MARY WAS
TO MARY WAS it must have seemed that life was out to get her. Throughout school--throughout junior high and high school and then on into college--she had tried to make friends. But her friendships never seemed to be like the friendships others had--that is to say, she never had a best friend, someone she could just let herself go with. After college, when it was time to marry, she married a guy she didn't particularly love--nor was loved by (within six months he had begun to beat her; not bad, but still he beat her)--and within two years they were divorced. Later she met and married another guy whom she didn't particularly love either, but he didn't beat her, and at times was even kind, and by this time she didn't expect much more than that. The marriage even developed into something that she could honestly tell others was "not bad," and she told some that she had even achieved a "degree of happiness." But then one evening at a restaurant, over dinner, Mary began choking on some food. Her husband went to her rescue, saved her life--that is, got the food out of her throat--but then, suddenly and inexplicably, she went into cardiac arrest. The paramedics, who were already on their way, revived her, she was saved again, but in the hospital, after all the tests had been conducted, she was placed on a medication that she was told would have to be taken for the rest of her life. The doctors further informed her that it would be unwise for them--for her and her husband--to attempt to have any children; the medication would be harmful on the fetus--and without the medication, her own life would be in grave danger. For a number of years, they lived this way: safely--and childless. But Mary seemed to grow stronger and more healthy with each year--indeed, more healthy than she had ever felt before. Without consulting a physician, they decided to halt the medication for awhile. And after six months Mary admitted that she felt just as strong without the medication as with it. And so, after much consideration, they decided to have a baby. Mary conceived, but during the fifth month of the pregnancy, she died of a massive heart attack.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Home
HOME
TWO WEEKS after Josephine's last letter, Joe Pancake moved. "Provo's a college town," he'd said to a friend, and he, Joe, was no longer a student--he no longer fit. He belonged somewhere else. And so one day, toward the end of August, he threw everything he owned into the trunk and back seat of his little red Volkswagen bug and drove the six miles out to north Orem, where, just the week before, he had arranged to rent a small, old brick farmhouse that he knew would be destroyed within a year's time--along with the orchards that surrounded it--to make room for the new subdivision.
Driving out there, Joe felt like he was setting out on a journey, an adventure--to a new life--or, anyway, to a beginning of sorts. He could smell it in the air. And the apple and pear trees, with their bulging fruit, were there to remind him.
Joe pulled into the dirt driveway and slowly began unloading the car: the boxes of clothes and books and music, the boombox, the coats, backpack and sleeping bag, the guitar. The house was only partly furnished, and so he set things down in the front room, on the floor. Finished, he began to explore the premise. He hadn't noticed much when he had first come out to inspect the place, five days earlier, after reading the ad in the paper, meeting the landlord-developer, and putting down his deposit and first month's rent. But now, upon closer examination, he saw that the house was much smaller than he had remembered. Which pleased him. He wanted smallness, needed smallness. Badly. Lately he'd been having the feeling that his life was getting bigger than he could handle.
Just before leaving his other place, Joe had found a peculiar delight in throwing things away: the worn-out shoes, the filthy underwear, the socks with unrepairable holes, the ripped and torn t-shirts, the nonsense books, the stupid papers, the idiot plastic, and everything else that he had no more use for. He'd borrowed a pick-up truck from a friend and filled it full--twice--and took each load out to the dump and threw it all away. The size of his new home, he knew, would help him accomplish what he suspected he might not be able to do otherwise.
There were two bedrooms: one for him, and the other for the guests he knew--but hoped would not--eventually come; there was also a small front room, a kitchen, and a bath. That was it: just one level; no basement, no attic. No excess. Basics.
The bedroom that Joe decided to occupy contained a dresser with no drawers, a steel U.S. Army cot with broken springs, and a torn, stained mattress. Joe liked none of these, but he kept the cot, and tossed the dresser and mattress out into the front yard for the time being. He'd add it to the garbage when he had the time.
Joe continued his sweep of the new home, saving and discarding almost at random: he decided to keep the coatrack and lampshade and coffee table and the crumbling but nevertheless comfortable sofa in the front room; the toaster from the kitchen, a flower vase in the bathroom, the waste basket in the other bedroom. Almost everything else went: the ridiculous kitchen table (metal legs, formica top with the silly pattern), the pitiful excuse of a bookcase, the cleaning rags, the broken chairs, the tiny yellow wall mirrors and the framed pictures of Jesus. Joe took all of these outside and added them to the growing pile in the front yard.
Returning inside from one trip, Joe looked around the kitchen one more time. He opened the drawers. Found silverware. In another he found tools. Joe took the pliers, screw driver, and wrench and went back to the bedroom with the cot. He unhinged the bedroom door--he didn't want his privacy too private. Still not completely content with his work, he removed the doorknob and, to his surprise, found that the door fit perfectly over the broken springs of the cot. Satisfied, he walked to the front room and to his backpack. He unstrapped the foam pad; he unstuffed the sleeping bag from its sack; and he brought them all back to the bedroom and threw them onto the door. Joe was now set: he had a bed, a place to dream. A place on the planet.
Outside the trees furnished the intimacy that he knew he would need. He looked at the swelling fruit. And thought: Adam was cast out for eating the apple; what would become of a people who not only ate the apple, but then destroyed the tree that provided it?
The thought reminded Joe of his own hunger. He went back to the house for the car keys to run down to the store when he noticed something he had somehow overlooked: the telephone hanging on the kitchen wall, above the counter and beside the cupboard. Curious, Joe picked it up. A dial tone. He placed the receiver back on the hook. And thought. With only a little hesitation--and with no difficulty at all--he found the telephone directory and then made the one call that he would ever make from his new home: to the telephone company to have them disconnect the thing as soon as they possibly could. Then he unplugged the phone and added it to the pile of shit in the yard.
TWO WEEKS after Josephine's last letter, Joe Pancake moved. "Provo's a college town," he'd said to a friend, and he, Joe, was no longer a student--he no longer fit. He belonged somewhere else. And so one day, toward the end of August, he threw everything he owned into the trunk and back seat of his little red Volkswagen bug and drove the six miles out to north Orem, where, just the week before, he had arranged to rent a small, old brick farmhouse that he knew would be destroyed within a year's time--along with the orchards that surrounded it--to make room for the new subdivision.
Driving out there, Joe felt like he was setting out on a journey, an adventure--to a new life--or, anyway, to a beginning of sorts. He could smell it in the air. And the apple and pear trees, with their bulging fruit, were there to remind him.
Joe pulled into the dirt driveway and slowly began unloading the car: the boxes of clothes and books and music, the boombox, the coats, backpack and sleeping bag, the guitar. The house was only partly furnished, and so he set things down in the front room, on the floor. Finished, he began to explore the premise. He hadn't noticed much when he had first come out to inspect the place, five days earlier, after reading the ad in the paper, meeting the landlord-developer, and putting down his deposit and first month's rent. But now, upon closer examination, he saw that the house was much smaller than he had remembered. Which pleased him. He wanted smallness, needed smallness. Badly. Lately he'd been having the feeling that his life was getting bigger than he could handle.
