How to Dismantle a Library
First, spend two years working as a library page. It’s an easy job, but hate it anyway. Hate being the only male employee, the only one who is still fifty years away from retirement. Hate how the library smells like them, like cracked, wrinkled skin, and perfume which is supposed to smell like strawberries and doesn’t and the way you suppose a shadow smells. Take your breaks outside, just to smell something else. Even if it’s raining. Know in your gut that anything is better than the smell of all that paper and dust and dying.
Work for two years, and get fed up. Put in your two weeks notice, and then go to work for real.
Right beneath their noses, swap everything. Reverse the alphabet. Make the Dewey Decimal system count from 0 to 499.99 and then reverse. Hide 500-600 in the Children’s section. 900 should end up next to Q. Put the travel books in backwards, except for the third world countries. Do all of this while you aren’t on the clock. Sacrifice free time. This is special.
Take a screencap of every computer’s desktop. Hide all of the program shortcuts. The set the picture as the background. Watch ancient women click relentlessly at nothing, and re-boot twenty times in a row. Enjoy your revenge. Don’t feel bad about it, when you leave. They never pay you even minimum wage, anyway.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Inheritance
Inheritance
In Finland, they don’t use the flag like we do in America. They don’t fly from front porches every morning. You’ll never see little plastic Finnish flags flying from toothpicks taped to a convenience store register. The Finnish National Flag only flies in all of its glory from the front of state buildings on national holidays.
My mother learned all of this when she spent her junior year abroad in Finland. I can see her perfectly, drunk on vodka, bored, wandering around through grey ice streets and searing her lungs with a cigarette, listening to her friend Anna prattle on. I can see them stopping to look, two girls in shapeless black pea coats, watching that flag hang limp, stark blue and white against the darkening grey infinity sky. I can see her drop the butt into dirty snow, reaching for another, saying, “I want that.”
Deciding. Ignoring Anna’s annoying yammering, walking straight for the flag pole, not looking around – because if you look like you don’t belong, you don’t – stripping off her thick gloves, coffin nail hanging forgotten on her lips, taking down this flag. Only, it’s bigger than she realized, and as it drops, it billows out, wrapping around her and Anna, cracking in the sudden wind. The latch sticks, and for a moment my mother is afraid, but she folds the flag carefully, reverent in the cold, her head wreathed in smoke. She shoves the flag under her coat, and walks away with her trophy, to hang it on a wall, and then put it away in a trunk, where one day I will find it, and after that, I’ll pass it on to my son. Maybe I’ll tell him the story.
In Finland, they don’t use the flag like we do in America. They don’t fly from front porches every morning. You’ll never see little plastic Finnish flags flying from toothpicks taped to a convenience store register. The Finnish National Flag only flies in all of its glory from the front of state buildings on national holidays.
My mother learned all of this when she spent her junior year abroad in Finland. I can see her perfectly, drunk on vodka, bored, wandering around through grey ice streets and searing her lungs with a cigarette, listening to her friend Anna prattle on. I can see them stopping to look, two girls in shapeless black pea coats, watching that flag hang limp, stark blue and white against the darkening grey infinity sky. I can see her drop the butt into dirty snow, reaching for another, saying, “I want that.”
Deciding. Ignoring Anna’s annoying yammering, walking straight for the flag pole, not looking around – because if you look like you don’t belong, you don’t – stripping off her thick gloves, coffin nail hanging forgotten on her lips, taking down this flag. Only, it’s bigger than she realized, and as it drops, it billows out, wrapping around her and Anna, cracking in the sudden wind. The latch sticks, and for a moment my mother is afraid, but she folds the flag carefully, reverent in the cold, her head wreathed in smoke. She shoves the flag under her coat, and walks away with her trophy, to hang it on a wall, and then put it away in a trunk, where one day I will find it, and after that, I’ll pass it on to my son. Maybe I’ll tell him the story.
