way to the farmhouse, looking for blood. The ensuing argument was loud and conducted in at least the following three languages: Gaelic, English, and Kalapuya. Although later accounts would also include French, for good measure.
At some point during the heated discussion the old shaman became very quiet. It took O'Neil about four minutes to realize that he was the only one yelling. At this point, the old shaman looked O'Neil in the eye and said the following, "You want my daughter?"
"Yes." O'Neil said.
"You will never leave her." The shaman said.
"Of course I'll never leave her."
The shaman laughed. "No no, paleface. You will never leave her. Your tribe will never leave her." Then, the old shaman walked away. A little while after that, he died. And a little while after that O'Neil married the girl.
Twenty years later, the girl, now a woman, died. After she died, the Mary's River stopped flowing for a week. The town of Philomath was eerily silent. No birds sang. Dogs didn't bark. Even teething babies seemed to stop crying. After her funeral, William C. Calhoun, now a reformed alcoholic and minister of the local community church, went out to the grave site on the O'Neil homestead with a bottle of whiskey. Before he could take a single drink, however, he saw that standing on top of the mound of fresh dirt, was a deer. It turned to him.
"The only way free," The deer said in English, "is to burn it."
One of James O'Neil's sons went on to found a college on his father's homestead. It did pretty well for a while, but for some reason, none of the graduates ever seemed to make it farther than Portland. And, most of them ended up coming back to Philomath after a few short years. The college went under, and the building was converted to a museum of local history. The grave of the Native girl was dug up during the construction of the college, and today the body is kept in a casket in the basement of the building.
Eventually the town reverted to the logging industry. On the outside, it looks like any other small town in Oregon, but anyone who's lived there will tell you, when you leave the city limits, you can feel it pulling you back, like a rubber band around your soul.
Every few years a group of high-school boys will sneak into the college building with plans for mischief. I was in one such group. We all knew the story, so we made our way down to the basement. We found the casket, and someone pulled out a lighter and set it on top of the casket. We all stared at it. None of us wanted to do it. We stood there for what seemed like hours. Sometimes we glanced at one other and gestured with our eyebrows that they should be the one to light it. Eventually, I picked the lighter up and put it in my pocket.
"Hey," One of the boys said, "What's the matter, you chicken?"
"No." I said walking away, "I just can't destroy my home."
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Questionnaire
Do you ever feel like life is way more complicated than anybody is willing to admit, and no extent of education or investigation will ever be enough?
Do you ever get an impulse to grab a passerby and kiss them full on the lips?
Do you ever watch videos of Slow Lorises online until 1am?
Do you ever think that you may have to spend the rest of your life alone because you "have to be honest to who you are" and for some reason that person doesn't seem to jive with anyone else's life?
Do you ever find yourself wanting to lecture the 12 year-old version of you on love and faith?
Do you ever pick bathroom stalls based on the quality of graffiti?
Do you ever stare at the city and wonder how many stories it has that will never be told?
Do you ever cry while listening to This American Life?
Do you ever tip your barrista with jokes because you're out of change?
Do you ever think that nobody will understand you like Neil Gaiman does?
Do you ever spread your arms out wide when you crest the top of a hill in hope that you'll keep climbing and climbing until the city is an anthill beneath your feet?
Do you ever wish that more people read folktales?
Do you ever feel like your life will end up being summed up as the biggest MacGuffin in human history?
Do you ever crack your neck really loudly in church or class and feel super self-conscious about it?
Do you ever think that the real magic in the world usually goes completely ignored and the fake stuff is glorified to fetishistic absurdity?
Do you ever think that somewhere out there your doppleganger is having the time of their life while you're procrastinating from homework?
Do you ever find yourself staring into someone else's eyes and realizing that they are beautiful, regardless of age, sex, or clothing?
Do you ever ramble for a little bit and then stop abruptly?
Do you ever get an impulse to grab a passerby and kiss them full on the lips?
Do you ever watch videos of Slow Lorises online until 1am?
Do you ever think that you may have to spend the rest of your life alone because you "have to be honest to who you are" and for some reason that person doesn't seem to jive with anyone else's life?
Do you ever find yourself wanting to lecture the 12 year-old version of you on love and faith?