Just before leaving his other place, Joe had found a peculiar delight in throwing things away: the worn-out shoes, the filthy underwear, the socks with unrepairable holes, the ripped and torn t-shirts, the nonsense books, the stupid papers, the idiot plastic, and everything else that he had no more use for. He'd borrowed a pick-up truck from a friend and filled it full--twice--and took each load out to the dump and threw it all away. The size of his new home, he knew, would help him accomplish what he suspected he might not be able to do otherwise.
There were two bedrooms: one for him, and the other for the guests he knew--but hoped would not--eventually come; there was also a small front room, a kitchen, and a bath. That was it: just one level; no basement, no attic. No excess. Basics.
The bedroom that Joe decided to occupy contained a dresser with no drawers, a steel U.S. Army cot with broken springs, and a torn, stained mattress. Joe liked none of these, but he kept the cot, and tossed the dresser and mattress out into the front yard for the time being. He'd add it to the garbage when he had the time.
Joe continued his sweep of the new home, saving and discarding almost at random: he decided to keep the coatrack and lampshade and coffee table and the crumbling but nevertheless comfortable sofa in the front room; the toaster from the kitchen, a flower vase in the bathroom, the waste basket in the other bedroom. Almost everything else went: the ridiculous kitchen table (metal legs, formica top with the silly pattern), the pitiful excuse of a bookcase, the cleaning rags, the broken chairs, the tiny yellow wall mirrors and the framed pictures of Jesus. Joe took all of these outside and added them to the growing pile in the front yard.
Returning inside from one trip, Joe looked around the kitchen one more time. He opened the drawers. Found silverware. In another he found tools. Joe took the pliers, screw driver, and wrench and went back to the bedroom with the cot. He unhinged the bedroom door--he didn't want his privacy too private. Still not completely content with his work, he removed the doorknob and, to his surprise, found that the door fit perfectly over the broken springs of the cot. Satisfied, he walked to the front room and to his backpack. He unstrapped the foam pad; he unstuffed the sleeping bag from its sack; and he brought them all back to the bedroom and threw them onto the door. Joe was now set: he had a bed, a place to dream. A place on the planet.
Outside the trees furnished the intimacy that he knew he would need. He looked at the swelling fruit. And thought: Adam was cast out for eating the apple; what would become of a people who not only ate the apple, but then destroyed the tree that provided it?
The thought reminded Joe of his own hunger. He went back to the house for the car keys to run down to the store when he noticed something he had somehow overlooked: the telephone hanging on the kitchen wall, above the counter and beside the cupboard. Curious, Joe picked it up. A dial tone. He placed the receiver back on the hook. And thought. With only a little hesitation--and with no difficulty at all--he found the telephone directory and then made the one call that he would ever make from his new home: to the telephone company to have them disconnect the thing as soon as they possibly could. Then he unplugged the phone and added it to the pile of shit in the yard.
Friends
FRIENDS
MY FRIEND VICKIE walks the one block from her office at the phone company down to the bench that sits on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Everyday she sits on this bench and eats her lunch and watches the ocean rise and fall. The bench is simple: two slats of wood--one for the seat, one for the back--on two iron posts. She eats fruit--either an apple or an orange (never both); the other items of her lunch vary, but she always eats fruit. She sits on the bench and watches the ocean. The cliffs drop off sharply, and out in the ocean rocks rise up--sharply--from the water. She sits on the bench and watches the ocean rise and fall and listens to the sound that she finds very agreeable.
I have many friends who begin each day with a smile, with hope, optimism, and great faith. Almost all of them, within a half hour--and often sooner--have lost their faith, their hope, their optimism. And all of them have lost their smiles.
My friend Mikel worked on a mink ranch for awhile and said that during the pelting season the animals are killed by placing one electrode in their mouth and another up their rectum, and then giving them a jolt of electricity.
Twice a year, in January and then again in July, Vickie sits on her bench on the cliff and watches the whale migrations. She uses binoculars because the whales are often several miles out to sea, and they are difficult to locate with the naked eye. Occasionally, she will see one of them spouting, a sight she finds extremely satisfying.
Stephanie, my friend who went to work for an orphanage in Romania, tells how during the Ceausescu regime the artists and other dissidents were rounded up by the authorities for questioning. They would be placed in a room and told to wait for the interrogation to begin, but then no one ever came. These human beings would wait all day in the room, and no one ever came, and they just sat all day long waiting. By the end of the day, they would be told that they were no longer needed for questioning. But within a year's time, they would all be dead--dead from the radiation poisoning.
My friend Janet told me that a friend of hers, Donna, got divorced and was having a pretty rough time of it--emotionally, economically, socially. She needed friends; she needed money; she needed help. Her ex-husband knew all this and would occasionally call her up on the telephone and offer to give her a certain amount of money if she would have sex with him.
The ocean is beautiful in the summer.
Mikel said that there is a particular skill to killing the mink; for if they are given too long a shock, or if the voltage is too high, it can damage the pelt; and that's a lot of money to go up in smoke.
My friend Jim and I went to one of the last concerts the Beatles ever gave. Dodger Stadium. 1966. The crowd was wild. I remember after the last song we dashed out quickly behind center field where the limousine was parked and waiting. A chain-link fence--ten, twelve, maybe fifteen feet high--separated the crowd from the car; two ropes formed a makeshift pathway through the crowd for the group's escape. The police kept shouting for everyone to stay behind the ropes and to keep the way clear. Suddenly the Beatles appeared and got into the car; then, as soon as the gate was opened and the limousine started to move forward, the crowd broke loose and was upon it. The police were shouting and trying desperately (and without much success) to push the mob back to make way for the car's departure. But there were too many people. The limo began to retreat, inching its way backward, and then, as soon as they could, someone closed the gate.
Stephanie said that in the orphanage, she had to watch the children very carefully because often, no sooner had the infants been changed and given new clothes than they would be stripped again by some of the other workers when no one was looking.
Vickie sits on her bench and watches the ocean, the cliffs, the rising and falling of the swells, the whales (when they're there) off in the distance. She bites into the new fruit she has brought for lunch--a nashi. It seems to be a blend between an apple and a pear; she's been told that it comes from Asia, on the other side of the ocean. As she is eating, she concludes that it is without question the most delicious fruit she has ever had.
Janet's friend Donna hates herself each time her ex-husband comes over to help with the finances.
Mikel said that sometimes--not often, but sometimes--when they give the mink the juice, the electrode in the mouth will pop out, which can cause some problems; for when this happens, the mink will not always die immediately. The operator must then make a quick decision whether or not to hook it up again.
My friend Pat once told me that life insurance policies deny payment to beneficiaries when the cause of death is determined to be suicide.
In basic training, the drill sergeants, most of whom had recently returned from Vietnam and who claimed to be our truest friends, wondered out loud what all the fuss was about My Lai. They said that this was war and, for example, it was a common practice, when they had captured a Viet Cong or a North Vietnamese soldier or informer, to take them up in a helicopter. There they'd wrap a cord around the prisoner's penis and scrotum and begin the interrogation.
When it rains, Vickie still walks the one block down from the phone company to her bench by the cliff so she can watch the ocean and eat her lunch.