A Warm Day in November
A Warm Day in November
Matthew rinsed his hands under the sink. He was thirty-two. He was washing away the blood that kept welling up from the long shallow cut which snaked across the back of his left hand. He was rinsing with soap, rubbing his hands dry. These were the things he could think about.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew watched as trails of red ran down the back of his hand, each one never moving the same way as the last. They all fell onto the steering wheel. The car’s heat was on full blast, and Matthew’s windshield was beginning to fog over.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew stood in the silence of New England winter trees. He opened a box of chocolate chip cookies, and dumped them out. The showered onto the ground, dirt brown. Matthew leaned down to touch one, and his hand brushed the tip of a thorn sprouting from a vine which had somehow managed to survive the frost. A thin, curving line opened on the back of his hand.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew drove away from the church. The parking lot was filled and cars spilled onto the grass. Matthew’s car was the only thing moving. A box full of cookies sat on the seat next to him.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew stood in the lobby of the church. He looked through a window. The room was full of dark suits. A group of high school boys were singing, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. They were crying. Matthew clutched a box in his arms.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew dressed himself in a dark blue shirt and black pants. He had no tie to wear, and this embarrassed him. He walked downstairs, his steps measured. His grey haired mother asked him to drop a box off for the wake.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew held Samantha in his arms as she cried. It was three in the morning. They were the only ones in the hospital waiting room. It smelled like pine-sol and cheap carpeting. There was nothing he could say.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew sat in a chair that was too small for him. Out the small window to his left, he could see the lights of Chicago falling away past the blinking red wing-light.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew called his mother. He said things like, it will be ok. I love you. I know. I’m coming home.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew answered the phone, and a friend from high school said things like, Samantha’s son was hit by a school bus today. An accident. A tragedy. He said things like, the funeral is Saturday. She needs you again.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew sat in his apartment, trying to write a poem. He thought he was trying to write about winter in Chicago, but it was about loneliness.
* * * * *
Before that, a boy named George walked out of his front door. He was fifteen, and his mother always said he looked like one of her old friends. About how handsome he was. He decided he was going to ride his bike to school. It wasn’t far, and it was a strangely warm day for November in Connecticut.
Matthew rinsed his hands under the sink. He was thirty-two. He was washing away the blood that kept welling up from the long shallow cut which snaked across the back of his left hand. He was rinsing with soap, rubbing his hands dry. These were the things he could think about.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew watched as trails of red ran down the back of his hand, each one never moving the same way as the last. They all fell onto the steering wheel. The car’s heat was on full blast, and Matthew’s windshield was beginning to fog over.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew stood in the silence of New England winter trees. He opened a box of chocolate chip cookies, and dumped them out. The showered onto the ground, dirt brown. Matthew leaned down to touch one, and his hand brushed the tip of a thorn sprouting from a vine which had somehow managed to survive the frost. A thin, curving line opened on the back of his hand.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew drove away from the church. The parking lot was filled and cars spilled onto the grass. Matthew’s car was the only thing moving. A box full of cookies sat on the seat next to him.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew stood in the lobby of the church. He looked through a window. The room was full of dark suits. A group of high school boys were singing, Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. They were crying. Matthew clutched a box in his arms.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew dressed himself in a dark blue shirt and black pants. He had no tie to wear, and this embarrassed him. He walked downstairs, his steps measured. His grey haired mother asked him to drop a box off for the wake.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew held Samantha in his arms as she cried. It was three in the morning. They were the only ones in the hospital waiting room. It smelled like pine-sol and cheap carpeting. There was nothing he could say.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew sat in a chair that was too small for him. Out the small window to his left, he could see the lights of Chicago falling away past the blinking red wing-light.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew called his mother. He said things like, it will be ok. I love you. I know. I’m coming home.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew answered the phone, and a friend from high school said things like, Samantha’s son was hit by a school bus today. An accident. A tragedy. He said things like, the funeral is Saturday. She needs you again.
* * * * *
Before that, Matthew sat in his apartment, trying to write a poem. He thought he was trying to write about winter in Chicago, but it was about loneliness.
