30 July 2009

"So we're all together in this, right?

Just tell me now if you don't think that we're all up to this."
Everyone gives some sort of flighty but definite response. Definite not indicating conviction, but the understood consequences of equivocation--get-the-fuck-out-I-thought-we-were-friends-do-you-even-care? Except that everyone does want to get the fuck out, and they did think they were friends, and they don't even care. Because this is fucking stupid. This is probably the dumbest thing that all of them have ever done.

It's not that they even want to do it; but, it's like how you'll carefully deposit your car into a cement wall--tin can carefully accordioned into a small space maybe where a bird had once built a nest--so you don't hit a fucking racoon. Or a squirrel. A chipmunk, a rabbit, a cat, a dog, a kindergartener. All perceived each the other to be more or less as innocent as all of these critters. Even the omnivores. And most of them are vegetarian.

Bad news. Cue the coroner trying to find teeth to see if anyone was actually in the car. Picture a squirrel in a tree overlooking the cameraman and the reporter--whole hoard of teeth saved up for winter. One could argue that teeth are seeds and nuts--they have roots. What would grow if you planted a tooth? A little brother or sister? A new best friend? But roots don't mean things grow. It just means they're hard to uproot.

Things used to be so great. Something outside of all of our controls must have happened to make things be this way. If you thought they were right, you'd probably be right. If you thought they were wrong, you'd probably be right. It's all just so sad that their childhoods, their first girlfriends or boyfriends, made them save so much energy, affection, Feelings, that when they finally sprouted, those roots went fuckin' deep. I quote:

The distribution of vascular [read: emotional] plant [read: human] roots within soil [read: the Scene] depends on plant form [read: personality], the spatial and temporal availability of water [read: love] and nutrients [read: affection], and the physical properties of the soil [read: the Scene again]. The deepest roots are generally found in deserts [read: deserts] ... The majority of roots on most plants [read: people] are however found relatively close to the surface where nutrient [read: emotional] availability and aeration [read: exposure] are more favourable for growth. Rooting depth may be physically [read: emotionally] restricted by rock [read: overly Christian parents, stepdads, etc.] or compacted soil [read: you moved a lot when you were a kid, maybe] close below the surface, or by anaerobic soil [read: emotionally suffocating] conditions.


So our characters in this story grew up in deserts. There's no real need for elaboration, but I'll indulge myself. They're human cacti. They grow in small groups, they conserve energy and emotions, and they have really fucking sharp spikes so they don't get eaten. You know, cactus spikes are just modified leaves. Spinach and lettuce, they evolved so you could eat the juicy leaves. Cacti evolved to keep you away. Think about that for a second. So they end up just sitting around and waiting for that thick and fast rain to last them the rest of the year, but end up withstanding dust storm after dust storm.

Don't get me wrong. If you can get close enough to one, everything inside just comes tumbling out. You can make tequila or eat the fruit that's so full of seeds that it's almost not worth swallowing or spitting them out to eat the juicy, delicious emotional ovary. The downside is that if you do get at what's inside, most of it's just going to fall onto the dry-tiled desert floor, disappear into the small caves (remember that this is the Scene). Then the other jealous cacti, after a short time, get to feed on its insides and make themselves feel better. Did I mention that cacti are green with envy? I forgot to mention that. That's an important metaphor.

So out of some fucked up idea of what will help--not praying, or any shit like that, they're sure--they've decided to do something stupid that's just going to make everything worse. Cacti survive the way they survive because that's the only way they can survive. This isn't some rich, thick rainforest. You take what you can get, hold it in when you can, and only try to give back enough to keep it coming.