Do you ever pick bathroom stalls based on the quality of graffiti?
Do you ever stare at the city and wonder how many stories it has that will never be told?
Do you ever cry while listening to This American Life?
Do you ever tip your barrista with jokes because you're out of change?
Do you ever think that nobody will understand you like Neil Gaiman does?
Do you ever spread your arms out wide when you crest the top of a hill in hope that you'll keep climbing and climbing until the city is an anthill beneath your feet?
Do you ever wish that more people read folktales?
Do you ever feel like your life will end up being summed up as the biggest MacGuffin in human history?
Do you ever crack your neck really loudly in church or class and feel super self-conscious about it?
Do you ever think that the real magic in the world usually goes completely ignored and the fake stuff is glorified to fetishistic absurdity?
Do you ever think that somewhere out there your doppleganger is having the time of their life while you're procrastinating from homework?
Do you ever find yourself staring into someone else's eyes and realizing that they are beautiful, regardless of age, sex, or clothing?
Do you ever ramble for a little bit and then stop abruptly?
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Dear Kryptonite
Dear Kryptonite,
It's me, Superman. I know we've had our disagreements over the years. You've made me feel like shit, driven me to the edge of death from time to time, and I must admit, I held it against you. I've avoided you like the plague. I've peddled you off to Batman, or someone else in the JLA. God only knows what they did to you. I can only assume that you didn't enjoy Bruce's battery of tests.
But, it wasn't just my friends who mistreated you. No, my enemies have made you into weapons of various kinds, ranging from swords and shurikens to laser guns and drinkable potions.
What I'm trying to say is, you obviously haven't had an easy go of things, and for that, I'm sorry.
But, that's not the real reason I'm writing this letter. I am actually writing this to thank you, Kryptonite.
Kryptonite, what you do to me is terrible. You take my powers away completely and put me in excruciating pain, but you have taught me more about what it means to be human than my parents ever did. Without you around, I'm invincible. I can fly, for God's sake. For all intents and purposes, I am a God among ants. Nobody in the universe can go toe-to-toe with me, not without you that is.
When you're around, I feel the weight of the world. Not in the sense where I'm holding it up, but where it's pulling me down. My skin feels soft, and sometimes I bleed. You teach me how to feel vulnerable, fallible... human. Although you may have brought Superman to the edge of destruction multiple times, without you Clark Kent would have died a long time ago.
You force me to pull away from my usual techniques. I have to approach a problem as if I weren't... well... me. As if I weren't Superman. As if I were Clark Kent.
This letter is getting a little long, so I think I'll finish up here. I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for saving my life.
Love,
Clark
It's me, Superman. I know we've had our disagreements over the years. You've made me feel like shit, driven me to the edge of death from time to time, and I must admit, I held it against you. I've avoided you like the plague. I've peddled you off to Batman, or someone else in the JLA. God only knows what they did to you. I can only assume that you didn't enjoy Bruce's battery of tests.
But, it wasn't just my friends who mistreated you. No, my enemies have made you into weapons of various kinds, ranging from swords and shurikens to laser guns and drinkable potions.
What I'm trying to say is, you obviously haven't had an easy go of things, and for that, I'm sorry.
But, that's not the real reason I'm writing this letter. I am actually writing this to thank you, Kryptonite.
Kryptonite, what you do to me is terrible. You take my powers away completely and put me in excruciating pain, but you have taught me more about what it means to be human than my parents ever did. Without you around, I'm invincible. I can fly, for God's sake. For all intents and purposes, I am a God among ants. Nobody in the universe can go toe-to-toe with me, not without you that is.
When you're around, I feel the weight of the world. Not in the sense where I'm holding it up, but where it's pulling me down. My skin feels soft, and sometimes I bleed. You teach me how to feel vulnerable, fallible... human. Although you may have brought Superman to the edge of destruction multiple times, without you Clark Kent would have died a long time ago.
You force me to pull away from my usual techniques. I have to approach a problem as if I weren't... well... me. As if I weren't Superman. As if I were Clark Kent.
This letter is getting a little long, so I think I'll finish up here. I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for saving my life.
Love,
Clark
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