Stephanie would like to write more letters home, but she does not believe that they will make it to her friends or family. After the first three months, she had received only two letters, and in both of these the pages were out of order or sometimes missing altogether.
Donna's ex-husband finds that this new arrangement provides him with the best sex he's ever had in his life.
The smell of the ocean is pleasing to Vickie's senses.
The workers get used to the smells on the mink ranch.
The smell of the rain cleanses Vickie's head.
Donna would like to find a way to clear her head.
Once the limousine was back behind the chain-link fence, the Beatles got out and jumped the center field wall to get back into the stadium. John was last, and I remember seeing him pause for a moment, straddling the top of the fence ten feet high--one leg on each side--and smiling--laughing almost--down on the crowd and shaking his head before dropping to the other side.
Hegel, a friend only in the most metaphorical sense, tells of the two individuals who meet and begin to quarrel and then to exchange blows--to actually come to a fight to the death. Just as one is about to claim victory--is about to kill the other--the defeated one offers to become the other's slave. The victor agrees, and the relationship becomes that of a master and a slave; but, of course, in time, the roles reverse.
Vickie finds the nashi rather expensive, but quite worth that monetary sacrifice. In fact, she does not see it as a sacrifice at all.
Sometimes, Donna thinks that she could kill her ex-husband; sometimes, she thinks that she could kill herself.
Mikel said that when they move the mink from one cage to the other, the best way is usually to try to catch them by the tail and carry them off squirming. You have to hold them far away from your body because they'll bite and claw at anything they can reach. If you're quick, you can grab their tails, for the mink run to the back of the cage when the latch is first opened. But if you're not quick enough, the mink have time to turn around and face you. And then the task becomes much more difficult and troublesome.
The blade of a harpoon is sharp and heavy and attached to a long, strong, thick line.
Stephanie said that when she arrived in Vienna by train, after having spent four months in Romania, she couldn't believe all that she had forgotten: that there existed anywhere on the planet restaurants with food and wine, hotels with showers in each of the rooms, streets with lights, that there were actually things like convenience stores stocked with little bags of chips and M & M's and gum.
Lying on her bed at night alone, Donna suddenly realizes that this is the only life she has.
The cord, fastened securely to a post in the helicopter, seems to dance as it rushes out the opened doorway; then it tenses for a moment--taut--before going slack again.
Donna is not always sure how old she is.
. . . the teeth of the mink are very sharp and often bite through the thick gloves of the workers; their claws are like needles. . .
When Vickie is at work at the phone company, she wonders if perhaps she does not spend nearly enough time looking out over the Pacific Ocean.
Janet thinks that she ought to visit Donna more often.
Mikel worked on the mink ranch for two years before he started looking for another job.
Donna's next stage of development included the recognition that although life is indeed very short, it can often seem very, very long.
Walking back to the car after the concert, my friend Jim and I saw a fight. A crowd was already there making a circle. A young man was in the center. My memory is very clear about this: he's crouched like he's ready to spring, weaving back and forth on his legs, his head and eyes moving about like a caged animal. In his hand and above his head, he is swinging a chain two feet long--threatening, daring anyone else to come near. The crowd is staring at him, eyes transfixed. To me they look terrified, but that may be because I'm terrified. At the edge of the circle is another young man, but this young man is lying on the ground, moaning. His shirt is ripped and torn, and his stomach is ripped and torn and bleeding, and the expression on his face seems to reveal that he too cannot believe what has happened.
My friend Pat tells all of his clients that there's not a city block in this entire country where at least one person is not dying of cancer.
Donna often wonders how her children will turn out.
When Stephanie first got to Romania, she learned that the organization that sponsored her trip did not, in fact, even exist.
Jim, my best friend in high school, once stared at the sun--not until his eyes went blind, but until the light began to burn through the cornea to the retina and the smoke issued from the sockets.
Donna is scared to death to get back into the work force. Before she leaves the house, she stares at herself in the mirror for a long time, practicing how to smile; and as she gets to the office where the interview is to take place and sees her reflection in the window, she wonders how on earth she will ever be able to open the door.
The interrogators pull the cord back up into the helicopter. Once it's inside, a few of the men inspect the end carefully, where the knot is still tied tightly.
MY FRIEND VICKIE walks the one block from her office at the phone company down to the bench that sits on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Everyday she sits on this bench and eats her lunch and watches the ocean rise and fall. The bench is simple: two slats of wood--one for the seat, one for the back--on two iron posts. She eats fruit--either an apple or an orange (never both); the other items of her lunch vary, but she always eats fruit. She sits on the bench and watches the ocean. The cliffs drop off sharply, and out in the ocean rocks rise up--sharply--from the water. She sits on the bench and watches the ocean rise and fall and listens to the sound that she finds very agreeable.
I have many friends who begin each day with a smile, with hope, optimism, and great faith. Almost all of them, within a half hour--and often sooner--have lost their faith, their hope, their optimism. And all of them have lost their smiles.
My friend Mikel worked on a mink ranch for awhile and said that during the pelting season the animals are killed by placing one electrode in their mouth and another up their rectum, and then giving them a jolt of electricity.
Twice a year, in January and then again in July, Vickie sits on her bench on the cliff and watches the whale migrations. She uses binoculars because the whales are often several miles out to sea, and they are difficult to locate with the naked eye. Occasionally, she will see one of them spouting, a sight she finds extremely satisfying.
Stephanie, my friend who went to work for an orphanage in Romania, tells how during the Ceausescu regime the artists and other dissidents were rounded up by the authorities for questioning. They would be placed in a room and told to wait for the interrogation to begin, but then no one ever came. These human beings would wait all day in the room, and no one ever came, and they just sat all day long waiting. By the end of the day, they would be told that they were no longer needed for questioning. But within a year's time, they would all be dead--dead from the radiation poisoning.
My friend Janet told me that a friend of hers, Donna, got divorced and was having a pretty rough time of it--emotionally, economically, socially. She needed friends; she needed money; she needed help. Her ex-husband knew all this and would occasionally call her up on the telephone and offer to give her a certain amount of money if she would have sex with him.
The ocean is beautiful in the summer.
Mikel said that there is a particular skill to killing the mink; for if they are given too long a shock, or if the voltage is too high, it can damage the pelt; and that's a lot of money to go up in smoke.
My friend Jim and I went to one of the last concerts the Beatles ever gave. Dodger Stadium. 1966. The crowd was wild. I remember after the last song we dashed out quickly behind center field where the limousine was parked and waiting. A chain-link fence--ten, twelve, maybe fifteen feet high--separated the crowd from the car; two ropes formed a makeshift pathway through the crowd for the group's escape. The police kept shouting for everyone to stay behind the ropes and to keep the way clear. Suddenly the Beatles appeared and got into the car; then, as soon as the gate was opened and the limousine started to move forward, the crowd broke loose and was upon it. The police were shouting and trying desperately (and without much success) to push the mob back to make way for the car's departure. But there were too many people. The limo began to retreat, inching its way backward, and then, as soon as they could, someone closed the gate.
Stephanie said that in the orphanage, she had to watch the children very carefully because often, no sooner had the infants been changed and given new clothes than they would be stripped again by some of the other workers when no one was looking.
