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.