Aach...ye speak like a poet, but ye punch like one too...
Saturday, March 27, 2004
Advice
Read the poem a couple of times, then answer the question, if you don't mind.
THE LOST
Sometimes we kick at the darkness, bleed our wrists
on violent ropes. Strange men wrestle us from the trunk
into terrible light. Our eyes, wild
dinner plates, see everything at once:
strangers' faces, the tops of pivoting trees,
the helpless blue sky.
Other times we fall from mountains and lie for days,
interrogated by the sun. We whisper for help
with swollen tongues. Hikers pass.
We hear them talk. They find us an hour or years too late,
mistaking bone for sharp white rock.
And sometimes driving home in heavy traffic
the past blows out an open window. We miss the turns
for home, and in a service station restroom an hour down the road
we pull on a new life like a shirt.
We walk to the corner for cigarettes or ice cream
and never come back. You imagine us
sitting on a curb outside of Time, sucking a cone
that never melts, or smoking our way
through an inexhaustible pack,
wearing the tennis shoes, the blue jeans,
the shirt with the cartoon dog barking on the front.
Heaven knows
what help came, our prayers
running through those last eggtimer minutes,
what parenthesis of a bird
in the sky's corner.
This thing has been kicking around for at least a year and a half, and has never felt finished to me. In the course of working on it I've deleted as many stanzas as you see here, which I think I can live with. My question is this--does the poem feel unfinished, as though there are additional thoughts that need to happen in it? Particularly between the fourth and fifth stanzas? Help me out here...
Read the poem a couple of times, then answer the question, if you don't mind.
THE LOST
Sometimes we kick at the darkness, bleed our wrists
on violent ropes. Strange men wrestle us from the trunk
into terrible light. Our eyes, wild
dinner plates, see everything at once:
strangers' faces, the tops of pivoting trees,
the helpless blue sky.
Other times we fall from mountains and lie for days,
interrogated by the sun. We whisper for help
with swollen tongues. Hikers pass.
We hear them talk. They find us an hour or years too late,
mistaking bone for sharp white rock.
And sometimes driving home in heavy traffic
the past blows out an open window. We miss the turns
for home, and in a service station restroom an hour down the road
we pull on a new life like a shirt.
We walk to the corner for cigarettes or ice cream
and never come back. You imagine us
sitting on a curb outside of Time, sucking a cone
that never melts, or smoking our way
through an inexhaustible pack,
wearing the tennis shoes, the blue jeans,
the shirt with the cartoon dog barking on the front.
Heaven knows
what help came, our prayers
running through those last eggtimer minutes,
what parenthesis of a bird
in the sky's corner.
This thing has been kicking around for at least a year and a half, and has never felt finished to me. In the course of working on it I've deleted as many stanzas as you see here, which I think I can live with. My question is this--does the poem feel unfinished, as though there are additional thoughts that need to happen in it? Particularly between the fourth and fifth stanzas? Help me out here...
Tuesday, March 23, 2004
The parable of the drowned men
And he said to them:
The kingdom of God is like the sea, and the nations came and built their cities on the coasts, and the rich made their houses on the hills, where they could watch the sun set every night and go for safety when storms threw waves on the city. And the poor went in boats on the water, to draw up fish without getting wet. And the rich took boats out too, with windows in the bottoms, so that they could look down into the sea while they sipped iced drinks in the pleasant sun and the bracing salt breeze. And when a man washed overboard his friends grieved, saying he was lost, and when ships failed to come to port the city mourned, for they knew many had drowned. And even the drowning held their breaths as they sank, their terrified eyes wide as dinner plates.
And his disciples said, Lord, this is a hard saying. Could you, uh, maybe clarify a little?
But he did not answer them.
And he said to them:
The kingdom of God is like the sea, and the nations came and built their cities on the coasts, and the rich made their houses on the hills, where they could watch the sun set every night and go for safety when storms threw waves on the city. And the poor went in boats on the water, to draw up fish without getting wet. And the rich took boats out too, with windows in the bottoms, so that they could look down into the sea while they sipped iced drinks in the pleasant sun and the bracing salt breeze. And when a man washed overboard his friends grieved, saying he was lost, and when ships failed to come to port the city mourned, for they knew many had drowned. And even the drowning held their breaths as they sank, their terrified eyes wide as dinner plates.
And his disciples said, Lord, this is a hard saying. Could you, uh, maybe clarify a little?
But he did not answer them.
The parable of the frikkin morons
16 Then said [Jesus] unto him, A certain man made a great supper, and bade many:
17 And sent his servant at supper time to say to them that were bidden, Come; for all things are now ready.
18 And they all with one consent began to make excuse. The first said unto him, I have bought a piece of ground, and I must needs go and see it: I pray thee have me excused.
19 And another said, I have bought five yoke of oxen, and I go to prove them: I pray thee have me excused.
20 And another said, I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot come.
21 So that servant came, and shewed his lord these things. Then the master of the house being angry said to his servant, Go out quickly into the streets and lanes of the city, and bring in hither the poor, and the maimed, and the halt, and the blind.
22 And the servant said, Lord, it is done as thou hast commanded, and yet there is room.
23 And the lord said unto the servant, Go out into the highways and hedges, and compel them to come in, that my house may be filled.
24 For I say unto you, That none of those men which were bidden shall taste of my supper.
25* And there were with him many of the party known among the people as the Literalists. And lo, they spake unto him with many words, saying Lord, speak unto us of the menu that was at this party of which thou teachest.
26* And he said unto them, Children, it matters not what was on the menu. Verily, that was not the point.
27* And they said in reply, Lord, on when was this feast given? And Lord, tell us even the address of the house wherein it was held, that we may go and verify the precise historical accuracy of what thou hast said, that your name may be glorified.
28* And he spake unto them, saying Truly I say unto you it was a metaphor, and a parable, and the kingdom of heaven belongs not to those that cannot grasp this.
29* And lo, they grew exceedingly wroth with him, and spake unto him, saying Lord, hast thou then lied unto us? For thou clearly spake of a literal feast, and lo, the text will permit no other reading, for it is even the plain meaning.
30* And Jesus said, Aiiiee ya ya. And he did shake his head in disbelief. And weep.
Luke 14:16-30
* these verses not found in the earliest and most reliable Gospel sources.
16 Then said [Jesus] unto him, A certain man made a great supper, and bade many:
17 And sent his servant at supper time to say to them that were bidden, Come; for all things are now ready.
18 And they all with one consent began to make excuse. The first said unto him, I have bought a piece of ground, and I must needs go and see it: I pray thee have me excused.