Vickie sits on her bench and watches the ocean, the cliffs, the rising and falling of the swells, the whales (when they're there) off in the distance. She bites into the new fruit she has brought for lunch--a nashi. It seems to be a blend between an apple and a pear; she's been told that it comes from Asia, on the other side of the ocean. As she is eating, she concludes that it is without question the most delicious fruit she has ever had.
Janet's friend Donna hates herself each time her ex-husband comes over to help with the finances.
Mikel said that sometimes--not often, but sometimes--when they give the mink the juice, the electrode in the mouth will pop out, which can cause some problems; for when this happens, the mink will not always die immediately. The operator must then make a quick decision whether or not to hook it up again.
My friend Pat once told me that life insurance policies deny payment to beneficiaries when the cause of death is determined to be suicide.
In basic training, the drill sergeants, most of whom had recently returned from Vietnam and who claimed to be our truest friends, wondered out loud what all the fuss was about My Lai. They said that this was war and, for example, it was a common practice, when they had captured a Viet Cong or a North Vietnamese soldier or informer, to take them up in a helicopter. There they'd wrap a cord around the prisoner's penis and scrotum and begin the interrogation.
When it rains, Vickie still walks the one block down from the phone company to her bench by the cliff so she can watch the ocean and eat her lunch.
Stephanie would like to write more letters home, but she does not believe that they will make it to her friends or family. After the first three months, she had received only two letters, and in both of these the pages were out of order or sometimes missing altogether.
Donna's ex-husband finds that this new arrangement provides him with the best sex he's ever had in his life.
The smell of the ocean is pleasing to Vickie's senses.
The workers get used to the smells on the mink ranch.
The smell of the rain cleanses Vickie's head.
Donna would like to find a way to clear her head.
Once the limousine was back behind the chain-link fence, the Beatles got out and jumped the center field wall to get back into the stadium. John was last, and I remember seeing him pause for a moment, straddling the top of the fence ten feet high--one leg on each side--and smiling--laughing almost--down on the crowd and shaking his head before dropping to the other side.
Hegel, a friend only in the most metaphorical sense, tells of the two individuals who meet and begin to quarrel and then to exchange blows--to actually come to a fight to the death. Just as one is about to claim victory--is about to kill the other--the defeated one offers to become the other's slave. The victor agrees, and the relationship becomes that of a master and a slave; but, of course, in time, the roles reverse.
Vickie finds the nashi rather expensive, but quite worth that monetary sacrifice. In fact, she does not see it as a sacrifice at all.
Sometimes, Donna thinks that she could kill her ex-husband; sometimes, she thinks that she could kill herself.
Mikel said that when they move the mink from one cage to the other, the best way is usually to try to catch them by the tail and carry them off squirming. You have to hold them far away from your body because they'll bite and claw at anything they can reach. If you're quick, you can grab their tails, for the mink run to the back of the cage when the latch is first opened. But if you're not quick enough, the mink have time to turn around and face you. And then the task becomes much more difficult and troublesome.
The blade of a harpoon is sharp and heavy and attached to a long, strong, thick line.
Stephanie said that when she arrived in Vienna by train, after having spent four months in Romania, she couldn't believe all that she had forgotten: that there existed anywhere on the planet restaurants with food and wine, hotels with showers in each of the rooms, streets with lights, that there were actually things like convenience stores stocked with little bags of chips and M & M's and gum.
Lying on her bed at night alone, Donna suddenly realizes that this is the only life she has.
The cord, fastened securely to a post in the helicopter, seems to dance as it rushes out the opened doorway; then it tenses for a moment--taut--before going slack again.
Donna is not always sure how old she is.
. . . the teeth of the mink are very sharp and often bite through the thick gloves of the workers; their claws are like needles. . .
When Vickie is at work at the phone company, she wonders if perhaps she does not spend nearly enough time looking out over the Pacific Ocean.
Janet thinks that she ought to visit Donna more often.
Mikel worked on the mink ranch for two years before he started looking for another job.
Donna's next stage of development included the recognition that although life is indeed very short, it can often seem very, very long.
Walking back to the car after the concert, my friend Jim and I saw a fight. A crowd was already there making a circle. A young man was in the center. My memory is very clear about this: he's crouched like he's ready to spring, weaving back and forth on his legs, his head and eyes moving about like a caged animal. In his hand and above his head, he is swinging a chain two feet long--threatening, daring anyone else to come near. The crowd is staring at him, eyes transfixed. To me they look terrified, but that may be because I'm terrified. At the edge of the circle is another young man, but this young man is lying on the ground, moaning. His shirt is ripped and torn, and his stomach is ripped and torn and bleeding, and the expression on his face seems to reveal that he too cannot believe what has happened.
My friend Pat tells all of his clients that there's not a city block in this entire country where at least one person is not dying of cancer.
Donna often wonders how her children will turn out.
When Stephanie first got to Romania, she learned that the organization that sponsored her trip did not, in fact, even exist.
Jim, my best friend in high school, once stared at the sun--not until his eyes went blind, but until the light began to burn through the cornea to the retina and the smoke issued from the sockets.
Donna is scared to death to get back into the work force. Before she leaves the house, she stares at herself in the mirror for a long time, practicing how to smile; and as she gets to the office where the interview is to take place and sees her reflection in the window, she wonders how on earth she will ever be able to open the door.
The interrogators pull the cord back up into the helicopter. Once it's inside, a few of the men inspect the end carefully, where the knot is still tied tightly.
Walking
WALKING
JOE PANCAKE had never owned a pet. Unless you count all the goldfish he'd won at elementary school carnivals every year back in Glendale, California (and that had died before the next year's batch could be won again). Or the hamster he had for about a year and a half. But she died too, long after he had lost all interest in her. So--in the context of what most people think of as pets--that is, dogs and cats--he'd had none. For better or for worse. Joe never felt deprived because of it. Indeed, there were always enough dogs and cats in the neighborhood to go around. And if ever he did feel the need to pet or cuddle or hold one of them for an afternoon, the neighbors were always more than willing to let him come over and share in their amusement. But, to be perfectly honest, he seldom gave the matter much thought.
One evening, years later, living in his new home in Orem, Utah, and after a particularly long day of writing letters, playing his guitar and harmonica, reading a couple stories from an anthology, and taking a bike ride up the canyon, Joe Pancake decided to take a walk through the neighborhood. It was lateB-after eleven, anyway--and generally quiet as he walked slowly down one street, turned, continued a few blocks more, and then began his return home. A few cars drove past, but Orem, where Joe lived anyway, was pretty much a residential area, and the streets were, for the most part, empty of activity. He was still a block or so from home, returning by an alternate route, when, from out of the night came the sound of a barking dog. Joe was startled at first. His walk, up until then, had been restful--just what he needed. But then he felt a vague stirring of guilt as he looked around at the many darkened homes, the residents certainly asleep. The dog was barking--barking at him--and so he hurried on home before waking anyone.
