Born of Myth: Part Four

IV. Black on White

            The morning sun danced on the lake and glowed in the droplets about Ratatoskr’s ears. Vera had joined him at the edge of the lake; she did not want to see him leave. She had already begun to count time until their next meeting. But squirrels must live alone, she thought. We are solitary creatures. Vera would care for the kits until they reached three months of age, however. The knowledge seemed to swell in her chest.

            Ratatoskr shook the water from his fur, and Vera followed suit. The light reflected on the snow and warmed them both. She tasted the mixed scent of the pine seeds, thimbleberries, and catkins she had buried nearby, a foot into the earth. The songs of the passerines drifted in and out of harmony but floated all the time among predators and prey alike.

            His eyes focused on the copper of her coat and the white brilliance in the bulge of her abdomen. Vera, too, slipped into a trance, the familiarity of which she found exclusive to Ratatoskr’s power over her. Yet, at this moment, she noticed that his eyes had begun to dart in all directions. She flew into the air at the explosion of his squawk, “RUN!”

            After the gunshot, Ratatoskr’s body sank into the snow. Vera did not see the girl crouched behind the berry bush, nor did she smell her. The squirrel’s surroundings blurred during the infinite journey to her den, only ten feet away. She thought time had reversed and imagined the seconds dripping into a kind of negative realm where death became life. In this world, everything was nothing. And nothing was everything.

            Four days after her escape, the intensity of Vera’s grief lightened with the birth of her three pink kits. At the first sign of their fur, she would delight in the complete blackness of the two smaller females. The larger male would also grow a black coat, but the whiteness of his underside would dazzle her. It was then that Vera would name him. He was, after all, born of myth.

fin

Born of Myth: Part Three

III. Ratatoskr

            Hours later, after she emerged at sunset, Vera spotted Drilltooth bathing at the edge of the lake near her home. She thought he was a gift from Providence to quell her fear of death. He fluttered at the periphery of her vision, and his black silhouette stung her eyes. She moved until their shadows touched. “Monsieur.” The chirp hit a low pitch, and Vera’s tail descended to the snow. She tittered.

            They huddled together in her drey, a nest made of twigs, dead leaves, and the remaining fur from her last molt. She loved the smell of the leaves as they decomposed. The odor amplified in their warmth; it mingled with the must of her scent and with the freshness of his. In the hollow of her trunk, they abandoned their defenses. Drilltooth yawned.

            “The little ones will arrive soon,” she clicked. “They scratch and thump like rabbits. They are eager to see the world, mon ange.”

            “You are frightened.”

            “Oui.”

            He shifted farther into the blanket of her fat. “This new world is not so different, ma chaton. Only, the humans have become prey to those from the stars. Or, perhaps they have been here all along. I do not know. I suspect.”

            “Here?”

            “Earth, ma chère.”

            Vera did not fathom his meaning, but neither did she press him. She could not keep her thoughts from the kits who grew inside her. “Will the little ones survive? These days, the danger does not stop. It never stops growing. The babies seem to know.”

            “They know nothing, ma minette. They will all reach six years. You will see them. They will all shine with beauty.” He nuzzled his nose into her ear. “You will see. They will smell like you.”

            “What if they die?”

            Drilltooth’s black, bottlebrush tail curled about her back, and he lowered his head to the leaves. “Everything dies, mon ange.” Vera searched his face when she heard the note of melancholy. His eyes glimmered in the darkness.

            He turned to her and chirped. “But there is rebirth. In the leaves. And in the grass. It all comes round.” He paused. “Death is nothing.”

            “It is everything.”

            “It is a veil. A sheer veil, mon amour. You know that.”

            Vera felt her anxiety evaporate. She breathed deeply and smirked. “What is your real name?”

            His laughter bounced off the walls of her den, a series of squeaks that made her beam. “Why must you know?” He hesitated. “Please do not laugh. My name is Ratatoskr.”

            The name was taken from legend, she knew. Ratatoskr had been a horned squirrel who scaled and descended the Great Tree in the forest across the ocean. He had carried messages between the Eagle above and the Snake below, gnawing away at the Tree all the while.

            “I am fond of it,” she clicked. “The name suits you perfectly, monsieur.”

            Soon thereafter, sleep caught the pair unawares. Night fell among the conifers and their cousins.

Born of Myth: Part Two

II. Predator and Prey

            The sun blared directly overhead, and Vera hopped from this shadow to that. The depth of snow varied from one spot to another because the trees caught some of the downfall. Her cheeks bulged with pine seeds, which she had pried from the fallen cones with her claws and incisors. Before working on the pinecones, she had sniffed them for bugs; if they were infested, she ate the seeds and the insects rather than storing the former. She needed to eat more than the typical pound of food per week, for her intense hunger accompanied the movements in her belly. Vera knew no fewer than three kits would arrive inside of a week.