19 And another said, I have bought five yoke of oxen, and I go to prove them: I pray thee have me excused.
20 And another said, I have married a wife, and therefore I cannot come.
21 So that servant came, and shewed his lord these things. Then the master of the house being angry said to his servant, Go out quickly into the streets and lanes of the city, and bring in hither the poor, and the maimed, and the halt, and the blind.
22 And the servant said, Lord, it is done as thou hast commanded, and yet there is room.
23 And the lord said unto the servant, Go out into the highways and hedges, and compel them to come in, that my house may be filled.
24 For I say unto you, That none of those men which were bidden shall taste of my supper.
25* And there were with him many of the party known among the people as the Literalists. And lo, they spake unto him with many words, saying Lord, speak unto us of the menu that was at this party of which thou teachest.
26* And he said unto them, Children, it matters not what was on the menu. Verily, that was not the point.
27* And they said in reply, Lord, on when was this feast given? And Lord, tell us even the address of the house wherein it was held, that we may go and verify the precise historical accuracy of what thou hast said, that your name may be glorified.
28* And he spake unto them, saying Truly I say unto you it was a metaphor, and a parable, and the kingdom of heaven belongs not to those that cannot grasp this.
29* And lo, they grew exceedingly wroth with him, and spake unto him, saying Lord, hast thou then lied unto us? For thou clearly spake of a literal feast, and lo, the text will permit no other reading, for it is even the plain meaning.
30* And Jesus said, Aiiiee ya ya. And he did shake his head in disbelief. And weep.
Luke 14:16-30
* these verses not found in the earliest and most reliable Gospel sources.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Poem
SELF PORTRAIT WITH WHEAT FIELD WITH CROWS*
for Michael Moreland
He left a painting propped up on the easel
and his palette on the bench, wet with color.
He's not here, though for the windows pushed up
and birdsong perching in the air you'd almost think
he chased the breeze out the open window,
banging shutters in his haste,
and any minute he'll reappear, throwing his legs
over the rough sill into the room.
It's paints he went for, or a sandwich,
or to check the mail. But you'd rather imagine
he squeezed headfirst into this half-finished painting,
his features dissolving in a riot of brush strokes,
the easel rocking with his weight.
He pulls his legs up after him; the wet paint ripples
around his figure as he stands and peers into his study,
the wheat ripening in the background,
and perched at his shoulder a flight of crows, ragged wings,
and a storm that could be night.
* view Vincent van Gogh's "Wheatfield With Crows" at the Artchive. This is, incidentally, Michael's favorite painting ever.
SELF PORTRAIT WITH WHEAT FIELD WITH CROWS*
for Michael Moreland
He left a painting propped up on the easel
and his palette on the bench, wet with color.
He's not here, though for the windows pushed up
and birdsong perching in the air you'd almost think
he chased the breeze out the open window,
banging shutters in his haste,
and any minute he'll reappear, throwing his legs
over the rough sill into the room.
It's paints he went for, or a sandwich,
or to check the mail. But you'd rather imagine
he squeezed headfirst into this half-finished painting,
his features dissolving in a riot of brush strokes,
the easel rocking with his weight.
He pulls his legs up after him; the wet paint ripples
around his figure as he stands and peers into his study,
the wheat ripening in the background,
and perched at his shoulder a flight of crows, ragged wings,
and a storm that could be night.
* view Vincent van Gogh's "Wheatfield With Crows" at the Artchive. This is, incidentally, Michael's favorite painting ever.
Saturday, March 20, 2004
I may regret this post...
i.
ii.
I don't know why some nights are worse than others. But tonight there's nothing that resembles belief. The only thing left is a desperate, grasping sort of faith. I saw a question posed recently--what is faith? The the best definition I've come across was passed on to me by a friend: faith (or was it doubt?) is the tension between belief and unbelief. That makes sense to me. Nights like tonight, if I flinched, I'd wake up an atheist.
Lord, it'd be so much easier if you'd just let me go. Every doubt, every moment of unbelief drives me to prayer, to you. That doesn't make any sense. You're the one I'm doubting--why the hell should I go to you with that? But where else can I go? You're the only one with the words of life*.
iii.
Tomorrow night I've got to teach through the Lord's Prayer (chapter 6 of Matthew's Gospel). What a joke, at least in the shape I'm in. Of course, at least a third of the time I walk in to teach feeling like some kind of uber-hypocrite (can't figure out the umlauts), like the wolf in sheeps' clothing
I thought briefly about going in to the Bible study, taking off all my clothes, and collapsing in a weeping, huddled mess in the middle of the circle. I'm really quite curious as to the reaction. Maybe everyone would lay hands on me. I guess that's as good a reaction as any to a sobbing naked man. Maybe everyone would join me--I'm not so egocentric as to think no one else goes through these spiritual crises. Maybe visitors would show up and our entire group would be bare-assed and blubbering in the living room floor.
"Hey, glad you could make it tonight! Oh, this? It isn't what you think--we're not nude, just naked. It's symbolic, if you can dig it. There's Kool-Aid and Oreos in the kitchen. Stack your clothes on the couch, grab a handful of Kleenex, and join in the catharsis!
The one small group in America where you are guaranteed to not leave feeling like the most secretly fucked-up member of Christendom. It could happen...
...although it probably shouldn't.
iv.
And now I'm feeling better. Lord, I do not understand you, and all I ever do is look back. I really should be a pillar of salt by now. Thank you for loving me anyway and putting up with my nonsense.
i.
And Jesus was a sailor
When he walked upon the water
And he spent a long time watching
From his lonely wooden tower
And when he knew for certain
Only drowning men could see him
He said "All men will be sailors then
Until the sea shall free them"
But he himself was broken
Long before the sky would open
Forsaken, almost human
He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone
And you want to travel with him
And you want to travel blind
And you think maybe you'll trust him
For he's touched your perfect body with his mind.
--Leonard Cohen, "Suzanne"
ii.
I don't know why some nights are worse than others. But tonight there's nothing that resembles belief. The only thing left is a desperate, grasping sort of faith. I saw a question posed recently--what is faith? The the best definition I've come across was passed on to me by a friend: faith (or was it doubt?) is the tension between belief and unbelief. That makes sense to me. Nights like tonight, if I flinched, I'd wake up an atheist.