29 July 2009

false starts

sing songey...homemade winey...paper cup sip sip dissappeary...

ive become lost down the paper barrell of a cigarrette for a sign that all the pretty singing wont break the streak i have going...
just thinking my way through every dream ive had in the past week..waiting it out.
if cataloged it would line up chronologically thusly:

monday-tornado dream. shattering glass. blades of grass cutting paper thin red ropes through my cheek bones
tuesday- moving trucks dust and fruit flies
wednesday- copper wires and tongue rings
thursday- helicopter chase scene through red letter desert sunsets

and here they collide on a friday evening...sketch scenes coagulating to the rhythm of a heart murmer.. pitter pattering through my feet on an old carpet in a friendly living room.
and i remember that dreams are boring. and im very tired of characterizations and their empty projections.

so some action.... i expect the me here to get up at any minute and collide with a friendly meeting on the street. any street in america perhaps or with any luck and with enough wine then maybe a freighter out of dodge into the murky depths and possibility. but it just so happens that im landlocked and i have to limit my scopes. so i sit in place and wait for my lovely singing friends to get the spark to take to the streets. to ramble out for nowhere go...no home close...only further and often...

nothing catelogued
nowhere charted
all the time

these expectations are met with more and more drunken guitar sing alongs and fruit flies cruising low... dodging lighter flames and sudden air currents of shouted 90's.......oh! but wait whats that?!
out the door now. just close enough. in this shapeshifting cobble stone neighborhood. something dark. open. willing. calling out?

is this me?

who is that shadow standing in the door way...?
the gloom of tomorrow's hangovers? promises too excited and shifting to keep up with? worse- my collecting anxieties of sunken bridges across tomorrows possibilities....

oh well..best not mull over it now.... the moon hangs low in a strange misty summer midnight and i havent the courage to contend with its countless scores of destitute phantoms looking to steal my relative sanity...to steal off to a mystery and broken heart im not willing to stare in the eye

so i hold adventure at bay... for some other day...
some waking morning in the grass of a friends back yard... face to face with the death month of summer.. moanful greetings to he broken up dog days...
for all those wilted books on my shelves
and false starts.

28 July 2009

There was this really creepy kid I went to middle school with.

He was one of those too-small kinds of people. I mean, we were all kids, but he looked like he was five years old. Glasses, acne, froggy face--the whole dread package. One of my "girlfriends" at the time--scare quotes required to indicate the absurdity of the word, given how romantic two kids can be at 13... rather than a wink and a nudge towards my pubescent sexual prowess--anyway, she lived across two streets from this guy, and there was basically a straight shot from his bedroom window to her house... allegedly. The thing about her house, and I'm not making this up, is that a good 3/4 to 2/3 of the side facing his house was pure glass. I remember riding my bike and being weirded out by it, and when I was there, I felt like I was trapped in an ice cube.

Anyway, she swears that this guy used to watch her house with binoculars. Not look, but watch. She was very deliberate in her word choice. Of course, I was skeptical. Teenage girls can be a little dramatic, and I knew the kid. Of course he was weird, of course he wasn't winning any girls stuffed animals at festivals or getting invited to any fuckin' sleepovers. But me, I was and still am a bit of a charity case. Make no bones about it... I was no saint. I'd talk shit about him behind his back sometimes. I was a skinny teenager and he was fuckin' weird. I couldn't help it. But I was nice to him, and I did give him the benefit of the doubt--I figured he had to have better things to do than to stare into the massive glass wall of some girl's house. I knew for a fact that he played video games and listened to Rammstein. You can only do one of those things while watching a girl eat Cocoa Puffs in her pajamas.

Anyway, I hadn't heard anything about him or from him since some vague and uninteresting anecdote during high school or something like that. Nothing I'd ever remember. Other than pasting his face onto my mental image of the main character when we read A Prayer for Owen Meany in senior English, I hadn't considered the guy. Then a couple weeks ago, I'm at work, and someone from middle school comes in. Honestly, I'm not that happy to see her. Never really talked to her. We probably danced at a church dance once. She started doing drugs or something. Etc. Small town drama that small town kids get into with some pretty heavy consequences. I just remembered being pretty adamant on distancing myself from her since I got good grades and wasn't going to give up going to college and getting the fuck out of that town because I started sucking meth or got some girl pregnant. So she's in town just for the night, probably specifically to get good weed instead of the smelly bag of sticks and seeds you get in smalltown, Ohio. Of course she still lives in our hometown. So we're chatting a little bit.

