Somewhere quiet. Somewhere cool; where the temperature rarely, if ever, reaches above the seventy-five degree mark. Somewhere clearly middle-class. Somewhere wooded with small lakes and winding rivers and ever-rushing waterfalls. And where there’s never a worry of rush-hour traffic. Somewhere north of here. Way north of here. Where people buy new cars out of necessity, not because they can . Where people are tasteful rather than fancy. Where, generally, showing-off is frowned upon. Perhaps somewhere in Alaska. Because Canada isn’t likely to take you. Fantasy aside, future ahead, if something isn’t finished then nothing will be published, and you will starve or you will freeze to death. If something isn’t finished and submitted and published and then purchased, your future is homelessness; your future is standing on street corners holding Going Out Of Business signs and selling Streetwise. Your future is likely this because you’re a spoiled brat and your chances of surviving anothe...
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Showing posts from July, 2005
Examined a different way, it is a Time to Hone and a Time to Study. Thus, this Time is a gift. With any success at honing and studying the Time for Loving will come. One, however, hopes the Time for Loving will not come so late as to necessitate the need for Viagra. Of course, the Time for Success and Loving will indubitably be followed by a Time of Chaos. As if an obsessed denied suitor, you see, Chaos stalks Success. Or Love. But definitely both, when commingled. For now, the thing to love is the Freedom. And the Freedom is the Freedom to Hone and to Study. Few appreciate such freedom during adolescence. Thus, you are living your Second Chance. Though, where chances are concerned, this may be your third, your fourth, your fifth, actually. Unless, however, it is possible for a concept to fall in love. Freedom , perhaps, has fallen in love with you. That is, the Freedom to Hone and to Study. That is, in particular, the Freedom to Write and to Read.
Hanging on the wall five feet east of the flat-screen TV in room 4132 there’s a painting. Steps and a rail surrounded by potted flowers and planted shrubbery. This scene, the painter has you seeing it through a rain-streaked window. It’s a soft, comforting image—though no one’s mentioned it. Everyone’s mentioned the flat-screen—how sharp the image; how vivid the color. Make this painting a photograph, and it wouldn’t be as comforting. A photograph would define the scene too well. One tends to dwell over the meaning of a painting more than one dwells over the meaning of a photo. One is more likely to wonder: Why this scene? Painting is a larger commitment—for, while it only takes a moment to snap a photo, it can take hours to paint a canvas. Of course, via digital means, one can spend hours manipulating a photograph… But doesn’t doing that make the photo more like a painting? We won’t be satisfied unless we name, define, classify, categorize everything . We must pin it all down. Flowe...
A cousin of mine, who is in London for a summer photography program, remembered her forgotten keys shortly before boarding a double-decker bus. This was yesterday morning. She hurried back toward the dorm, and as she did, that bus blew to bits. Physically , she is unscathed. I'm still waiting to hear from my friend, Dave, the expatriate. I've only got his e-mail address. Whatever you people want, whatever that truly is, you aren’t going to get it with more explosions; you aren’t going to get it with more murder—you haven’t yet, you didn’t yesterday, what makes you think you will today or tomorrow or next week? It won’t matter if it’s Madrid, London, or New York. You aren’t going to get what you want by doing what your doing. How many things do you have to blow up before this truth becomes clear? Your bloody diligence will be your undoing.
How to unpack the word, “numb”? Because that’s how you’ll feel after so many hours waiting for a doctor, nurses, technicians; waiting for test and x-ray results; waiting for a warm blanket; waiting for someone to turn off that damn whining, flat-lining, mechanical noise; waiting for the next available room. After so many hours waiting in a hospital—unless, of course, your gallstones are tearing out of that pear-shaped muscular sac and slashing into your liver and stomach—you’re going to feel time drag you down, you’ll feel gravity press from above. An onslaught of sluggishness— that’s waiting in a hospital. And it’s an understatement, too.