            Early February brought with it less frequent but more focused thoughts of Drilltooth. It had been five weeks since they parted ways high in the pine tree where her present litter had been conceived. Before he left, he had nuzzled his head against her cheek and marked her with his scent. Her faintness had magnified with the clicks of his last words. “Adieu, ma cœur. We shall meet again in this life, to be sure!” He had smiled; his teeth had glistened. “Keep warm. Keep safe!” Then he had bounded through the branches, a black shadow in the moonlight. He was as a creature born of myth, she thought. Drilltooth.

            “Vera!”

It was a booming chirp, and she twisted around.

“Can it be you?”

The newcomer was a Grey squirrel. Her coat blended shades of heather and mahogany, and she was haphazardly groomed. Similar to Vera, her stomach and the underside of her tail were white. Her black eyes seemed to protrude.

“Amélie!” Vera saw that she, too, was pregnant. “How good it is to see you!”

Amélie sauntered near, and the two embraced; each knew that any meeting could be their last. Yet Vera was assured of her friend’s will to survive, for Amélie had managed to escape the previous year from the closest Green-bombed city. The refugee’s near-death state had frightened Vera no less than the strange words the former had muttered during her fever dreams. In her delirium, Amélie had spoken of the hunters of humans: Scaled Men with teeth that dripped and tails that lashed. After Vera had nursed her new friend back to health, the Grey squirrel chirped of bombs with emerald blasts. She had said they kept poison from the earth and that the Scaled Men told her this. “They told everyone,” Amélie had said, “Not with sounds but with thoughts. Everyone knew.”

Her words still caused Vera to shiver with fear and to wring her paws together. She had been glad to see Amélie leave, but now she exulted at this reunion.

“I see you are almost ready to bear,” Amélie clicked. From her left cheek she produced three mushrooms, each bathed in brilliant amber with a flourish of auburn about the crest. They smelled of the earth, rich with nutrients. “Take these, mon ami. They will nourish your kittens.”

“Ah!” Vera gasped with delight. “C’est incroyable! They are lovely! And so rare now with the cold. Are you positive you do not need them for your own little ones?”

“Take them. I have more.”

Vera threw her forearms around the startled Amélie. “Merci.”

“It is the least I could do.”

A twig snapped fewer than fifteen feet away from the pair. Vera and Amélie bolted in opposite directions toward the nearest tree. From behind a cedar adjacent to the one to which Amélie sprinted, a lynx pounced. It issued a scream that tingled Vera’s spine as she raced up her birch. The pound of its claws against the tree bark exploded in her chest. When Vera turned upon her bough, she saw that Amélie’s tail was caught under the cat’s paw. Specks of black dappled its white and gray fur, and the muscles beneath its skin pulsed as it worked to secure its grip. The lynx’s hind legs shifted position for better support while its left foreleg hugged the trunk to remain upright.

The Grey squirrel squealed and struggled. The din of her scratching forced Vera to recoil. Amélie’s tail was pinned between the middle two claws; it was the predator’s pad that trapped her. In order to pierce through her tail, the cat lifted its paw for a millisecond. The squirrel clawed up the cedar in a frenzy, too quickly for the lynx to follow. The rage in the feline’s scream chased Amélie as she flew away among the trees. The sound seemed to rip the air about Vera’s ears, and she watched, frozen, as the lynx spotted her. It bounded for the base of her birch, and she heard words in the rumble of its growl.

“I shall catch you this time.”

The kits writhed in her womb. She dashed up the tree and did not stop until she reached the location of her closest den, a kilometer away. 

Born of Myth: Part One

I. The Chase

The import of the chase took less time to register in her brain than it would have in that of a human. Her claws grasped onto the closest branch of the pine she hurdled toward. She achieved balance with her tail, which stretched straight, bushy and copper-colored. His scent reached her on the breeze, and she chortled in satisfaction; it had been the thing that won her over, the aroma that reminded her of the drey where she had birthed her first litter. The luster of his fur, all black, also drew her attention. The rarity of such a coat among Red squirrels would ensure the kits of her next litter were the envy of any who crossed their paths.

            “Hé, Drilltooth, hurry!” Her squawk echoed among the conifers, but she did not care. “I am going to leave you behind!” Yet she would wait here for him until he nearly reached her, and the chase would continue. They had been at it for almost two days.

            Drilltooth answered her squawk with one of his own. “I shall catch you this time, Vera.” The plume that was his tail lashed when he said her name. Vera entered a trance while she observed the grace of his flight among the branches. Following the rustle of each landing and the scraping of his claws across the bark, he sailed through the air and descended all the time. When he reached the neighboring tree, he scurried up its trunk until he met Vera’s level. He dashed along a bough that connected to the one upon which she sat, and her trance broke. She clawed her way to the base of the arm, and instead of leaping to the next tree she ran from him up, down, and around the diameter of the trunk. The two squirrels created a storm of scratching noises while they raced among a web of outcropping sprigs.