She asks me, "Did you hear about **** **********?" The asterisks are for this is a true story. I mean, if it wasn't true, I wouldn't point it out. This shit is the honest-to-God truth. I jog my memory and look thoughtful for a second--all this stuff I'm talking about was about a decade ago, and he was just another person whose name I knew for a while.

"Oh, I remember him. No, why?"
"He went to jail for like... ever."
I was pretty taken aback. I felt like this kid had to have been perpetually incapable of physically overtaking anyone, and besides that he was basically a nice guy.
"Jesus Christ," I say, "What the hell did he do?"
"He raped his little brother." Maybe my ex-girlfriend hadn't been overreacting. Then again, maybe this is another dramatization of some poor kid who was born a couple months early or drank too much coffee when he was six. Honestly, I don't really want to know which of these two are true.

so there's this writer, right?

So there's this writer, right?
I knew this guy through a friend for years, he was living with her, and it was always the first thing anyone ever knew about this guy, that he is a writer. thing is: this guy never lets anyone read his writing. even though he writes a ton, not even his gf. This is contrasting with my other friend. This other guy wrote a short story one time years ago but hasn't written anything since. Still, first thing anyone knows about this guy is he's a writer. It just comes up somehow. The guy could be getting hit by a car and the driver, the cop and the bystanders would realize that the dude writes. But like I said, he just wrote a short story years back, and even that's hearsay far as I'm concerned. I mean, I've written short stories before. I've written more than one, but I'm not a "writer" you know?
Damn, Mooze, chill out. You're starting to sound "concerned" or somethin. You wanna be a writer just go tell folks that you're a writer too. Sounds like that's all there is to it.
But now they'll want me to prove it, see? And more than that, I don't really know how to act like a writer. If I try to go for a long-ass walk there's gotta be somethin wrong, right? like I can't just walk for inspiration. Or like, if a girl at the bar says something funny and I'm like "I'm gonna write a story about that" then I'm a fuckin juicer and everybody knows I'm jockin her.
-Eddy has to think for a while.
Put it on your facebook, then, after it's been sitting a while, put something unassuming in your status like "Mooze Morello has writers' crap"
-Now Mooze has to think for a while.
What the hell?
See folks will skip straight to asking you about what writer's crap is before they ask themselves if you're actually a writer. And you say it's like writer's cramp, but when you just write lots of crap. then get yourself a twitter account and write cryptic one-liners that make the stuff in your head seem so much more fascinating than it is.

-Eddy and Mooze are sitting at home again. broke as jokes waiting for night to roll in. if everything didn't feel like practice they might not be so worried about girls at the bar. These past few months have been different, dreams have melted into waking hours without any dramatic reactions from our dreamers. Eddy and Mooze and their respective circles of acquaintances have curiously perceived a widening of the distances between them not as a falling-out, but as a progressive knotting-into to which the only ready solution is, of course, falling out. If only this town didn't feel so large they might have more hope for each other.
-They've skirted the issue in conversation, not sure where to start, and more comfortable wishing they knew more people than admitting that they need new ways of knowing people, too. Plans and scheme melted into critiques of city and scene. It was only a matter of time before folks started to bad-talk whoever wasn't around. Fall-out is immanent, unless our heros can figure out what the fuck is going on and save the day and, most importantly, keep you (yes YOU) from wandering off to do whatever menial peasant-task you might be doing otherwise.

You see, you get them asking questions about your "work" as fast as possible, but you have to direct the questions so as you can answer them. This way you're automatically a writer, and they just have to content themselves with trying to figure out if you're any good or not. Hell you're old enough you could say you've been 'in a rut' for a few years and people might still believe that you established yourself in your early 20s before you got lazy and started rollin with me.
But then what's the point if I don't write anything good? What if I just wind up like a dude out looking for inspiration every morning and never letting anyone read anything?
that's The Thing, man: you don't take those walks so you can write, you write so you can take those walks.