Lord, it'd be so much easier if you'd just let me go. Every doubt, every moment of unbelief drives me to prayer, to you. That doesn't make any sense. You're the one I'm doubting--why the hell should I go to you with that? But where else can I go? You're the only one with the words of life*.
iii.
Tomorrow night I've got to teach through the Lord's Prayer (chapter 6 of Matthew's Gospel). What a joke, at least in the shape I'm in. Of course, at least a third of the time I walk in to teach feeling like some kind of uber-hypocrite (can't figure out the umlauts), like the wolf in sheeps' clothing
I thought briefly about going in to the Bible study, taking off all my clothes, and collapsing in a weeping, huddled mess in the middle of the circle. I'm really quite curious as to the reaction. Maybe everyone would lay hands on me. I guess that's as good a reaction as any to a sobbing naked man. Maybe everyone would join me--I'm not so egocentric as to think no one else goes through these spiritual crises. Maybe visitors would show up and our entire group would be bare-assed and blubbering in the living room floor.
"Hey, glad you could make it tonight! Oh, this? It isn't what you think--we're not nude, just naked. It's symbolic, if you can dig it. There's Kool-Aid and Oreos in the kitchen. Stack your clothes on the couch, grab a handful of Kleenex, and join in the catharsis!
The one small group in America where you are guaranteed to not leave feeling like the most secretly fucked-up member of Christendom. It could happen...
...although it probably shouldn't.
iv.
And now I'm feeling better. Lord, I do not understand you, and all I ever do is look back. I really should be a pillar of salt by now. Thank you for loving me anyway and putting up with my nonsense.
Friday, March 19, 2004
For your listening pleasure...
My boon companion Sean and I are slowly recording a CD's worth of me reading poetry. A couple of tracks from that ongoing process are available for download: Speed and The Dead in Jazz. Let me know what you think.
My boon companion Sean and I are slowly recording a CD's worth of me reading poetry. A couple of tracks from that ongoing process are available for download: Speed and The Dead in Jazz. Let me know what you think.
Abigail and the Seamonster, pt. 3
Part 1 . Part 2 . Part 3 . Part 4 . Part 5 . Part 6 . Part 7
ONE DAY, AFTER LUNCH, Abigail took a basket and went down to the lake to pick up shells. She had a collection of shells that she kept on a shelf in her room. She picked them up from the shore of the lake, and kept the ones with the prettiest colors, or the most unusual shapes. Today she was looking for green shells. She had decided that she didn't have enough green shells in her collection.
She walked up and down the shore of the lake for a long time, looking down at the ground for shells. Every so often she would look up at the lake, which was bright blue and reflected the hot sun. She thought about the man who lived in the lake, and imagined what it would be like if he walked dripping out of the water and handed her a perfect green shell. She pictured herself saying, "Thank you," the way she had been taught, and then inviting him up to the house for a snack. He and her and her mother would sit around the kitchen table drinking lemonade, and he would tell her all his stories about the bottom of the lake. When he left, he would politely shake her hand, and when he was gone she would use a towel to dry up all the water he had dripped on the floor.
While she was daydreaming about this she forgot to look up at the lake. Suddenly she heard a noise she had never heard, a sort of bubbling sound coming from the water. She looked up, and screamed.
An enormous purple thing was rising from the lake. She could have thrown a shell and hit it. It came further and further out of the lake, water running down its sides. Two huge eyes in the middle of the thing blinked at her. They were the biggest eyes she had ever seen, and they were bright blue. She realized that the bulge in the water was a head. It was long, like a dog's head, with long limp ears that hung down on either side, and a wrinkled snout. It looked right at her and blinked again. The head came all the way out of the water, and she could see a long purple neck stretching back into the lake. The head's mouth was huge, and when it grinned at her she could see all its long white teeth.
Abigail stood frozen. She was so scared she couldn't say anything, or even move. The head moved closer to her across the water. It seemed as big as a car. Suddenly it--whatever it was--jerked its ears straight up and open. The ears spread out like a ship's sails on either side of the head. It moved its mouth again, and she heard it say in a deep voice, "Hello, Abigail."
This was too much. She screamed again, dropped her basket, and ran up the hill to the house faster than she had ever run, screaming the whole way. She fell once, skinning her knees, but didn't dare look back. She was sure the Head was right behind her, ready to eat her in a single bite. She scrambled back to her feet and kept running.
Her mother met her at the back door. She had heard her daughter screaming all the way up the hill. Abigail ran right into her mother's arms without slowing down.
"Abby, what's the matter?" her mother asked.
Abigail tried to tell her, but kept on screaming instead. She couldn't make any words come out. Her mother picked her up and carried her into the kitchen, where she gave her a glass of water. Finally Abigail calmed down enough to tell her mother what had happened.
"Mama, there was a--a head in the lake! It looked at me! It knew my name!"
Her mother's face broke into a smile. "A head, huh?" She sounded relieved.
Abigail started to pout. "You don't believe me."
"No, honey, I believe you. What did it look like?"
Abigail tried to breath evenly. "It was--purple. And big."
"How big?" her mother asked.
Abigail thought for a moment. "It was really, really big. And scary. It knew my name," she said again. "It tried to eat me."
"Oh yeah?" her mother asked. "How do you know it tried to eat you?"
Abigail thought about this. "I don't know. It was moving towards me. It had big teeth."
Her mother kissed her. "Honey, just because something scares you at first doesn't mean its going to hurt you. What did it say"
Abigail tried to copy the seamonster's voice. "It said, 'Hello, Abigail.'" She sounded funny when she talked low like that, and she and her mother both laughed. She was a little less scared.
"It sounds to me like the head was just trying to be friendly," her mother said. "Lets see if its still there." They walked over to the kitchen window and looked back at the lake. There was nothing there. Abigail could see her basket sitting down by the shore where she had dropped it.
"Where did it go?" asked Abigail.
"Honey, it probably went back under the lake."
Abigail's eyes got very big. "Does it live there all the time?"
"I guess so, honey. Aren't you going to go get your basket?"
Abigail shook her head. "No way."
But later, when her father got home, he walked her down to the lake so they could get her basket. She held very tightly onto his hand. She looked out into the lake, where the sun was setting, hoping to see the seamonster so she could run back to the house before he got close. But the seamonster never appeared.
When they reached her basket, there was an enormous green shell sitting in it. It was the biggest shell she had ever seen, and it was a beautiful shade of green. She had never seen any shell like it.
Her father saw it and said, "Wow, sweetie, you found a good shell today."