Once back, he went to bed almost immediately. But he could not get to sleep, thinking of the day's events--especially the walk, the incident with the dog. His thoughts began to tumble about, as they often did at night: he thought of all the pets across the country, the dogs and the cats and the birds and the mice and the. . . ; and he thought of the pet food industry; and where the food for the pet food industry comes from--and who it takes away from. He thought of the thousands of human beings who die each day of starvation. And then Joe thought of his right to walk down a street--in peace; and thought again of the tens of thousands who were dying--dying that very moment--slow, painful, agonizing deaths, most of them; and he thought of the pet food industry; and his right to walk down a street in Orem, Utah, unharassed; and the deaths--again, the slow, painful, agonizing deaths--thousands of them--everyday. By starvation. Every day. And before falling off into a troubled sleep, he thought of the owners of the millions of dogs and cats in this nation of his, and of his own right to walk down a street in peace, without being assaulted by the barks that come from the mouths of dogs that eat far better than do much of the rest of humanity.
And when he awoke the next morning, he thought, I'm glad I never owned a pet.
One evening, about a week later, Joe Pancake got up from the chair where he had been reading and put on an overcoat and hat. Just before opening the door and walking out into the night, he glanced at the clock on the wall: twelve after midnight.
Outside, the sky was clear, and the night was cold. Joe's breath hung in the air. He reached into his coat pockets and took out a pair of gloves and pulled them on over his hands. Then he walked down the street, turned, and proceeded a few more blocks. Even in the cold, he was enjoying his walk, taking it slowly, as all good walks should be taken. About a half block from his destination, he slowed even more and began to purposely click the sidewalk with the soles of his shoes. Accidently, he kicked a small piece of ice he had not seen, but when he came upon it again, he kicked it again. Hard. It bounded down the sidewalk and then dropped off the curb and fell into the gutter. Just after it came to a rest, Joe heard the sound he was really listening for: the dog. Its bark was loud and low, and as he approached the yard of the house from where it came, it grew more confident. At the fence he stopped. It would not be long now, he knew. The dog's barking soon set off a chorus of neighborhood dogs, and the entire area sounded and came to life. Even Joe was surprised by the number. Every yard, it seemed, had a dog in it. Serve 'em right, he thought.
Joe Pancake waited, letting the barking get good and rousing. When he saw a few lights from the surrounding houses come on, he turned and walked back home and went to bed.
JOE PANCAKE had never owned a pet. Unless you count all the goldfish he'd won at elementary school carnivals every year back in Glendale, California (and that had died before the next year's batch could be won again). Or the hamster he had for about a year and a half. But she died too, long after he had lost all interest in her. So--in the context of what most people think of as pets--that is, dogs and cats--he'd had none. For better or for worse. Joe never felt deprived because of it. Indeed, there were always enough dogs and cats in the neighborhood to go around. And if ever he did feel the need to pet or cuddle or hold one of them for an afternoon, the neighbors were always more than willing to let him come over and share in their amusement. But, to be perfectly honest, he seldom gave the matter much thought.
One evening, years later, living in his new home in Orem, Utah, and after a particularly long day of writing letters, playing his guitar and harmonica, reading a couple stories from an anthology, and taking a bike ride up the canyon, Joe Pancake decided to take a walk through the neighborhood. It was lateB-after eleven, anyway--and generally quiet as he walked slowly down one street, turned, continued a few blocks more, and then began his return home. A few cars drove past, but Orem, where Joe lived anyway, was pretty much a residential area, and the streets were, for the most part, empty of activity. He was still a block or so from home, returning by an alternate route, when, from out of the night came the sound of a barking dog. Joe was startled at first. His walk, up until then, had been restful--just what he needed. But then he felt a vague stirring of guilt as he looked around at the many darkened homes, the residents certainly asleep. The dog was barking--barking at him--and so he hurried on home before waking anyone.
Once back, he went to bed almost immediately. But he could not get to sleep, thinking of the day's events--especially the walk, the incident with the dog. His thoughts began to tumble about, as they often did at night: he thought of all the pets across the country, the dogs and the cats and the birds and the mice and the. . . ; and he thought of the pet food industry; and where the food for the pet food industry comes from--and who it takes away from. He thought of the thousands of human beings who die each day of starvation. And then Joe thought of his right to walk down a street--in peace; and thought again of the tens of thousands who were dying--dying that very moment--slow, painful, agonizing deaths, most of them; and he thought of the pet food industry; and his right to walk down a street in Orem, Utah, unharassed; and the deaths--again, the slow, painful, agonizing deaths--thousands of them--everyday. By starvation. Every day. And before falling off into a troubled sleep, he thought of the owners of the millions of dogs and cats in this nation of his, and of his own right to walk down a street in peace, without being assaulted by the barks that come from the mouths of dogs that eat far better than do much of the rest of humanity.
And when he awoke the next morning, he thought, I'm glad I never owned a pet.
One evening, about a week later, Joe Pancake got up from the chair where he had been reading and put on an overcoat and hat. Just before opening the door and walking out into the night, he glanced at the clock on the wall: twelve after midnight.
Outside, the sky was clear, and the night was cold. Joe's breath hung in the air. He reached into his coat pockets and took out a pair of gloves and pulled them on over his hands. Then he walked down the street, turned, and proceeded a few more blocks. Even in the cold, he was enjoying his walk, taking it slowly, as all good walks should be taken. About a half block from his destination, he slowed even more and began to purposely click the sidewalk with the soles of his shoes. Accidently, he kicked a small piece of ice he had not seen, but when he came upon it again, he kicked it again. Hard. It bounded down the sidewalk and then dropped off the curb and fell into the gutter. Just after it came to a rest, Joe heard the sound he was really listening for: the dog. Its bark was loud and low, and as he approached the yard of the house from where it came, it grew more confident. At the fence he stopped. It would not be long now, he knew. The dog's barking soon set off a chorus of neighborhood dogs, and the entire area sounded and came to life. Even Joe was surprised by the number. Every yard, it seemed, had a dog in it. Serve 'em right, he thought.
Joe Pancake waited, letting the barking get good and rousing. When he saw a few lights from the surrounding houses come on, he turned and walked back home and went to bed.
Honor
HONOR
JOE PANCAKE, dark of hair and complexion, wild of eye and outlook, was a human being. He had a birth certificate to prove it. "Joe Pancake," it read (no middle name or initial, no formal first), with the Good Samaritan Hospital of Los Angeles at the top of the page to bear it out. He kept the paper in the bottom drawer of his dresser, in a yellow envelope that also held his three other Very Important Documents. One of those documents was his college diploma, which read:
Brigham Young University
upon recommendation of the University Faculty
and by authority of the Board of Trustees
has conferred upon
Joe Pancake
the degree of Bachelor of Arts
with all the Rights, Privileges, and Honors
thereunto appertaining
Joe Pancake had read those words many times, and despite the fact that he was now a college graduate, had not the slightest idea what they meant.
He had received in the mail one day, several weeks after the actual graduation ceremonies (which he had not attended), the official diploma, along with a miniature replica, encased in plastic, and some pamphlets and advertisements concerning the Alumni Association. The accompanying letter told him that he could, if he so chose, keep the smaller copy, the one encased in plastic, inside his wallet. This he did, placing it next to the miniature replica of the Honorary Discharge he had received from the United States Army four years earlier.