* * * * *
Before that, a boy named George walked out of his front door. He was fifteen, and his mother always said he looked like one of her old friends. About how handsome he was. He decided he was going to ride his bike to school. It wasn’t far, and it was a strangely warm day for November in Connecticut.
Heritage
Heritage
The way she told it, you only had five minutes to eat your meals in Officers Candidate School. This was just one more way for the Navy to make you into the person they needed. The way she told it, you had to shovel in your food as fast as possible. Growing up a Navy brat, she was used to ridiculous things. Rebecca took it as a challenge, and never failed. Even when the young man sitting next to her started choking on a piece of iceberg lettuce, she stopped only to say to the sergeant, “Excuse me, but this boy is choking.” You had to eat, she told me. Still, she was the only one to say anything.
Later, he came and found her. His name was Glen, he said – and with all of the solid confidence he would instill in me, he asked if the next time they were off duty, he could take her out for a drink. You take care of the ones who save your life, Glen told her.
They eloped in Newport, Rhode Island – Rebecca didn’t tell anyone, Glen had no one to tell. After they were married in August with the sea at their backs, the Navy did its best to punish them for it. My mother withdrew. The way she told it, she’d found the stability she’d been looking for. My father stayed, standing both of their full-kit punishment watches. I can see him there, alone on the edge of a chain-link fence at three in the morning, somewhere in the middle of two consecutive six hour watches, holding both of them up with ease.
The way she told it, you only had five minutes to eat your meals in Officers Candidate School. This was just one more way for the Navy to make you into the person they needed. The way she told it, you had to shovel in your food as fast as possible. Growing up a Navy brat, she was used to ridiculous things. Rebecca took it as a challenge, and never failed. Even when the young man sitting next to her started choking on a piece of iceberg lettuce, she stopped only to say to the sergeant, “Excuse me, but this boy is choking.” You had to eat, she told me. Still, she was the only one to say anything.
Later, he came and found her. His name was Glen, he said – and with all of the solid confidence he would instill in me, he asked if the next time they were off duty, he could take her out for a drink. You take care of the ones who save your life, Glen told her.
They eloped in Newport, Rhode Island – Rebecca didn’t tell anyone, Glen had no one to tell. After they were married in August with the sea at their backs, the Navy did its best to punish them for it. My mother withdrew. The way she told it, she’d found the stability she’d been looking for. My father stayed, standing both of their full-kit punishment watches. I can see him there, alone on the edge of a chain-link fence at three in the morning, somewhere in the middle of two consecutive six hour watches, holding both of them up with ease.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
Micro Fiction (part 2)
Here's the second; this is from an exercise where the entire piece had to be one sentence in length.
Five Seconds of Serenity
Step out of the shower into a world of fog spreading over you – thick steam filling the cracks and spaces of this room, reaching for your blurry eyes, into your mind and through your skin to clean you out, winding its way down to renew you – it’s all that matters for the longest moment, this sudden gray shading everything around you for eyes which refuse to squint, which – for this once – revel in their broken ability to see; your mind stilled, its mad spinning of questions and stories and insecurities which wage war with confidence and concrete truth and the scrap of some song buried in the whirlwind is slowed in this shroud – and in less than a moment, between the heartbeats when you step onto the cracked linoleum and reach out for the slightly damp, too small towel hanging in sudden blue from the doorknob, here in this white oblivion, the cold will rush in, will wind its way under the door and through this steam to find every water drop clinging to your numb skin, will smash into your hair and your toes and trace its burning way over you, ripping this serenity from you and tearing it into quaking pieces, and you will shiver, and you will shiver and clench your body, folding in on yourself like a broken origami star, and you will shiver as you towel yourself off, trying to be dry, shivering, and shiver, and shiver, trying with all of the will power in your body to ignore the water in your hair and on your legs which refuses to loose its grip – in a second, you will be cold again, but for now, here in this serene shroud of warmth, blind, you are tall, strong, and clean.