She said, "I didn't find that one. It wasn't here before."
"Well, where did it come from, then?" her father asked.
She shook her head, and said, "I don't know."
But all the way back up the hill she looked over her shoulder for the seamonster.
Part 1 . Part 2 . Part 3 . Part 4 . Part 5 . Part 6 . Part 7
ONE DAY, AFTER LUNCH, Abigail took a basket and went down to the lake to pick up shells. She had a collection of shells that she kept on a shelf in her room. She picked them up from the shore of the lake, and kept the ones with the prettiest colors, or the most unusual shapes. Today she was looking for green shells. She had decided that she didn't have enough green shells in her collection.
She walked up and down the shore of the lake for a long time, looking down at the ground for shells. Every so often she would look up at the lake, which was bright blue and reflected the hot sun. She thought about the man who lived in the lake, and imagined what it would be like if he walked dripping out of the water and handed her a perfect green shell. She pictured herself saying, "Thank you," the way she had been taught, and then inviting him up to the house for a snack. He and her and her mother would sit around the kitchen table drinking lemonade, and he would tell her all his stories about the bottom of the lake. When he left, he would politely shake her hand, and when he was gone she would use a towel to dry up all the water he had dripped on the floor.
While she was daydreaming about this she forgot to look up at the lake. Suddenly she heard a noise she had never heard, a sort of bubbling sound coming from the water. She looked up, and screamed.
An enormous purple thing was rising from the lake. She could have thrown a shell and hit it. It came further and further out of the lake, water running down its sides. Two huge eyes in the middle of the thing blinked at her. They were the biggest eyes she had ever seen, and they were bright blue. She realized that the bulge in the water was a head. It was long, like a dog's head, with long limp ears that hung down on either side, and a wrinkled snout. It looked right at her and blinked again. The head came all the way out of the water, and she could see a long purple neck stretching back into the lake. The head's mouth was huge, and when it grinned at her she could see all its long white teeth.
Abigail stood frozen. She was so scared she couldn't say anything, or even move. The head moved closer to her across the water. It seemed as big as a car. Suddenly it--whatever it was--jerked its ears straight up and open. The ears spread out like a ship's sails on either side of the head. It moved its mouth again, and she heard it say in a deep voice, "Hello, Abigail."
This was too much. She screamed again, dropped her basket, and ran up the hill to the house faster than she had ever run, screaming the whole way. She fell once, skinning her knees, but didn't dare look back. She was sure the Head was right behind her, ready to eat her in a single bite. She scrambled back to her feet and kept running.
Her mother met her at the back door. She had heard her daughter screaming all the way up the hill. Abigail ran right into her mother's arms without slowing down.
"Abby, what's the matter?" her mother asked.
Abigail tried to tell her, but kept on screaming instead. She couldn't make any words come out. Her mother picked her up and carried her into the kitchen, where she gave her a glass of water. Finally Abigail calmed down enough to tell her mother what had happened.
"Mama, there was a--a head in the lake! It looked at me! It knew my name!"
Her mother's face broke into a smile. "A head, huh?" She sounded relieved.
Abigail started to pout. "You don't believe me."
"No, honey, I believe you. What did it look like?"
Abigail tried to breath evenly. "It was--purple. And big."
"How big?" her mother asked.
Abigail thought for a moment. "It was really, really big. And scary. It knew my name," she said again. "It tried to eat me."
"Oh yeah?" her mother asked. "How do you know it tried to eat you?"
Abigail thought about this. "I don't know. It was moving towards me. It had big teeth."
Her mother kissed her. "Honey, just because something scares you at first doesn't mean its going to hurt you. What did it say"
Abigail tried to copy the seamonster's voice. "It said, 'Hello, Abigail.'" She sounded funny when she talked low like that, and she and her mother both laughed. She was a little less scared.
"It sounds to me like the head was just trying to be friendly," her mother said. "Lets see if its still there." They walked over to the kitchen window and looked back at the lake. There was nothing there. Abigail could see her basket sitting down by the shore where she had dropped it.
"Where did it go?" asked Abigail.
"Honey, it probably went back under the lake."
Abigail's eyes got very big. "Does it live there all the time?"
"I guess so, honey. Aren't you going to go get your basket?"
Abigail shook her head. "No way."
But later, when her father got home, he walked her down to the lake so they could get her basket. She held very tightly onto his hand. She looked out into the lake, where the sun was setting, hoping to see the seamonster so she could run back to the house before he got close. But the seamonster never appeared.
When they reached her basket, there was an enormous green shell sitting in it. It was the biggest shell she had ever seen, and it was a beautiful shade of green. She had never seen any shell like it.
Her father saw it and said, "Wow, sweetie, you found a good shell today."
She said, "I didn't find that one. It wasn't here before."
"Well, where did it come from, then?" her father asked.
She shook her head, and said, "I don't know."
But all the way back up the hill she looked over her shoulder for the seamonster.
Sunday, March 14, 2004
Announcement
Since I'm on Spring Break this week, I'll be back in Abilene to take over my friend Nathan's Humanities classes at Abilene High, my alma mater. There will be poetry and the discussion thereof. I'll be in his classes tomorrow and Tuesday mornings; anyone interested in sitting in on one of these please get in touch with me at 512.787.1648 or via the email listed on this page.
This of course means there won't be any updates to the story until the end of the week. Patience is a virtue.
Since I'm on Spring Break this week, I'll be back in Abilene to take over my friend Nathan's Humanities classes at Abilene High, my alma mater. There will be poetry and the discussion thereof. I'll be in his classes tomorrow and Tuesday mornings; anyone interested in sitting in on one of these please get in touch with me at 512.787.1648 or via the email listed on this page.
This of course means there won't be any updates to the story until the end of the week. Patience is a virtue.
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Abigail and the Seamonster, pt. 2
Part 1 . Part 2 . Part 3 . Part 4 . Part 5 . Part 6 . Part 7
Before I go any further, a note about the story. The story idea originally comes from a song by the Violet Burning titled, appropriately enough, "Seamonster." It's found on their album The Violet Burning Demonstrates Plastic and Elastic, and a stripped down version (my personal favorite) can be heard on I Am a Stranger In This Place. Either one of these would make a fine addition to the collection of fans of the Cure, the Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead, Echo and the Bunnymen, et al.