-The ways that Eddy and Mooze will encounter and inhabit the impending Dramatic Situations will include attempts to detail the characteristics of Certain Relationships between Parties Unnamed, quasi-objects, idiot kids and, probably, usually, the devil. For the moment, Eddy has stumbled upon a hidden function or a system that manifests much like a bartering relationship. He's telling Mooze that there's something about going for a walk that can only be bought by asking idiot kids to think of you as one-who-writes.

*****
"owweeeee there it is again!" she's laugh-sobbing, painfully aware of the clenching in her gut, the wet around her eyes, the immediacy of her memories and the absurdity of her affliction, specters and shadows colliding at this moment in a bottle of Kroger brand honey-mustard.
This is Sal's way of communicating the Worst Thing that happens on Any Given Day. Despite innumerable pillow-talk sessions, moonlit walks, porch talks and badly-timed phone-calls her affliction, Bernard's memory, persists. Its vessels seem to be multiplying, and Lena has given up trying to keep Problem Objects out of Sal's line of sight.
Lena lights a cigarette. She's beginning to feel as if every time she held Sal's head, hand, or heart these three years has not been more than life-support for an elaborate plan to keep his ghost alive and haunting well. She's reminded of the woman who's disease grew addicted to antibiotics. Am I the drug or the doctor...

"what?"

"I mean get out of the fridge, Sal, or Imma lock you in there."
Sal holds the bottle to her navel, doubled over like she's kissing the plastic glass of the waist-high refrigerator shelf. There's not much else in the fridge, she could probably fit were lena to carry out her threat.
"C'mon, girl I haven't cleaned that fridge in years."
More success this time, Sal sort of slumps backwards, her tailbone leading the charge on the kitchen floor. She sits indian-style, curled over the bottle, salt-soaked brown curls making a mess of her face. The refrigerator door still open wide, casting the little white checkers on Sal's dress a dusty yellow. It's dust after daylight, no one flicked on the lights and, standing across the room, lena thinks she can see electric shapes in the grey-brown cloud above Sal's head.
"It's a condiment, Sal. You're crying over salad dressing."
Her voice sounds wrong: "Bernard always ordered chicken fingers when we went out. He'd dip them in this stuff. When he offered me bites I always pretended to like it."
Lena can't do this without another smoke.
"Anyway I might be crying over a condiment, but I'm crying about..."
They stay in place, realizing together that neither of them are able to tie that one off.
"Remember when we split up that time, right before I had to move? y'know that ashtray, that empty beer-bottle by the bed that you dropped your butts into for so long? I kept that beer-bottle, Lena. I moved all of my stuff two times that year and both times I couldn't get rid of that disgusting bottle. I didn't toss it until you'd been back for over a month."
"Just shut the door, babe. My eggs'll go bad"
Sal looks up for the first time; perks-up, even.
"Eggs don't go bad. They have their own protective shell around them. You don't even need to put them in the fridge."
It's strange living out The Worst Thing at least three times every week. Clearly more is at work here than missing a flight-attendant ex-boyfriend. Players, set and stage have all changed but some persistent relationship keeps this presence, what must manifest as none other than 'nard's boring, weepy ghost, alive and very involved in the bond between Lena and Sal. She shuts the door anyway. Lena walks over, takes the honey-mustard, pops the window and throws the bottle out. She's gotten pretty good at hitting the dumpster without walking outside.

*****

26 July 2009

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إن الطريق الذي نقبل عليه طويل وشاق

नकली

фальшивка

زائف

A week of U.S. diplomatic maneuvering in the Middle East began Sunday with special envoy George Mitchell meeting with Syrian President Bashar al-Assad before heading to Israel.

U.S. special envoy George Mitchell, right, and Syrian President Bashar al-Assad meet in Damascus on Sunday.

U.S. special envoy George Mitchell, right, and Syrian President Bashar al-Assad meet in Damascus on Sunday.

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Top U.S. defense officials, including Defense Secretary Robert Gates, also will be in Israel this week to meet with Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu and security counterparts.

Netanyahu, who has been at odds with President Obama's government on some key issues, welcomed the U.S. visitors.