Five Seconds of Serenity
Step out of the shower into a world of fog spreading over you – thick steam filling the cracks and spaces of this room, reaching for your blurry eyes, into your mind and through your skin to clean you out, winding its way down to renew you – it’s all that matters for the longest moment, this sudden gray shading everything around you for eyes which refuse to squint, which – for this once – revel in their broken ability to see; your mind stilled, its mad spinning of questions and stories and insecurities which wage war with confidence and concrete truth and the scrap of some song buried in the whirlwind is slowed in this shroud – and in less than a moment, between the heartbeats when you step onto the cracked linoleum and reach out for the slightly damp, too small towel hanging in sudden blue from the doorknob, here in this white oblivion, the cold will rush in, will wind its way under the door and through this steam to find every water drop clinging to your numb skin, will smash into your hair and your toes and trace its burning way over you, ripping this serenity from you and tearing it into quaking pieces, and you will shiver, and you will shiver and clench your body, folding in on yourself like a broken origami star, and you will shiver as you towel yourself off, trying to be dry, shivering, and shiver, and shiver, trying with all of the will power in your body to ignore the water in your hair and on your legs which refuses to loose its grip – in a second, you will be cold again, but for now, here in this serene shroud of warmth, blind, you are tall, strong, and clean.
Micro Fiction
Some new Micro Fiction pieces here. First one is a confessional.
Confessional
How do you write a confession to yourself? How do you do it? Do you describe your feelings when you can’t order them in your head? Do you say that? If it reaches your point, and if your voice flows through your pen into an ink jumble, do you laugh? Do you refuse to look at it, instead dropping letters in your wake like the deranged debris of a forgotten poet drifter who can’t remember his name? Do you cherish it? Do you raise it up on a pedestal and refuse to acknowledge its flaws – or worse, see flaws as beauty? Do you keep yourself blind? Do you keep yourself blind? How do you write what you already know? How do you describe something that’s a part of everything, that can’t even be seen? Do you write around it? Do you throw words at it until you think you hit? Or do you aim, and breathe, and fire with your voice, blazing metaphor like lead and leave only smoking trails of ink curling from your guns? Do you look it in the eye? Do you refuse to shrink away from the truth you see so clearly? I’m addressing you. What are you going to do?
Confessional
How do you write a confession to yourself? How do you do it? Do you describe your feelings when you can’t order them in your head? Do you say that? If it reaches your point, and if your voice flows through your pen into an ink jumble, do you laugh? Do you refuse to look at it, instead dropping letters in your wake like the deranged debris of a forgotten poet drifter who can’t remember his name? Do you cherish it? Do you raise it up on a pedestal and refuse to acknowledge its flaws – or worse, see flaws as beauty? Do you keep yourself blind? Do you keep yourself blind? How do you write what you already know? How do you describe something that’s a part of everything, that can’t even be seen? Do you write around it? Do you throw words at it until you think you hit? Or do you aim, and breathe, and fire with your voice, blazing metaphor like lead and leave only smoking trails of ink curling from your guns? Do you look it in the eye? Do you refuse to shrink away from the truth you see so clearly? I’m addressing you. What are you going to do?
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
A Very Old One
I was plumbing the depths of my writing folder, and found a poem from a year and a half ago that I thought I'd lost. Enjoy!
Sketch From The Sun-Lit Benches
On my door I've written my own motto -
"Imposed form is Imposed frame of mind."
It's not an indictment of
any sort of classical poetry -
I don't pretend to be above it,
I'm not claiming to be offended by iambic pentameter -
or loathe being trapped inside
the parallels of a sonnet.
It's a reminder.
A reminder that voice needs freedom - that truth
only comes when we free ourselves to say
exactly what we want to say.
Imposed form is imposed frame of mind
is a warning.
Beware, beware -
stifled voice is a taint to the soul and
bottling voice puts
horrible pressure on yourself
that increases and expands,
as its feasts on everything
inside that you treasure,
defend as being a part of you
and absolutely necessary to your survival.