Anyway, once upon a time another Violets fan, one Audiogirl a.k.a. Carrie, came up with a kids' book roughly inspired by the song. I've never read her book, but when I heard about it it inspired me to come up with my own kids' book based on the song (it's a song with which I've always associated a lot of clear, powerful images). I laid out the plot of my story for her, and she tells me it bears no resemblance whatsoever to her version.
That explains the Seamonster part of the title. Abigail, on the other hand, is the name of the daughter of a friend of mine. Abby celebrated her seventh birthday several months ago, right around the time I started writing this. I got the great idea to use her name in the story and score a bunch of points, while saving money on a birthday present, but as is my wont I failed to get it done on time. But the name stuck.
So that's what's going on.
I should also mention that the version posted here is only partially finished. If I waited till it was perfectly polished before showing it, I'd never show it. So any constructive criticism is welcome.
And now I give you...
ANOTHER ONE OF ABIGAIL'S favorite things was to go down to the shore of the lake and play in the shallow water. She and her brother would put on their swim suits and splash around in the water and squirt each other with water guns until their mother made them stop. Then they would walk around in the shallows and look for shells and fish and things. When she looked at the water from a distance it was always a certain color, blue or green or purple, but when she stood in the water and looked down at the bottom the water was clear. She could see her toes wriggling in the mud. Her feet made squishing sounds whenever she walked in the lake. She liked the way the cool mud felt when it oozed up around her feet.
There were so many things to look at in the lake. There were schools of tiny fish that darted all around the shallows. If she held very still with her head down to the water the fish would swim up so close she could see their stomachs moving inside their clear skin. She would sometimes hold her finger just under the water and wait for the fish to swim by. Sooner or later one of them would come sniff her finger and nibble at it to see if it was food. It tickled when the fish touched her finger.
She also liked to go walking along the wooden dock that jutted out from the shore into the lake. It creaked a little when she walked on it. It creaked a lot when her father walked with her. She could look down through the cracks in the boards and see the water sloshing back and forth, and when the wind blew the water towards the shore she could lean out over the rail at the end of the dock with the water moving past her and the wind running back across her face. It felt like she wasn't standing still on a dock, but was on a boat moving quickly across the lake.
Her father kept a small rowboat tied to the end of the dock. Sometimes when he took the boat out fishing in the evening he would let Abigail come with him, if she promised to not make too much noise. Her mother would make sandwiches and fill two thermoses, lemonade for her, coffee for her father. He would row, and she would sit in the back of the boat and watch their house on the shore get smaller and smaller as they went further out on the water, until their house looked even smaller than one of her dollhouses, just a tiny yellow square on the shore. After the sun went down and the stars came out she couldn't see the house at all.
At night on the lake she sometimes felt that she and her father were the only two people in the world. The water was dark, and when there wasn't any wind the slapping waves died down and the lake seemed to reflect every one of the bright stars in the sky. The only land Abigail could see at night was the low hills around the lake, and these were only dark shapes against the stars. When the moon was out the lake would reflect the moon as well, so that it seemed there were two moons, one above them and one beneath them, and their boat was floating in the middle of a world of stars.
After it got dark she and her father would talk quietly, so that they wouldn't disturb the fish. He would tell her stories about when he was a kid, or about when she was a baby. She loved to hear those stories, about things she had done as though she were a character in someone else's story. He would also talk to her about the lake, tell her made-up stories about the fish who lived there. Her favorite of these were the stories he told about a seamonster that lived in the lake. The seamonster wasn't mean, even though it was a monster, but instead it helped all the other creatures that lived in the lake.
One night when they went out in the boat together Abigail asked her father about the man who lived in the lake. She was watching the place where her father's fishing line went into the water.
"Daddy, what if the man who lives in the lake gets caught on your fishing hook?"
Her father laughed. "I don't think you have to worry about that, honey."
"But what if he does? Maybe he doesn't see it?"
"Abby, he's been around for a lot longer than I've been fishing here. He's smart enough to not get caught on a fishing hook" He looked at her in the dark. "What makes you think he's a man?"
"You said he was!"
"I don't think I did, honey." Her father sounded puzzled. "Are you sure that's what I said?"
"Umm." She thought back to what her father had told her before. "You said he's a person."
"That doesn't make him a man."
"But what is he then?"
Her father leaned over and kissed her on the top of the head. "It's hard to describe. You'll have to meet him for yourself."
She started to pout. "That's what you always say, Daddy. I'm never going to meet him."
"Honey, you will. Don't worry."
"But when?" She wanted to cry.
"When he wants you to," her father told her again. "It's not like he's my pet, Abby."
"But it's not fair! I'm the only one who's never met him."
"You're right, honey," her father said. She could hear him smiling. "You're the only person in the entire universe who hasn't met him." He was teasing her. She climbed off her bench and felt her way to the stern of the boat, where she sat pouting, clutching her knees in her arms. She fell asleep there, and later when her father carried her up the hill to the house she thought it was a dream.
Part 1 . Part 2 . Part 3 . Part 4 . Part 5 . Part 6 . Part 7
Before I go any further, a note about the story. The story idea originally comes from a song by the Violet Burning titled, appropriately enough, "Seamonster." It's found on their album The Violet Burning Demonstrates Plastic and Elastic, and a stripped down version (my personal favorite) can be heard on I Am a Stranger In This Place. Either one of these would make a fine addition to the collection of fans of the Cure, the Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead, Echo and the Bunnymen, et al.
Anyway, once upon a time another Violets fan, one Audiogirl a.k.a. Carrie, came up with a kids' book roughly inspired by the song. I've never read her book, but when I heard about it it inspired me to come up with my own kids' book based on the song (it's a song with which I've always associated a lot of clear, powerful images). I laid out the plot of my story for her, and she tells me it bears no resemblance whatsoever to her version.
That explains the Seamonster part of the title. Abigail, on the other hand, is the name of the daughter of a friend of mine. Abby celebrated her seventh birthday several months ago, right around the time I started writing this. I got the great idea to use her name in the story and score a bunch of points, while saving money on a birthday present, but as is my wont I failed to get it done on time. But the name stuck.
So that's what's going on.
I should also mention that the version posted here is only partially finished. If I waited till it was perfectly polished before showing it, I'd never show it. So any constructive criticism is welcome.
And now I give you...
ANOTHER ONE OF ABIGAIL'S favorite things was to go down to the shore of the lake and play in the shallow water. She and her brother would put on their swim suits and splash around in the water and squirt each other with water guns until their mother made them stop. Then they would walk around in the shallows and look for shells and fish and things. When she looked at the water from a distance it was always a certain color, blue or green or purple, but when she stood in the water and looked down at the bottom the water was clear. She could see her toes wriggling in the mud. Her feet made squishing sounds whenever she walked in the lake. She liked the way the cool mud felt when it oozed up around her feet.