            Vera allowed him to trail only a foot in her wake. She squeaked when she thought that his eight-inch body presently, continuously, occupied the space left by her own. His breathing sounded in her ears, and the white fur on her belly lifted from the bark when he squawked at her without warning. There were no words in the harshness of his sound; there was only yearning. Vera lost control of the situation, and Drilltooth seized it. He clutched her about the chest. The chase was over. The sun was about to set.

            It was late December in Northern Alberta. The birch trees were presently naked, but snowfall would increase in the coming months. Red squirrels, who otherwise lived solitary lives outside of kit rearing, would find partners with whom to huddle for survival. Nestled deep in their dens, they would shiver inside the trunks of trees. One’s warmth would fade into another’s, and, for a night, the two would be united against the elements. In the morning, the guest would take his leave. Their paths would cross again.

            Drilltooth reclined on the base of a bough against the trunk, his feet pointed upward. “Ma chère,” he clicked. “How are you going to be this winter? Will you have gathered enough?”

            “I have been very diligent, monsieur. The little ones will not want for anything.” Vera stood a few paces from him, but his piney scent drew her closer. “Why do you call yourself Drilltooth?”

            “Because, petite amie. I gnaw at the trees, more than anyone else. I am always causing them destruction, yet they continue to grow. You will not find cleaner teeth in this land.”

            Her tail twitched, and she averted her gaze. “Drilltooth… You are beautiful.”

            At that moment, the sound of a gunshot traveled through the forest. The two of them stood upright and motionless except for their eyes, which flitted hither and thither. They scanned both the branches and the ground forty feet below. Their noses nearly missed the scent of gun smoke. The hoot of a Great Grey Owl pervaded the silence. It haunted them with its prowess. A series of footsteps commenced, and then they ceased.

            “These days, humans hunt often.”

            “They have been driven from their Metal Trees, which stand no more.”

            “Since the Green Explosions, some of them live here. They, too, are hunted.”

            “Their world has ended. And now they hunt everyone.”

            Vera and Drilltooth recited this exchange as they had done previously but with different partners throughout their two years of life. Their mothers had taught them of new dangers with these words. The owls, cats, weasels, and wolves, too – Everyone knew.

Offset Aggression

   The Cat is an affectionate whore. He purrs in your lap and marks your knee thoroughly, but then his teeth scrape across your skin because you move. On rare occasions you accept his reprimand; you feel guilty for the things you decide to withhold from him, and now you're convinced he’s been avoiding you since yesterday because you replaced the old litter with new. Not a speck of his odor remains.

   Yet this morning, even though you’ve encroached, Hotspur the Cat purrs in your lap. He pushes his cheek against your fingers, and you indulge him with a massage while you enjoy the silkiness of his calico fur. Then, he explodes with a sneeze and abandons you to sit on John's lap. You take offense, but your amusement at their bliss wins out because of the infectiousness of John’s delight. Before you leave the bed, you decide to wash your hands and then shave. But first, you give the man a thought.

   For the most part, John Kuroda's humbleness offsets antagonism. He is conservative with the information he shares and manages to maintain a relationship with anyone who shows him the least bit of affection. During ruptures in the peace of these relationships, during times when participating parties complain about neglect, John endures because he believes “the good times are worth it.” Even without his tiresome handsomeness, John could get by on charisma alone.

   In months previous, John pelted Hotspur out the patio door. After he caught your furtive feline walking along the counter to sink his fangs into one of your Cornish game hens, out the door the Cat went. But Hotspur, in the midst of other forbidden preoccupations, learned to engineer his escape in John's presence. So John, noting the Cat’s love of outdoor freedom, took to the firing of Nerf projectiles instead. “Not only is it necessary discipline,” he said, “but also wonderful target practice. Win-win.” You snorted and grudgingly acknowledged his point.

   You let John do what he wants, but now you tell him from the bathroom to strip the bed before he goes to Café Brazil. In the middle of the shave, the blade nicks your skin because Hotspur’s hiss-and-spit startles you. The “sorry” beneath John's laughter elicits a growl beneath your breath. The blood reminds you of the mess of cum on the floor – probably long ingested by the Cat at this point.

   “Will you put the gun down, please, and start the coffee before you go? Have some too.” You reach for toilet paper to sop up the mess, but the blood won’t stop. The creak of the front door travels.

   “Actually, it’s time I leave,” says John. “She’s waiting by now.”

   You move to where you can see him by the door, your face half-white and a little red. John looks back and then glances down at Hotspur who, despite everything, reaches up to knead his thigh.

   “Leave, then.” Through the doorway, past John’s averted guilt, you can see the stairs.

   “I know I told you this, but don’t say anything.” John looks up again. “I’m not ready.”

   “I know. Go to your lunch. Tell her I say hi. And tell her to find me online. We haven’t spoken since graduation.”

   “She misses you, Andrew. She said that. But then she talks a lot.”

   He disappears behind the closed door, and Hotspur protests. You’ll never know whether the Cat’s meows spring from John’s leaving or from the extinguished possibility of escape. Nevertheless, the complaints irritate you, and thoughts of Yumi Kotaro incite anger. Forgotten beneath the gun, the scarf you gave John makes you uncomfortably aware of your own presence.