Those first couple of months following graduation, Joe did very little thinking about what he was going to do with his life. For four years, he had been--or felt that he had been--under constant pressure: to do, to do, to do. There was always the next book to read, the next paper to write, the following semester of classes to enroll in. Graduation had always been some far-off goal that everything else was leading up to. When it actually did come, and then, more quickly, when it was over and gone, he found the time in which there was next to nothing he really had to do. Most of his friends, who had also graduated with him, already had their jobs, or at least possibilities lined up--interviews, and the like. Joe Pancake did not. Instead, he used the time, if for just once in his life, to simply sit back and relax.
What with the Honorable Discharge from the Army, he had been able to go through college with the aid of the G.I. Bill. Though it had got tight at times, he did manage to graduate debt-free, something of an accomplishment in itself, and he even had close to a thousand dollars in the bank.
Toward the end of May, he and one of his roommates drove, in Joe's red Volkswagen bug, up to the Grand Tetons in Wyoming. The crowds in the valley and the deep snow up on the hiking trails prevented him from truly enjoying himself, and so, two weeks later, going to the other extreme, he drove down to Canyonlands National Park in southeastern Utah and hiked, alone, out to the Confluence Overlook of the Green and Colorado Rivers. He didn't take along enough water, and he nearly suffered heat stroke before a ranger found him, resting under a juniper tree and very thirsty.
One day, back in Provo, rising earlier than usual, he decided to clean the house. His two roommates were gone and would not be back until the next evening, and he thought that it would be a nice gesture. He swept, he washed, he mopped; he cleaned his own room as well. He did his laundry, and when he came back to the house, after putting in a full day's work, he flopped himself down in his big, favorite, comfortable chair in the living room and stared at the wall. After awhile, almost unconsciously, he pulled out his wallet. He thumbed through it, casually looking at the old photographs, cards, notes. He came to the miniature replica of his diploma. He took it out and looked at it. He read it. Carefully. Slowly. He shook his head in wonder.
The next day, he took it out again and read: ". . . with all the Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining." He looked up from the small card he held in his hands. What in hell's name does that mean? "Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining." I'm a graduate, he thought to himself. Just what are my "Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining"? That's what I'd like to know.
For a full week, when the house was empty and no one was around, Joe Pancake took out the tiny diploma encased in plastic and stared at it. Every day. And the words always stared back at him: "Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining." And still he did not know. He put the card back into his wallet, but within the hour, he had it back out and was reading it again.
Finally, he could stand it no longer. He sat down with pen and paper and wrote to the Alumni Association. It was a simple, direct letter:
Dear Sir,
As a graduate from the Brigham Young University, I was wondering: What exactly are my "Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining"? Any information concerning this matter would be greatly appreciated.
And he signed it, sincerely.
Perhaps it was just the writing of the letter that was needed. For Joe Pancake soon forgot, not just the letter, but about the words on the diploma as well. It was more than a month before he got a reply in the mail:
Dear Mr. Pancake,
I apologize for the delay in answering your letter, but am afraid it was submerged in my "In" basket. When it floated to the top today, I quickly grabbed it before losing it again. I have enclosed a sheet of privileges for BYU Alumni, and as you live here in Provo, I can see why you would want to know what they are. Hope you enjoy the facilities and the campus in the future. If you have any problems, let us know.
Sincerely,
Josephine Crandall
Records Supervisor
The attached mimeographed sheet listed all of the privileges: use of the hobby center, movie theatre, and book store; library privileges (for a set fee); and use of the locker room and other facilities in the gymnasium (again, for a set fee).
It was a week later that Joe wrote the following letter:
Dear Ms. Crandall,
Thank you very much for your kind letter informing me of my privileges as a BYU Alumnus. It was most helpful. However, I am still left somewhat in the dark as to what my "Rights . . . and Honors thereunto appertaining" are. Any further information regarding this matter would be even more appreciated. I thank you in advance.
Sincerely,
Joe Pancake
This time the response was much quicker:
Dear Mr. Pancake,
As you can see from my quick response, your latest letter did not sink into oblivion in my "In" basket. To answer your question concerning graduate rights in addition to Alumni privileges, the answer is basically that there is no real difference . . .
Sincerely,
Josephine Crandall
Records Supervisor
He hated to do it--truly hated to do it--but he had come this far. And the question still lay there before him, unanswered. He wrote the letter, just one word, hopefully:
Dear Josephine:
". . . Honors . . ."?
Joe Pancake
And again, the speedy reply, just as brief:
Joe:
Sorry.
Josephine
Joe Pancake looked at the letter he held in his hands. He read the word, dark as a wound, over and over. So it had come to this, he thought. He took out from his wallet the tiny card with the diploma photographed on it and read the words that had been troubling him for most of the summer: "Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining." "Rights, Privileges, and Honors." "Thereunto appertaining." He shook his head. Unconsciously. Even he could not have said exactly what it was that he felt at the moment. He folded the letter, and again, and then once more so that it was small enough to fit inside his wallet. And there he placed it, so that it would always be there: next to the miniature diploma encased in plastic. He folded the wallet closed and slipped it inside his back pocket.
JOE PANCAKE, dark of hair and complexion, wild of eye and outlook, was a human being. He had a birth certificate to prove it. "Joe Pancake," it read (no middle name or initial, no formal first), with the Good Samaritan Hospital of Los Angeles at the top of the page to bear it out. He kept the paper in the bottom drawer of his dresser, in a yellow envelope that also held his three other Very Important Documents. One of those documents was his college diploma, which read:
Brigham Young University
upon recommendation of the University Faculty
and by authority of the Board of Trustees
has conferred upon
Joe Pancake
the degree of Bachelor of Arts
with all the Rights, Privileges, and Honors
thereunto appertaining
Joe Pancake had read those words many times, and despite the fact that he was now a college graduate, had not the slightest idea what they meant.
He had received in the mail one day, several weeks after the actual graduation ceremonies (which he had not attended), the official diploma, along with a miniature replica, encased in plastic, and some pamphlets and advertisements concerning the Alumni Association. The accompanying letter told him that he could, if he so chose, keep the smaller copy, the one encased in plastic, inside his wallet. This he did, placing it next to the miniature replica of the Honorary Discharge he had received from the United States Army four years earlier.
Those first couple of months following graduation, Joe did very little thinking about what he was going to do with his life. For four years, he had been--or felt that he had been--under constant pressure: to do, to do, to do. There was always the next book to read, the next paper to write, the following semester of classes to enroll in. Graduation had always been some far-off goal that everything else was leading up to. When it actually did come, and then, more quickly, when it was over and gone, he found the time in which there was next to nothing he really had to do. Most of his friends, who had also graduated with him, already had their jobs, or at least possibilities lined up--interviews, and the like. Joe Pancake did not. Instead, he used the time, if for just once in his life, to simply sit back and relax.
What with the Honorable Discharge from the Army, he had been able to go through college with the aid of the G.I. Bill. Though it had got tight at times, he did manage to graduate debt-free, something of an accomplishment in itself, and he even had close to a thousand dollars in the bank.