There were so many things to look at in the lake. There were schools of tiny fish that darted all around the shallows. If she held very still with her head down to the water the fish would swim up so close she could see their stomachs moving inside their clear skin. She would sometimes hold her finger just under the water and wait for the fish to swim by. Sooner or later one of them would come sniff her finger and nibble at it to see if it was food. It tickled when the fish touched her finger.
She also liked to go walking along the wooden dock that jutted out from the shore into the lake. It creaked a little when she walked on it. It creaked a lot when her father walked with her. She could look down through the cracks in the boards and see the water sloshing back and forth, and when the wind blew the water towards the shore she could lean out over the rail at the end of the dock with the water moving past her and the wind running back across her face. It felt like she wasn't standing still on a dock, but was on a boat moving quickly across the lake.
Her father kept a small rowboat tied to the end of the dock. Sometimes when he took the boat out fishing in the evening he would let Abigail come with him, if she promised to not make too much noise. Her mother would make sandwiches and fill two thermoses, lemonade for her, coffee for her father. He would row, and she would sit in the back of the boat and watch their house on the shore get smaller and smaller as they went further out on the water, until their house looked even smaller than one of her dollhouses, just a tiny yellow square on the shore. After the sun went down and the stars came out she couldn't see the house at all.
At night on the lake she sometimes felt that she and her father were the only two people in the world. The water was dark, and when there wasn't any wind the slapping waves died down and the lake seemed to reflect every one of the bright stars in the sky. The only land Abigail could see at night was the low hills around the lake, and these were only dark shapes against the stars. When the moon was out the lake would reflect the moon as well, so that it seemed there were two moons, one above them and one beneath them, and their boat was floating in the middle of a world of stars.
After it got dark she and her father would talk quietly, so that they wouldn't disturb the fish. He would tell her stories about when he was a kid, or about when she was a baby. She loved to hear those stories, about things she had done as though she were a character in someone else's story. He would also talk to her about the lake, tell her made-up stories about the fish who lived there. Her favorite of these were the stories he told about a seamonster that lived in the lake. The seamonster wasn't mean, even though it was a monster, but instead it helped all the other creatures that lived in the lake.
One night when they went out in the boat together Abigail asked her father about the man who lived in the lake. She was watching the place where her father's fishing line went into the water.
"Daddy, what if the man who lives in the lake gets caught on your fishing hook?"
Her father laughed. "I don't think you have to worry about that, honey."
"But what if he does? Maybe he doesn't see it?"
"Abby, he's been around for a lot longer than I've been fishing here. He's smart enough to not get caught on a fishing hook" He looked at her in the dark. "What makes you think he's a man?"
"You said he was!"
"I don't think I did, honey." Her father sounded puzzled. "Are you sure that's what I said?"
"Umm." She thought back to what her father had told her before. "You said he's a person."
"That doesn't make him a man."
"But what is he then?"
Her father leaned over and kissed her on the top of the head. "It's hard to describe. You'll have to meet him for yourself."
She started to pout. "That's what you always say, Daddy. I'm never going to meet him."
"Honey, you will. Don't worry."
"But when?" She wanted to cry.
"When he wants you to," her father told her again. "It's not like he's my pet, Abby."
"But it's not fair! I'm the only one who's never met him."
"You're right, honey," her father said. She could hear him smiling. "You're the only person in the entire universe who hasn't met him." He was teasing her. She climbed off her bench and felt her way to the stern of the boat, where she sat pouting, clutching her knees in her arms. She fell asleep there, and later when her father carried her up the hill to the house she thought it was a dream.
Monday, March 08, 2004
Abigail and the Seamonster, pt. 1
Part 1 . Part 2 . Part 3 . Part 4 . Part 5 . Part 6 . Part 7
ABIGAIL WAS A GIRL who lived with her mother and father in a house beside an enormous lake. One of Abigail's favorite things to do was to sit and look at the lake. She loved to see the different colors in the water. Sometimes, during the middle of the day, she would look out the window and see the water as blue as the sky. Other times, in the morning or in the evening, the lake was so purple and mysterious that it made her think about all the things that must be down under the water. Sometimes the water was as brown as dirt, and sometimes it was even green.
The lake was so big that she couldn't see the other side, not even when her father took her up on the roof to sit and watch the sun set. Once she asked him, "Daddy, how big is the lake?" They were sitting next to each other on the roof, hugging their knees to their chests. The lake was purple with streaks of orange and red from where it reflected the colors of the sunset.
He thought about her question for a moment, then said, "I don't know, honey."
"Have you ever been to the other side?" she asked.
"No, I haven't," he replied.
"Has anyone?"
He smiled at her and ruffled her hair with his hand. "I know one person who has."
"Who?"
"You haven't met him, yet," he said. "He lives in the lake."
Abigail's mouth made an O in surprise. "He lives in the lake? How does he breath?"
Her father laughed. "I don't know that either, honey. You can ask him when you meet him."
"When will I meet him, daddy?"
"When he wants you to meet him."
This made Abigail grumpy. She wanted to meet the man who lived in the lake now. She thought he must be one of those grownups who came over to her house after she and her brother went to bed, one of the ones who stayed up laughing with the lights on in another room while she laid beneath the covers in the dark and wondered what they were talking about.
The next night her parents had some friends over. After she and her brother went to bed she could hear them in the living room. She couldn't sleep, thinking about the man who lived in the lake. She thought I know he must be in there, right now. She wondered what he might look like. A man who lived in a lake must walk around wet all the time. She imagined him sitting on the couch, dripping water everywhere while he told stories about fish and underwater caves and things he found on the lake bottom that people threw out of boats. Things she wanted to know about.
Abigail couldn't take it any longer. She had to meet him. She slipped out of bed and tiptoed out into the hall with her favorite stuffed animal tucked under one arm. The voices got louder as she got closer to the living room. Light spilled out of the door to the living room into the hall. She held her breath, then peeked around the corner.
All the grownups were sitting around in chairs or on the couch. They were laughing like someone had just told a joke. Her father had his guitar out, leaning against his knee. The man who lived in the lake wasn't there; she didn't see anyone who looked even slightly damp, let alone dripping water. Her mother looked over and saw her looking around the corner of the door.