   Hotspur prances between your feet to the litter box and bitches over the clean substrate. “Mark it up, then!” you snap and forget about the blood until you see it dribble in the mirror. The droplet falls from your chin onto the floor, and the Cat slinks his way over. 

  

On the Beautiful Blue Danube: Part 3

     When we look on the past we find colors limned in either vibrancy or dullness. Unless pleasant or putrid, scents settle into dormancy until we brush with them again. While dots on the past timeline become rigid objectively, other points gain animation and begin to mash in our heads. They scramble to anticipate the motion of the pinpricks that waver about the future with indiscernible frequency and order. In our heads, we see what we want to see, and we strive to connect everything because of our sense that everything actually is connected. Emotion alters memory as a writer embellishes a story.

     It seems to me that many months have passed since my return from Europe, so Prague and Vienna begin to merge in my memory. Without looking at my notes, the first thing I remember about Prague is its surfeit of cobblestone. Stretching to eternity beneath renovated buildings, these stone walks of two-inch cubes form into designs that sometimes move under clumsy feet and tipsy minds. Groups of men always hammer them into the ground one after the other. These groups repair and replace old stones with new, black, white, and grey.

     They – the men and their stones, the minute and numerous garbage trucks – keep the city pristine. They all ensure that Prague remains worthy of being seen by eyes the world over. Conscientious strollers dress quite fashionably; they put us all to shame. Yet, the shopping is cheap because of reluctance regarding the conversion from crown to euro. Restaurants, etc. near and around Old Town Square make practice of scamming tourists and chase them away to Vienna, I suppose, where music fills the streets.

     On the popular streets of Vienna, quartets count time and hearken back to another age when musical giants gravitated to the city. Mozart, Beethoven, Schubert, and Strauss are paid homage by men clad in 18^th-century garb. They gesture and prompt ticket sales to upcoming performances at the Vienna State Opera House. They speak German and English while they extend pamphlets to diverse bands of people dispersing and assembling around musicians and cafés.

     Warm with wine, we hop from this café to that. We eat cake and visit Haus der Musik, the museum of sound and music where science and history nestle into its floors. On the big screen of the interactive installation at the peak, the Vienna Philharmonic applauds the successes or jeers at the failures of baton-wielding conductors. We experts follow the rhythm of The Blue Danube and a myriad other classical works.

     I wonder now if we could have taken the Danube River from Budapest to Prague and then to Vienna. Maybe then, along a smoother flow, the memories wouldn’t blend so soon. Moreover, I know that journeys through several time zones tend to damage “internal clocks”; they cast a haze over “reality.” So now, here in Kansas, back here in the center of the most developed part of the New World, I’ll ground myself. I’ll relish the moments and forget about the seconds between now and the time I choose to see the world again. 

Footless on the Charles Bridge but ready for rain in Prague

Fin

On the Beautiful Blue Danube: Part 2

The legend goes that the Danube River appears blue only to the eyes of those in love. Its brown color ceases to register, and a lover can either struggle or submit while the beautiful blue consumes him. He familiarizes with insanity after he accepts that he has no choice; he has only love. Through release, he experiences unconditionality and forgives everything because of an itchy feeling that death is the alternative. 

On the 14^th and 15^th of July, 2012, servers caroused about the tables at my brother and sister-in-law's wedding reception in Hungary. They sported trays that overflowed with shots. We consumed them incessantly, and I thought the servers encouraged insanity and emotion. They watched while I tried to keep from overflowing during the groom's visual presentation, which was at first a history of their relationship and then a musical, lip-synched tribute to it. 

In retrospect, the bride and groom drank in the beautiful blue and even succeeded in making the brown a little less murky for (most of) the rest of us. They looked at each other during the ceremony and created indelible imprints on their minds. Each was determined to remember the other's body language and facial expressions. Each was prepared to discern the layers of thought and feeling that flashed beneath the oceans in the other’s eyes. 

I was envious, even jealous. Embarrassingly, I imagined my own ceremony and created the features of my love's face. I made severe angles, a subtle smile, and kind eyes that revealed his desire - even there - before God. He had not only this yearning but also ardent devotion that both ruffled and comforted me. His touch with the ring reinforced my idea of him as we stood in front of our immediate family and closest friends. 

I got a little insane that night, but I kept it hidden beneath a coating that only a few knew how to nibble. I took shots, and I danced alone, and I thought of how scandalous the waltz was when it was new. People dancing in such close proximity - they threw it in our faces, really. So, in front of everyone, I did the Twist. After the fireworks, I got tired and overwhelmed. In bed I got a headache, and the next day I threw up four times. 

They're about to cut through the coating, and we're all about to eat cake

On the Beautiful Blue Danube: Part 1

     Through the blue tinted windows in the rooms of Art'otel Budapest, my family and I gazed on the Danube River every morning. Its brown color transformed into one more favorable, more fitting, to Johann Strauss's waltz "The Blue Danube." Cyclers made constant use of the path on our side of the riverbank, ringing incessantly at posing tourists (at us. To be fair, the pavement was marked: half for walking, half for cycling). The Parliament building stood in clear view across the river. Illuminated until midnight, its beauty and magnificence seemed to dwarf that of anything I'd seen. 