Toward the end of May, he and one of his roommates drove, in Joe's red Volkswagen bug, up to the Grand Tetons in Wyoming. The crowds in the valley and the deep snow up on the hiking trails prevented him from truly enjoying himself, and so, two weeks later, going to the other extreme, he drove down to Canyonlands National Park in southeastern Utah and hiked, alone, out to the Confluence Overlook of the Green and Colorado Rivers. He didn't take along enough water, and he nearly suffered heat stroke before a ranger found him, resting under a juniper tree and very thirsty.
One day, back in Provo, rising earlier than usual, he decided to clean the house. His two roommates were gone and would not be back until the next evening, and he thought that it would be a nice gesture. He swept, he washed, he mopped; he cleaned his own room as well. He did his laundry, and when he came back to the house, after putting in a full day's work, he flopped himself down in his big, favorite, comfortable chair in the living room and stared at the wall. After awhile, almost unconsciously, he pulled out his wallet. He thumbed through it, casually looking at the old photographs, cards, notes. He came to the miniature replica of his diploma. He took it out and looked at it. He read it. Carefully. Slowly. He shook his head in wonder.
The next day, he took it out again and read: ". . . with all the Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining." He looked up from the small card he held in his hands. What in hell's name does that mean? "Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining." I'm a graduate, he thought to himself. Just what are my "Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining"? That's what I'd like to know.
For a full week, when the house was empty and no one was around, Joe Pancake took out the tiny diploma encased in plastic and stared at it. Every day. And the words always stared back at him: "Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining." And still he did not know. He put the card back into his wallet, but within the hour, he had it back out and was reading it again.
Finally, he could stand it no longer. He sat down with pen and paper and wrote to the Alumni Association. It was a simple, direct letter:
Dear Sir,
As a graduate from the Brigham Young University, I was wondering: What exactly are my "Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining"? Any information concerning this matter would be greatly appreciated.
And he signed it, sincerely.
Perhaps it was just the writing of the letter that was needed. For Joe Pancake soon forgot, not just the letter, but about the words on the diploma as well. It was more than a month before he got a reply in the mail:
Dear Mr. Pancake,
I apologize for the delay in answering your letter, but am afraid it was submerged in my "In" basket. When it floated to the top today, I quickly grabbed it before losing it again. I have enclosed a sheet of privileges for BYU Alumni, and as you live here in Provo, I can see why you would want to know what they are. Hope you enjoy the facilities and the campus in the future. If you have any problems, let us know.
Sincerely,
Josephine Crandall
Records Supervisor
The attached mimeographed sheet listed all of the privileges: use of the hobby center, movie theatre, and book store; library privileges (for a set fee); and use of the locker room and other facilities in the gymnasium (again, for a set fee).
It was a week later that Joe wrote the following letter:
Dear Ms. Crandall,
Thank you very much for your kind letter informing me of my privileges as a BYU Alumnus. It was most helpful. However, I am still left somewhat in the dark as to what my "Rights . . . and Honors thereunto appertaining" are. Any further information regarding this matter would be even more appreciated. I thank you in advance.
Sincerely,
Joe Pancake
This time the response was much quicker:
Dear Mr. Pancake,
As you can see from my quick response, your latest letter did not sink into oblivion in my "In" basket. To answer your question concerning graduate rights in addition to Alumni privileges, the answer is basically that there is no real difference . . .
Sincerely,
Josephine Crandall
Records Supervisor
He hated to do it--truly hated to do it--but he had come this far. And the question still lay there before him, unanswered. He wrote the letter, just one word, hopefully:
Dear Josephine:
". . . Honors . . ."?
Joe Pancake
And again, the speedy reply, just as brief:
Joe:
Sorry.
Josephine
Joe Pancake looked at the letter he held in his hands. He read the word, dark as a wound, over and over. So it had come to this, he thought. He took out from his wallet the tiny card with the diploma photographed on it and read the words that had been troubling him for most of the summer: "Rights, Privileges, and Honors thereunto appertaining." "Rights, Privileges, and Honors." "Thereunto appertaining." He shook his head. Unconsciously. Even he could not have said exactly what it was that he felt at the moment. He folded the letter, and again, and then once more so that it was small enough to fit inside his wallet. And there he placed it, so that it would always be there: next to the miniature diploma encased in plastic. He folded the wallet closed and slipped it inside his back pocket.
Hatred
HATRED
THE MAN WHO LOVES PROVO was out walking down the street one day, as he did everyday. But this day, the words he spoke to no one in particular (as well as to no one in general) were, "The governor hates me; the governor hates me."
He passed people on the street, and the people he passed on the street were thinking their thoughts, thoughts they did not utter, thoughts they kept to themselves, where they thought they were safest.
But The Man Who Loves Provo kept walking and kept with his message: "The governor hates me; the governor hates me."
Finally, Lulu Toast passed him on the street, recognized him, heard the message, and turned as if to listen: "The governor hates me. . . ."
She stopped. "Why does the governor hate you?" she said.
"The governor hates me; the governor hates me," repeated The Man Who Loves Provo.
"But why does the governor hate you?" Lulu persisted. "Does the governor know you?"
"No, but the governor hates me," he replied. "The governor hates me."
"But how can the governor hate you if he doesn't even know you?"
"The governor doesn't need to know me," he said. "He just hates me. He says that I sin; he says that I am immoral; he says that God will punish me with a vengeance. The governor hates me; the governor is not Jesus. The governor says that I live an unnatural lifestyle."
Lulu Toast took the words of the Man Who Loves Provo and applied them to her own life. She turned from The Man Who Loves Provo and continued her walk down the street. But as she walked, she carried these principles of thought to their logical conclusion: The governor hates me too. But she kept this thought to herself, where it was safest, where it could do no harm. Until at last she could hide it no more. Then she said it aloud, quietly at first, but nevertheless aloud, as she walked down the street: "The governor hates me; the governor hates me."
THE MAN WHO LOVES PROVO was out walking down the street one day, as he did everyday. But this day, the words he spoke to no one in particular (as well as to no one in general) were, "The governor hates me; the governor hates me."
He passed people on the street, and the people he passed on the street were thinking their thoughts, thoughts they did not utter, thoughts they kept to themselves, where they thought they were safest.
But The Man Who Loves Provo kept walking and kept with his message: "The governor hates me; the governor hates me."
Finally, Lulu Toast passed him on the street, recognized him, heard the message, and turned as if to listen: "The governor hates me. . . ."
She stopped. "Why does the governor hate you?" she said.
"The governor hates me; the governor hates me," repeated The Man Who Loves Provo.
"But why does the governor hate you?" Lulu persisted. "Does the governor know you?"
"No, but the governor hates me," he replied. "The governor hates me."
"But how can the governor hate you if he doesn't even know you?"
"The governor doesn't need to know me," he said. "He just hates me. He says that I sin; he says that I am immoral; he says that God will punish me with a vengeance. The governor hates me; the governor is not Jesus. The governor says that I live an unnatural lifestyle."
Lulu Toast took the words of the Man Who Loves Provo and applied them to her own life. She turned from The Man Who Loves Provo and continued her walk down the street. But as she walked, she carried these principles of thought to their logical conclusion: The governor hates me too. But she kept this thought to herself, where it was safest, where it could do no harm. Until at last she could hide it no more. Then she said it aloud, quietly at first, but nevertheless aloud, as she walked down the street: "The governor hates me; the governor hates me."