Imposed form is imposed frame of mind is a reminder
to live your life.
To find an outlet for pulsing creative consciousness -
why I spill ink onto torn,
raped sheets of virgin notebooks -
to run howling in the streets because there's just too much to
hold inside -
to sketch and draw and shade in the world with your life -
to find a way to leave your mark -
write your chorus
and hum your melody
scream and shout and dance
and sing
and to do it
in your own mind, with your own voice,
and a free, beating heart.
I'm learning to live for myself -
I'm learning to live my life for me - to live honestly,
I'm learning to live
in the space between moments
the heartbeats between the flash of lightning I'm counting
one, two, three
till the rolling rumble of life begins again
Cherishing the good moments
the mornings when I can run and revel in the pounding
beat of feet meeting pavement in the heart of
my city
the mornings when the sun envelops -
warmth and light melding together and bringing slow smile
to face.
The mornings when pen scratches over paper
so fast that i can't keep up and
the wheel that spins out my thread of consciousness
is throwing sparks -
The musician loves his callused hands
for the proof that they give -
physical evidence that those hands produce the
music he hears in his head,
screaming out of cerebellum to fingertips
to be summoned into the world as
rhythm
melody
improving the world as it strengthens his soul and
hardens his hands -
each note leaves an impression on his body
We're all living for the mornings
and so accept the nights - when they come,
and we thank fully
that they're rare - when loneliness strikes
and slips tendrils into head and
heart and makes you groan
and when you drop off to sleep,
exhausted from the struggle -
The nights are the price we pay, the
debt to work off -
we're living for the moments
when the world is quiet.
Sketch From The Sun-Lit Benches
On my door I've written my own motto -
"Imposed form is Imposed frame of mind."
It's not an indictment of
any sort of classical poetry -
I don't pretend to be above it,
I'm not claiming to be offended by iambic pentameter -
or loathe being trapped inside
the parallels of a sonnet.
It's a reminder.
A reminder that voice needs freedom - that truth
only comes when we free ourselves to say
exactly what we want to say.
Imposed form is imposed frame of mind
is a warning.
Beware, beware -
stifled voice is a taint to the soul and
bottling voice puts
horrible pressure on yourself
that increases and expands,
as its feasts on everything
inside that you treasure,
defend as being a part of you
and absolutely necessary to your survival.
Imposed form is imposed frame of mind is a reminder
to live your life.
To find an outlet for pulsing creative consciousness -
why I spill ink onto torn,
raped sheets of virgin notebooks -
to run howling in the streets because there's just too much to
hold inside -
to sketch and draw and shade in the world with your life -
to find a way to leave your mark -
write your chorus
and hum your melody
scream and shout and dance
and sing
and to do it
in your own mind, with your own voice,
and a free, beating heart.
I'm learning to live for myself -
I'm learning to live my life for me - to live honestly,
I'm learning to live
in the space between moments
the heartbeats between the flash of lightning I'm counting
one, two, three
till the rolling rumble of life begins again
Cherishing the good moments
the mornings when I can run and revel in the pounding
beat of feet meeting pavement in the heart of
my city
the mornings when the sun envelops -
warmth and light melding together and bringing slow smile
to face.
The mornings when pen scratches over paper
so fast that i can't keep up and
the wheel that spins out my thread of consciousness
is throwing sparks -
The musician loves his callused hands
for the proof that they give -
physical evidence that those hands produce the
music he hears in his head,
screaming out of cerebellum to fingertips
to be summoned into the world as
rhythm
melody
improving the world as it strengthens his soul and
hardens his hands -
each note leaves an impression on his body
We're all living for the mornings
and so accept the nights - when they come,
and we thank fully
that they're rare - when loneliness strikes
and slips tendrils into head and
heart and makes you groan
and when you drop off to sleep,
exhausted from the struggle -
The nights are the price we pay, the
debt to work off -
we're living for the moments
when the world is quiet.
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