     Upon stepping from the hotel we grew accustomed to the smell of sewage; our noses un-crinkled sooner with every expedition. But during most of these outings we walked across the Chain Bridge, and I whistled that brilliant waltz while we peered at the building (the largest in Hungary) and everything else. We craned our necks at the statues of lions that towered on each end of the Bridge. Tongueless, they roared as the river must have below and stood as symbols of power and protection. They stood in the way of those who dared oppose Hungarians' desire to be ruled religiously by anything other than Catholicism and its seat at the Vatican. 

     In the 1850s, the Chain Bridge was one of several built to connect two separate cities: Buda and Pest, pronounced "pesht." Art'otel (decked from top to bottom with "classy" [depressing] artwork) is in Buda. However, some of the best restaurants and shopping are in Pest. Pork is the meat of choice in Hungary, paprika, the spice and goulash, the dish. Variants of this dish are everywhere, as is pálinka, a fruity and delicious liquor that is customarily imbibed in shot form upon entering others' homes. If there's any Hungarian custom I'll be sure to adapt when I've a place of my own, it's certainly this one. 

     In Buda, which is hilly as opposed to the flat Pest, we got a chance to see the city from higher places. Originally bronze statues turned sea green with age, cathedrals with intricately painted interiors, a castle built in symmetry with its Transylvanian counterpart...all of these, I took in stride. The people walking about them were more interesting. These people were kind and hospitable. Women were usually pretty and men were usually muscular, or so it seemed. The young (and plenty more) partied hard, and it was possible that the old (and plenty more) harbored prejudices. 

     Gypsies, people usually of Middle Eastern appearance in Eastern Europe, apparently live in ill repute in Budapest. Due to perhaps widespread perceptions in Hungary that these people escalate crime, that they hassle, harangue, and threaten, they are occasionally shunned. Given the fact that some make a habit of lumping people into groups based on appearance, I wasn't the only one in our party who wondered if we would be treated poorly during our encounters with the natives. In retrospect I don't believe that any such thing happened, but I know that rejection based on who or what I am would cut. 
     
     I found that one of the two English language news channels available in the hotel, Russia Today, keeps its mother country's rivalry with America alive and healthy. Among stories detailing Americans' ridiculous indignation over the Chinese origin of their representatives' Olympic uniforms, reports of outrageous American torture tactics, and bloody battle footage there were constant ads for a reality show called Divers. In them, dumpster divers rooted through the trash of stores like Trader Joe's and made delicious-looking meals with perfectly unspoiled food while they rattled off statistics about exactly how much these organizations waste. Capping these messages were promos for the RT News app, which encourages viewers and users to "occupy Wall Street online!"

     These perceptions and their overwhelming presence on an international news channel were eye opening, to say the least. I wished that we had such raw reporting in the stateside mainstream. But after long days with opened eyes, I started to brood. In the end, I switched to Japanese news in English. There, everyone was happy and innovative. (And yet, you say, it IS the most homogenous society on the planet. Yeah, yeah.)

The Parliament building at night from a boat on the Danube River

Screens

Written 7/10/12


     A couple hours into this transatlantic flight, I’ve reached the point of sleeplessness at which my calm veneer turns brittle and bits of unchecked emotion creep out. Almost in vain, I exert effort to stop up this leakage, but the soundless scenes on my neighbor’s in-flight movie poke me ever closer off the gangplank and into the ocean.  


     I also feel restless. And I feel lazy - too lazy to mention trivial details that others might find pertinent. For instance, I’d have overlooked the fact that the video screens are situated on the backs of the passenger seats. They’re touch-activated and come complete with an astonishing selection of new and old movies and TV shows, news, games, a radio, and I don’t know what else. (So far I’ve enjoyed the pilot of Veep and episode 3 of Girls. Both are definitely worth your time but the former is better and almost great.) The screens seem tailored to fit the whims of every man, woman, or child who happens to find him/herself in one of these seats (although, you wouldn’t know it, listening to the complaints of my dad and brother: “Where’s the HD!? Man, Air Canada is cheap…”)


     A few weeks ago I watched 2001: A Space Odyssey with the same brother. This movie, released in 1968, is ahead of its time in a lot of ways. Take one of the opening scenes. Well, I mean after all of the ape-man business, after it fast-forwards to the time in human history (2001) when traveling to the moon for pleasure or business is commonplace. "The Blue Danube" plays in this scene while a passenger relaxes in a commercial shuttle headed for the moon. Eyes closed, he and his pen float in minimal gravity, and this man doesn’t pay attention to the screen on the rear of the seat before him. It’s there for his enjoyment, but he doesn’t feel like using it just then. Such a depiction of technology is almost prophetic. (Or maybe it’s where the idea originated. I also noticed something like a web cam.)  