"These important visits are part of a thick and strong network of ties between Israel and the United States, a network that has been in the past and continues to exist these days as well," Netanyahu said Sunday at the start of his weekly Cabinet meeting.

He added, "Naturally, even within the fabric of friendly relations between allies, there isn't full agreement on all points, and on different issues we are trying to reach that understanding so that we can together advance our common goals: peace, security and prosperity for the whole of the Middle East."

The Syrian Arab News Agency, or SANA, quoted Mitchell as saying his meeting with Assad was "important and positive." He told journalists the talks involved prospects for progress in reaching a comprehensive peace agreement in the region and bolstering U.S. ties with Syria, according to SANA.

Mitchell also said Obama believes a comprehensive peace agreement that offers security, stability and prosperity to all countries in the Middle East is the only way to end hostilities between Arabs and Israelis, SANA reported.

Last month, the United States signaled warming relations with Syria by announcing it intended to send a U.S. ambassador to Damascus for the first time in four years.

The United States withdrew its ambassador from Syria in 2005 in protest at the assassination of former Lebanese Prime Minister Rafik Hariri.

Washington accused Syria of being behind the killing of the popular statesman in a massive bombing that also left 22 others dead. Syria denies the accusation. An ongoing United Nations investigation has found indications of Syrian involvement.

A charge d'affaires has been the highest-level American diplomat in Damascus since 2005.

Mitchell, a former U.S. senator who is Obama's special Middle East envoy, visited Syria two weeks before the June announcement about returning an ambassador to the country.

UNDR a spredding chesnut tree
De villaj smifee stands;
The smif, a mitey man is he,
With larj and sinooy hanz;
An de mussels uv his brahny arms 5
R strong az iron banz.
Hiz hare iz crisp, and blak, and long,
His fase iz liek de tan;
Hiz braw iz wet wif awnest swet,
He urns whater he can, 10
And looks de hole werld in de fase,
4 he ohs not any man.
Week in, week owt, frum morn till nite,
Yoo can heer hiz belloz blo;
Yoo can heer him swing hiz hevy slej 15
Wif mezhurd beet and slo,
Liek a sextin ringing de villaj bel,
Wen de eevning sun iz lo.
And chilldren cumming hoem frum skool
Look in at de opin dor; 20
Dey luv 2 C de flayming forj,
And heer de bellohs ror,
And wach de berning sparks dat flie
Liek chaff frum a freshing-flor.
He goez on Sunday 2 de cherch, 25
And sits amung hiz boyz;
He heerz de parsun prae and preech,
He heerz hiz dawtr's voyss,
Singing in de villaj kwahyr,
And it mayks hiz hart reejoyss. 30
It sowndz 2 him liek hur mudder'z voyss,
Singing in Paradise!
He needz must tink uv hur wunts mor,
How in de grayv shee liez;
And wif hiz hard, ruff hand he wipes 35
A teer owt uv hiz ayes.
Toyling,—rejoyssing,—sarrowing,
Onwerd throo lief he goze;
Eech morning seez sum task begin,
Eech eevning seez it cloze; 40
Sumting uttempted, sumting dun,
Haz urnd a nite's repoze.
Tanks, tanks to dee, my worvy frend,
4 de lessin dou hast taut!
Dus at de flayming forj uv lief 45
Owr forchunz must bee rawt;
Dus on its sownding anvil shaypd
Eech berning deed and taut!

Also Sunday, U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton cited Israel's sovereign right to defend itself from an "existential threat" by Iran, affirming a similar comment in recent weeks by Vice President Joe Biden.

"They're not going to listen to other nations if they believe they are acting in the furtherance of their survival," Clinton said of Israel on the NBC program "Meet the Press."

On a trip to Asia last week, Clinton raised concerns about a softening of U.S. opposition to Iran developing a nuclear weapon when she commented that such a result would fail to strengthen Iran's regional influence.

Clinton said Sunday that U.S. policy remains firmly opposed to a nuclear-armed Iran.

"We believe as a matter of policy it is unacceptable for Iran to have nuclear weapons," she said.


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