"Abigail!" she said, "Shouldn't you be in bed?"
Abigail nodded. All the grownups were looking at her and smiling. She felt very shy.
"Do you want a drink of water?" her mother asked.
Abigail nodded again, and said, "Yes, please," like her parents had taught her to say.
After her mother got her a glass of water she took Abigail back to bed. As her mother was tucking her in, she said, "You know that you should get a drink of water before you go to bed."
Abigail said, "I just wanted to see the man."
"Which man?" her mother asked.
"The one who lives in the lake. Is he in there?"
Because the lights were out she couldn't see her mother's face clearly, but Abigail knew her mother was smiling because of the sound of her voice. "The man who lives in the lake? Did Daddy tell you about him?"
"Yes," Abigail said.
"No, he's not here tonight. Not exactly," her mother added.
"What does 'not exactly' mean?" Abigail asked.
"I can't explain, sweetie," her mother answered. "Go to sleep. Sweet dreams." She kissed Abby on the forehead and left the room.
It took a long time for Abigail to fall asleep, but when she did she dreamed that she was walking on the bottom of the lake with the man who lived there. He had a stringy gray beard and wore a tattered brown suit. They talked for a long time. Bubbles came out of their mouths when they said anything. He showed her all the different fish who lived in the lake and told her their names, but when she woke up she couldn't remember any of them.
Part 1 . Part 2 . Part 3 . Part 4 . Part 5 . Part 6 . Part 7
ABIGAIL WAS A GIRL who lived with her mother and father in a house beside an enormous lake. One of Abigail's favorite things to do was to sit and look at the lake. She loved to see the different colors in the water. Sometimes, during the middle of the day, she would look out the window and see the water as blue as the sky. Other times, in the morning or in the evening, the lake was so purple and mysterious that it made her think about all the things that must be down under the water. Sometimes the water was as brown as dirt, and sometimes it was even green.
The lake was so big that she couldn't see the other side, not even when her father took her up on the roof to sit and watch the sun set. Once she asked him, "Daddy, how big is the lake?" They were sitting next to each other on the roof, hugging their knees to their chests. The lake was purple with streaks of orange and red from where it reflected the colors of the sunset.
He thought about her question for a moment, then said, "I don't know, honey."
"Have you ever been to the other side?" she asked.
"No, I haven't," he replied.
"Has anyone?"
He smiled at her and ruffled her hair with his hand. "I know one person who has."
"Who?"
"You haven't met him, yet," he said. "He lives in the lake."
Abigail's mouth made an O in surprise. "He lives in the lake? How does he breath?"
Her father laughed. "I don't know that either, honey. You can ask him when you meet him."
"When will I meet him, daddy?"
"When he wants you to meet him."
This made Abigail grumpy. She wanted to meet the man who lived in the lake now. She thought he must be one of those grownups who came over to her house after she and her brother went to bed, one of the ones who stayed up laughing with the lights on in another room while she laid beneath the covers in the dark and wondered what they were talking about.
The next night her parents had some friends over. After she and her brother went to bed she could hear them in the living room. She couldn't sleep, thinking about the man who lived in the lake. She thought I know he must be in there, right now. She wondered what he might look like. A man who lived in a lake must walk around wet all the time. She imagined him sitting on the couch, dripping water everywhere while he told stories about fish and underwater caves and things he found on the lake bottom that people threw out of boats. Things she wanted to know about.
Abigail couldn't take it any longer. She had to meet him. She slipped out of bed and tiptoed out into the hall with her favorite stuffed animal tucked under one arm. The voices got louder as she got closer to the living room. Light spilled out of the door to the living room into the hall. She held her breath, then peeked around the corner.
All the grownups were sitting around in chairs or on the couch. They were laughing like someone had just told a joke. Her father had his guitar out, leaning against his knee. The man who lived in the lake wasn't there; she didn't see anyone who looked even slightly damp, let alone dripping water. Her mother looked over and saw her looking around the corner of the door.
"Abigail!" she said, "Shouldn't you be in bed?"
Abigail nodded. All the grownups were looking at her and smiling. She felt very shy.
"Do you want a drink of water?" her mother asked.
Abigail nodded again, and said, "Yes, please," like her parents had taught her to say.
After her mother got her a glass of water she took Abigail back to bed. As her mother was tucking her in, she said, "You know that you should get a drink of water before you go to bed."
Abigail said, "I just wanted to see the man."
"Which man?" her mother asked.
"The one who lives in the lake. Is he in there?"
Because the lights were out she couldn't see her mother's face clearly, but Abigail knew her mother was smiling because of the sound of her voice. "The man who lives in the lake? Did Daddy tell you about him?"
"Yes," Abigail said.
"No, he's not here tonight. Not exactly," her mother added.
"What does 'not exactly' mean?" Abigail asked.
"I can't explain, sweetie," her mother answered. "Go to sleep. Sweet dreams." She kissed Abby on the forehead and left the room.
It took a long time for Abigail to fall asleep, but when she did she dreamed that she was walking on the bottom of the lake with the man who lived there. He had a stringy gray beard and wore a tattered brown suit. They talked for a long time. Bubbles came out of their mouths when they said anything. He showed her all the different fish who lived in the lake and told her their names, but when she woke up she couldn't remember any of them.
Saturday, March 06, 2004
Mr. Hospitality, and other ironies
It's been awhile. I apologize. I wish I could promise you that I'll be returning to my former faithfulness in blogging. Problem is, I don't have any record of dependability to which to return (notice the lack of a dangling preposition there? That's my Modern English Syntax class, thank you Dr. Mejia) and even if I did I wouldn't be picking back up until the semester is over. So this isn't a return; more a dispatch from the thick of battle. I do what I can.
Right now "doing what I can" involves sitting at my computer, listening to Mozart's Requiem. I've been on a classical music kick of late. Today some Mormons stopped by the house. They came by last Saturday, but I was writing a paper or something and told them to come by today. I half suspected they'd forget, but I evidently made it onto some kind of list. They struck me as pretty organized.
We had a good talk about faith and authority and whatnot. I think I sort of threw them off; the typical LDS missionary pattern is to go through a series of six talks with a person/family, encouraging them to make a series of escalating commitments so that by the end of the six lesson sequence they're basically practicing Mormons. I'd been through two or three of the talks already, though, back in Abilene, and had read through the Book of Mormon since then. So the soil of my heart wasn't exactly untilled, if you'll permit me the agricultural metaphor. Which is good, because it made for a less presentation-style discussion. They invited me to church, which I plan to try out at some point, and I invited them to church, and to my Bible study. They expressed more interest in the latter, so we'll see if they actually come along.