     But the film gets something else right, too. One of its dominant themes involves man’s gradual, excessive, and detrimental reliance on tools/technology throughout history. As the movie progresses, we see that communication among characters is either non-existent or superficial. In fact, one of the main players is HAL 9000, a murderous supercomputer in charge of all operations aboard the “odyssey” to Jupiter. If anything, 2001 correctly predicts the isolation of present-day socialization.


     The breakdown of “real” communication seems pervasive in our world. Amid texting and Facebook, or anything else that impedes direct contact, emotion barely breaks through. We are mired in screens; we take care with our veils. God forbid they should come to any harm. (Really, though, the scratches on my phone piss. me. off.)  


     I can’t help looking at these strangers’ screens. Is it really so perverse to want to feel what they’re feeling? I want to know what they’re feeling, yes. But I wouldn’t mind sharing, either. 

At Café Brazil

     Kotaro Yumi decided to free her phone of the men who made no impact. She sat under one of Café Brazil's umbrellas and let her Mexican Mocha cool. While she hunched over the screen between her legs, her hair hung down and provided a shield from the passersby. They were not looking at her. Yet, waiting there, she took pleasure in the certainty of the boy's instantly recognizing the red shock that covered her face. 

     In the daylight, Yumi's eyes squinted back through the smudges on the screen. She opted first to clear the device of memories and watched the photos before her slide into the trashcan. She would soon move on to her contacts, most of which were friends, family, or colleagues with first and last names listed. However, the men she saw regularly had no last names. They floated around in her head and begged to land on their feet; they asked to stay grounded. It seemed they were always demanding that she put them first. Only one of them never wanted anything, and his last name was Kuroda. 

     Kuroda was not among the ones she wanted to erase. The men she intended to delete took her months to engrave on her mind, for she always had trouble remembering a new countenance. Even after the third date, weeks after the first meeting, Yumi lay awake at night and strained to recall the contours of their faces. She mistook the lines and curves for someone else's and cursed the holes in her memory. After she checked the phone, she relaxed and thought of how photos were relative but never wrong.

     When she hovered over those faces, she tried to memorize them. Sometimes the men pierced her eyes, and when she leaned in she could see her own judgment. The feeling was wrong, and the fault was mutual, she thought when the contours contorted. The kiss wasn't enough; neither of us got it right. So, one by one, they slipped away into the trash icon. 

     Yumi smacked her lips and set the empty cup on the table. The combination of Mexican chocolate and cinnamon left sweetness in her mouth, but its aftertaste was unpleasant. She grew disgusted with her task and dropped her phone, which bounced beneath the rail. Horrified, she scrambled to retrieve it when a shadow covered her body. Kuroda's face was blocking the sun, and Yumi could hardly see his features. He laughed at her grimace. "John, you ass!" she screamed, "You make me wait!" She stood up, punched him on the arm and stumbled inside with her bag, red-faced. 

The Golden Age: Part I

     Eleven years ago this summer my dad and I took a trip to Guyana, where he grew up. We flew into Georgetown, the capital, before driving for a couple hours to his parents' house in the country. Since this was my first journey to another continent, I built up my hopes.


     I also prepared myself for disappointment. Pieces of conversation between my parents had floated through open doors. They talked of how the country had changed since it gained independence from Britain in 1966. Over the years, political corruption and social upheaval twisted the state into something unrecognizable. The place my parents had loved no longer existed. 


     When we landed, I thought of how I'd never been so immersed in such tropical environs. However, I was thirteen and childish; the intrigue wore off quickly, and discomfort replaced it. The rhythm and syncopation of the Caribbean accent, with which I was so familiar from home, surrounded and pushed me with its heaviness. All the cars were the same, and all the whitewashed buildings in the city had turned brown with shabbiness. Breathing was a chore; the air was hot, moist and saturated with odors of fish and urine. Every few seconds I felt a prick on my skin and scratched madly all the while. My dad scowled at everything, and I kept quiet. 


     I was relieved when we arrived at my grandparents' home. The sky seemed a bit bluer, the grass a little greener. The actual house has faded from my memory, but my recollection of the small convenience shop in the garage isn't as tarnished. It was stocked with soda, unfamiliar fruit juices, and foreign candies. Stray cats roamed the floors while fleas danced on their fur, and there was a snow cone machine on the counter with the register. 


     When my dad was growing up in the 50s and 60s, that shop was the envy of Sixty-Four Village. Kids from the primary school across the field lined up outside the house, sweating in their uniforms, gossiping and goofing. My mom, over from Seventy-Two Village, even frequented the house for ice cream. "She was so pretty," my grandmother said, "and just right." She had my mom pegged.  


     For my parents, this was the golden age. Nothing needed to change. 

Regressing to a Walk

     Before we start on our walks, my legs feel elastic because I stretch them more than I need to. Saffron runs around the yard and rolls in the grass; he barks with joy while I assume the familiar positions and make a note of the time we begin. He's already exhausted and saves his bowel movement until we're about an eighth of a mile in, but I've long since overcome the frustration this habit used to induce. Now, I act surprised when we stop in his favorite spots. This pause yields good opportunity for whistle practice, and I hone my skills on the violin climax of a song from The Goat Rodeo Sessions, for example, before we continue our brisk movement. My feet align perfectly to the quick beat of the next shuffled song, and the hems of my blue shorts sway madly. 

     I'm sure that both Saffron and those blue shorts have reached iconic heights for some in the neighborhood because I wear them every time we go out. They're athletic, but they also have pockets for anything from treats to shit bags to my old Ipod Nano, in which I've invested sentiment. 

     "Nano" helps to stifle my embarrassment when Saffron decides to lunge at the yapping, rat-sized dogs we pass on the sidewalk along the creek by my elementary school. We pass girls and boys exploring that creek, which runs under tunnels beneath the ground. I think vaguely of how those tunnels are hotbeds for young imaginations and how small they would seem to me now. Every so often, I hear the children's shouts to one another over the music, so I increase the volume and begin to jog. 

     I can't keep it up for long, and Saffron knows. In the periphery of my vision, I see him looking up at me before he starts to lag behind. At this point we regress to a walk as we enter the neighborhoods past Southdowns Park, where I used to play in the woods. Sometimes, however, I tug him along; he runs through the grass again by my side. His tongue dangles along our route past my old middle school to our left and a small lake to the right. I like to run the short length of the lake, my feet still slamming the ground to the beat while I glance at the geese and the sunset's reflection. 

     The walk down Mur-Len and then 151st gives us time to think and return to a mellow state. I'm careful to never let Saffron get ahead of me. He knows his place is by my right side. 

     We both turn left on Lindenwood, and I see my high school in the distance. I haven't been inside to see all of the new construction and don't want to. If it's early enough, their cross-country kids run around and pass us by. We're near enough again to the bike trail that cyclers pass as well, and I'm glad that he's too tired to give a damn. It's back along the creek toward home, and by the time I walk through the door I'm tired, too, and irritable. An hour has passed, but at least he's happy. That's all I wanted.

“Jinx,” America

Written 6/9/12

     We're in Jenks, America. Here in OK, they call it that because it's the only city in the U.S. with such a name. More specifically, we're in the "House of Knick-knacks." This title comes from the owner's daughter, whose daughter brought me here because she wanted to share with me the magic of her childhood. 


     Collections abound in this ranch house that sits on four acres of rolling plain, the birthplace of my friend's enviable imagination. Rabbits of all kinds peek from the walls and surfaces. They are sleepy and fat, playful and lithe. Some open as glass containers or rest as babies on leafy beds of porcelain. Others sniff at miniature girls' feet, which are positioned uniformly against the mirror on the dresser in this bedroom and which number up to thirty. Depending on the angle of my head, resting here on the queen, one girl's face changes like a holograph. Now, she's bored; now, she's prepared to care. 


     Built in the 70s by a couple whose boy met a tragic end and who consequently put it up for sale, this house has seen forty years of near-happiness. The architecture is unique and sprawling. Slanted cedar beams loom over three bathrooms and three bedrooms, one of which has stairs, an outside balcony, and green carpet that brushes high against the insides of my toes. 


     The barn outside has been home to chickens and sheep that were pets more than they were livestock. Their names have rung over fields that house oversized crawdads, on which crows frequently feast. (The crows, too, have names: Harold and Henry, or some such. They also survive on not-so-healthy diets of leftover human meals). We walk over the land and spy blue-gray pincers still clutching to blades of grass. We remove the dead heads of the marigolds in the garden. Their green perfume lingers on my fingertips, and I think of how they'll flourish throughout the summer. Wisteria, hollyhocks, periwinkles, tomatoes, and corn already thrive everywhere. 


     There's wistful grief over the loss of a couple dogs and a beloved bunny - all killed by cars and canines, respectively. Sitting on the swing, we see two black horses in the distance. Their tails swish, and I muse on the endurance of a "love almost at first sight." This sometimes tumultuous marriage culminates today in solid affection. They embrace before us like some of the girls on the dresser and brazenly defy cynicism. This House of Knick-knacks exists now in a sort of "Neverland," where love of life keeps it. 

Their Special Relationship

     I remember my early ambition. During my formative years, in middle and high school, I was consumed with pictures of success and stereotypical dreams. It didn't matter that I sacrificed relationships in my strivings to be the best. This top position required diligence, originality, and a mask of sweetness; I was conniving, and I knew that concealing my ambition was key. 

     Operating on this inhuman level, however, makes one ignorant of functioning emotionally. One loses touch with parts of himself kept hidden away for too long. He loses track of what he put where and begins to grow paranoid, afraid of confronting these possibly unsavory aspects. His composure checks his feelings, and most people never want to dig for them. They never know. 