If you want to know more about the whole Mormon missionary phenomenon there's a good website at LDS4U. It's a balanced site by a former LDS guy who grew up in the church and did the whole missionary thing, but who doesn't seem to harbor any particular bitterness.
When they got here, though, I offered them something to drink. Milk, water, juice, and tea. They took water. So I went into the kitchen, got two glasses of water and one of tea (for me--you can have my Christian Liberties when you pry them out of my cold, dead fingers), then went back in the living room and we had our talk.
After thirty minutes or so I found myself running low on tea, so I got up to get a refill and asked them if they'd like a refill on water. They looked at me, and one of them said, "Um, we never got it." I'd left their water sitting on the counter and them sitting on the couch, hot from their bike ride in their ties and dark pants, to watch me chug down icey Satanic Caffeine Beverage while they choked out the Good News with parched tongues. Of course I apologized profusely, and brought them their water (at long last), but the verdict stands--I am a dumbass.
In other news, last night I got a phone call from a certain senior pastor with whom I'm aquainted (and who has requested to be nameless for this post). I'd called him earlier with a question about the bulletin for tomorrow morning, and since he was in my neighborhood he stopped off in front of my house and dialed my cell phone (with his cell phone). Our conversation went something like this:
"Daniel, I think I'm in front of your house. Step outside and let me know."
I step outside with cell phone and see him idling in front of my driveway. "Yep, this is my house." I wave.
He waves back. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by instead of calling you back."
"That's sort of ironic"
"Yeah, I know. Very postmodern."
(Bear in mind that I'm standing on my porch, he's in his truck--we're looking at each other during this conversation.)
"So I'm going to pull up in the driveway and talk to you." He starts to pull into my driveway.
"Ok...um...Dave*, I think you're rubbing against my mailbox." I say this because he's rubbing his truck against my mailbox, producing a horrific shriek and a line of scraped paint down the side of his truck's bed.
"What? Are you serious? Stupid truck..."
After he stops the truck, gets out, and looks at the scratch, I asked him (no longer on the phone) if he thought maybe he'd hit the mailbox because he was too busy talking on his phone to someone standing thirty feet away. He was able to laugh at this--a character trait of his that plays a larger role than you might suspect in why I go to church where I do.
And now, once more into the breach dear friends. The last four acts of King Lear summon me...
* Names changed to protect, well, the guilty.
It's been awhile. I apologize. I wish I could promise you that I'll be returning to my former faithfulness in blogging. Problem is, I don't have any record of dependability to which to return (notice the lack of a dangling preposition there? That's my Modern English Syntax class, thank you Dr. Mejia) and even if I did I wouldn't be picking back up until the semester is over. So this isn't a return; more a dispatch from the thick of battle. I do what I can.
Right now "doing what I can" involves sitting at my computer, listening to Mozart's Requiem. I've been on a classical music kick of late. Today some Mormons stopped by the house. They came by last Saturday, but I was writing a paper or something and told them to come by today. I half suspected they'd forget, but I evidently made it onto some kind of list. They struck me as pretty organized.
We had a good talk about faith and authority and whatnot. I think I sort of threw them off; the typical LDS missionary pattern is to go through a series of six talks with a person/family, encouraging them to make a series of escalating commitments so that by the end of the six lesson sequence they're basically practicing Mormons. I'd been through two or three of the talks already, though, back in Abilene, and had read through the Book of Mormon since then. So the soil of my heart wasn't exactly untilled, if you'll permit me the agricultural metaphor. Which is good, because it made for a less presentation-style discussion. They invited me to church, which I plan to try out at some point, and I invited them to church, and to my Bible study. They expressed more interest in the latter, so we'll see if they actually come along.
If you want to know more about the whole Mormon missionary phenomenon there's a good website at LDS4U. It's a balanced site by a former LDS guy who grew up in the church and did the whole missionary thing, but who doesn't seem to harbor any particular bitterness.
When they got here, though, I offered them something to drink. Milk, water, juice, and tea. They took water. So I went into the kitchen, got two glasses of water and one of tea (for me--you can have my Christian Liberties when you pry them out of my cold, dead fingers), then went back in the living room and we had our talk.
After thirty minutes or so I found myself running low on tea, so I got up to get a refill and asked them if they'd like a refill on water. They looked at me, and one of them said, "Um, we never got it." I'd left their water sitting on the counter and them sitting on the couch, hot from their bike ride in their ties and dark pants, to watch me chug down icey Satanic Caffeine Beverage while they choked out the Good News with parched tongues. Of course I apologized profusely, and brought them their water (at long last), but the verdict stands--I am a dumbass.
In other news, last night I got a phone call from a certain senior pastor with whom I'm aquainted (and who has requested to be nameless for this post). I'd called him earlier with a question about the bulletin for tomorrow morning, and since he was in my neighborhood he stopped off in front of my house and dialed my cell phone (with his cell phone). Our conversation went something like this:
"Daniel, I think I'm in front of your house. Step outside and let me know."
I step outside with cell phone and see him idling in front of my driveway. "Yep, this is my house." I wave.
He waves back. "I was in the neighborhood and thought I'd stop by instead of calling you back."
"That's sort of ironic"
"Yeah, I know. Very postmodern."
(Bear in mind that I'm standing on my porch, he's in his truck--we're looking at each other during this conversation.)
"So I'm going to pull up in the driveway and talk to you." He starts to pull into my driveway.
"Ok...um...Dave*, I think you're rubbing against my mailbox." I say this because he's rubbing his truck against my mailbox, producing a horrific shriek and a line of scraped paint down the side of his truck's bed.
"What? Are you serious? Stupid truck..."
After he stops the truck, gets out, and looks at the scratch, I asked him (no longer on the phone) if he thought maybe he'd hit the mailbox because he was too busy talking on his phone to someone standing thirty feet away. He was able to laugh at this--a character trait of his that plays a larger role than you might suspect in why I go to church where I do.
And now, once more into the breach dear friends. The last four acts of King Lear summon me...
* Names changed to protect, well, the guilty.
Order Dead Man, Daniel's new chapbook, for $6 (plus S&H). Read more about it here.
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/The Bible
/The Onion
/The Place
/Wikipedia
Contact
danielpriest [at] gmail.com
AIM: dannydpriest
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punchlikeapoet