     She never knew that her profile made a strong impression on me. She had no idea that she both elated and injured me when her attitude changed for the better or worse. When we were alone, I began to imagine scenarios in which she would punch my face. I yearned for her to shatter my mask because I suspected, at the time, that we were the same. My belief - that the things people hide within themselves notice the things hidden in others - fueled me. If she could just have punched me, then our deceptions would have ended. We might have formed a special relationship; we would have shared a secret. Our true selves should have been revealed to one another in that painful moment, our flaws mutually accepted. And then everything could have been easier. 

     Because of my ambition, she was a very inconvenient person in my life. I became restless, and the emotions I trapped beneath my composure were hazy. Yet, she was the reason I began to balance on a fine line of feeling. She was a part of the first creative flutter of my heart and why I sometimes forgot to breathe, teetering over the edge of the unknown. She taught me the necessity of sacrificing seemingly important things in the name of emotion. 

     So I'll give her my thanks now, long overdue and cryptic as it is. Even if this can mean nothing to her, it's finally out of me - the me I'm proud to be. Because of her, I set myself free. 

Odds of Survival

     I've always been cavalier when handling potting soil. These instances are few and far between, and, most times, my mom's by my side. Out in the garden, she does a great deal of fussing because I'm "too lazy to just slip on the gloves when [I'm wrist-deep] in cow shit." The sun and heat irritate her, and beneath her red whicker hat (approximately eighteen inches in diameter) I see it in her eyes. They're lidded because "[I] don't listen." Even below the hat, they squint with stubborn persistence as if battling through direct sunrays; they focus on the build-up under my nails and on my feigned ignorance. In extreme vexation, caused by forces other than the sun or heat, her nostrils flare, and her lips pucker. She even shakes her head in disapproval. When I was a kid, she often shouted outright. A true Aries. 

     In eighth grade, she was overwhelmed with pride when I managed to grow morning glories, plants whose vines creep and whose blossoms bloom only in the AM. I remember after they sprouted and gained a bit of height, she insisted that I remove the strongest one from its snug container and plant it beneath one of the two ten-foot-tall pine trees in the front yard. I felt anxiety, and I doubted its odds of survival; I'd put work into nurturing it and wanted (actually very desperately) for it to live. I was afraid for this seedling, afraid of the elements. But I understood that it needed breathing space. She assured me there was no need to worry, and so I didn't. 

     Every morning that fall when I stood at the bus stop directly in front of my house, I looked at the poor pine that suffocated under so many brilliant, blue blossoms. At thirteen and fourteen years old, at about 7:20 every day, the dreariness and drudgery lifted from my world for a few minutes, and the morning didn't seem so bad. In those moments, my breath was stolen. That's how beautiful it was. 

     Now, I have rows of shallots and a wealth of marigolds peeking up from the earth. I don't think the marigolds will match the robustness I saw in every one of those morning glories, but that remains to be seen. At least my mother was there by my side this time, shaking her head in disapproval. 

It Goes beyond Hiding Heaviness

       I am deeply concerned with the aesthetic of my world, and I often have trouble achieving sparseness. Clearness and conciseness, two qualities I often sacrifice for the sake of the aesthetic, are too important to cast aside. They are elemental; they are the metals that comprise the earth on which we stand. It is not within their nature to be bandied about by prettiness and ambiguity, excessive language and esoteric references (unless you're T.S. Eliot, in which case, by all means). When I forget this elementary lesson, my work crumbles like a shoddily devised sand castle at the mercy of the tide. 

          I write this in an effort to remind myself not to be so vain. In the past I've been mired in self-importance and lost in artificiality. I've publicly called myself "chubby" when I wasn't (rather, I was heavier), and I have felt personally repulsed because of it. But don't get me wrong or make assumptions; I would never and have never concealed myself for such reasons. I need to assert, with an emphatic scoff, that even I am beyond hiding heaviness. 

          Yet, I dread imperfection. I feel failure and shame acutely. I hate bathroom lighting almost as much as I hate whatever toxicity runs through my veins. I hate itchiness because it has our bodies convinced that impurity lurks beneath our skin's surface, and, so, unconsciously, we try to remove it. We thrash and scratch and scrape until we bleed. Then we become biologically hazardous.

          Therefore, a distracting preoccupation with the aesthetic turns into a personal crutch. I control my surroundings and operate against the pleasing backdrop that pretty things comprise. 


          ...Actually, there isn't "prettiness" so much as utility and coordination in my real world. The reliance on prettiness exists mainly in my writing. It exists in these blog posts. This concession, this present self-awareness, should reveal to me some sort of unadorned truth, right? Or maybe raw experiences of both physical and emotional pain may bring the clarity I seek. In successful attempts to avoid infection, for example, I've taken to the exorbitant use of rubbing alcohol in all instances of broken skin. I'm a true Underground Man, and these are my notes. 

          But I should be able to reach a state in which the everyday world can seem full of significance and even holiness. Perhaps only then can I achieve any sort of true agency. Only then can power seep from the tips of my fingers, like the pervading sound of a bell I have rung through absolute silence.