I And My Dog
I AND MY DOG
I LOOKED at the dog. The dog looked at me.
I looked at the dog, and the dog looked at me. As I looked at the dog, the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog as the dog looked at me. As I was looking at the dog, the dog was looking at me. As I was looking at the dog, the dog looked at me. As I looked at the dog, the dog was looking at me. I was looking at the dog while the dog was looking at me. I was looking at the dog as the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog as the dog was looking at me. The dog looked at me, and I looked at it. The dog looked over at me, and I looked back at it. The dog was looking at me, and I looked at it.
When I looked at the dog, the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog when the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog when the dog began looking at me. I looked at the dog all the while the dog was looking at me. I was looking at the dog when I noticed it looking at me. I was looking at the dog when I noticed it was looking at me. I was looking at the dog looking at me when I began to tremble in fear. I saw the dog looking at me. I saw the dog, and the dog saw me. I saw that the dog saw me. I saw that the dog saw me, and the dog saw that I saw it. I could see the dog, and the dog could see me. I noticed the dog watching me. I watched the dog eyeing me. I noticed the dog eyeing me up and down. I noticed the dog sizing me up. I measured the dog. I stared at that damned dog for what must have been hours, and it returned my stare. I glanced at the dog out of the corner of my eye, hoping it would look away. I looked at the dog because the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog because I thought that perhaps it liked me. I looked at the dog for what must have been hours, perhaps days or weeks, a full year even, and finally, in desperation, I turned my head away in shame. I looked at the dog and watched it age. I grow old watching dogs looking at me.
My whole entire life has been one long stare-down with dogs I want nothing to do with. If that goddam son-of-a-bitching mutt keeps looking at me for one more minute, I'm going to kick the living shit out of it.
I looked at the dog; the dog looked at me. I have looked at the dog; the dog has looked at me. I have looked at the dog looking at me. I have looked at the dog studying me. I have studied the dog looking at me. I have studied the dog studying me. I and my dog have something in common. Just now, I looked at the dog, and the dog looked away. I looked at the dog forgivingly, and the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog tenderly, and the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog longingly, and the dog looked at me. I have wanted to embrace the dog as a lover, but the dog just looked at me coldly. I took a step toward the dog, but the dog did not move. I took another step, and the dog growled. I looked at the dog for a long time until the dog, which had been lying down, got up and stretched. I sat on a chair not ten feet from the dog and took out a pencil and paper. I began to sketch the dog. The dog looked at me, and I thought I could faintly detect a smile. I moved my stare to the dog's tail. I looked at the dog's hind legs. I looked at the dog's front legs. All the while, the dog looked at me. I looked at the paws, calloused from days, months, years, of pacing. I looked at the dog's ears, its wet nose, its panting tongue, canine teeth, the dull, vacant, brown eyes. I smelled the dog, and the dog looked at me. I looked deep into the eyes of the dog--man's best friend--and wondered if this one particular dog--this one member of Canis familiaris ever wondered about stuff, ever wondered about the Socratic lie that the unexamined life is not worth living. This dog before me, blood rushing through its veins and arteries, heart and lungs pumping precious unexamined life, its breath stinking with each unexamined breath, this dog looking at me looking at it with rapture, with wonder, with awe and disgust. This one particular dog, never once in its unexamined life ever considering the suicide option, this dog with its legs galloping in dream-sleep on the cool, shady summer patio, this irreplaceable citizen of the planet, this being with whom I've shared so much of my life--looking at me, looking at it, looking up together in silent turmoil into the blue sky--the beautiful, best-color blue sky. In celebration, in thanksgiving, in anger and frustration at the cosmic joke.
Am I really looking at the dog? Does the dog exist anywhere but as a piece of my own demented, fragmented, twisted, warped and lacerated, perverse, sublime imagination? And vice versa?
I look at the dog; I look at the dog. The dog stretches again, and I look at the dog. It prepares to leave, and I look at the dog. I look at the dog, and the dog yawns, and its tongue curls up around the edges and then disappears back inside as the dog closes its mouth. I look at the dog. I continue to look at the dog. I sadly look at the dog, and the dog looks at me. The dog begins to walk away, and I look at the dog, and the dog looks at me, and I look at the dog. Walking and looking back over its shoulder, the dog looks at me, and I look at the dog, and the dog keeps walking; and the dog keeps living. And I keep looking; and I keep living; and the dog keeps living; and I keep looking.
I LOOKED at the dog. The dog looked at me.
I looked at the dog, and the dog looked at me. As I looked at the dog, the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog as the dog looked at me. As I was looking at the dog, the dog was looking at me. As I was looking at the dog, the dog looked at me. As I looked at the dog, the dog was looking at me. I was looking at the dog while the dog was looking at me. I was looking at the dog as the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog as the dog was looking at me. The dog looked at me, and I looked at it. The dog looked over at me, and I looked back at it. The dog was looking at me, and I looked at it.
When I looked at the dog, the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog when the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog when the dog began looking at me. I looked at the dog all the while the dog was looking at me. I was looking at the dog when I noticed it looking at me. I was looking at the dog when I noticed it was looking at me. I was looking at the dog looking at me when I began to tremble in fear. I saw the dog looking at me. I saw the dog, and the dog saw me. I saw that the dog saw me. I saw that the dog saw me, and the dog saw that I saw it. I could see the dog, and the dog could see me. I noticed the dog watching me. I watched the dog eyeing me. I noticed the dog eyeing me up and down. I noticed the dog sizing me up. I measured the dog. I stared at that damned dog for what must have been hours, and it returned my stare. I glanced at the dog out of the corner of my eye, hoping it would look away. I looked at the dog because the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog because I thought that perhaps it liked me. I looked at the dog for what must have been hours, perhaps days or weeks, a full year even, and finally, in desperation, I turned my head away in shame. I looked at the dog and watched it age. I grow old watching dogs looking at me.
My whole entire life has been one long stare-down with dogs I want nothing to do with. If that goddam son-of-a-bitching mutt keeps looking at me for one more minute, I'm going to kick the living shit out of it.
I looked at the dog; the dog looked at me. I have looked at the dog; the dog has looked at me. I have looked at the dog looking at me. I have looked at the dog studying me. I have studied the dog looking at me. I have studied the dog studying me. I and my dog have something in common. Just now, I looked at the dog, and the dog looked away. I looked at the dog forgivingly, and the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog tenderly, and the dog looked at me. I looked at the dog longingly, and the dog looked at me. I have wanted to embrace the dog as a lover, but the dog just looked at me coldly. I took a step toward the dog, but the dog did not move. I took another step, and the dog growled. I looked at the dog for a long time until the dog, which had been lying down, got up and stretched. I sat on a chair not ten feet from the dog and took out a pencil and paper. I began to sketch the dog. The dog looked at me, and I thought I could faintly detect a smile. I moved my stare to the dog's tail. I looked at the dog's hind legs. I looked at the dog's front legs. All the while, the dog looked at me. I looked at the paws, calloused from days, months, years, of pacing. I looked at the dog's ears, its wet nose, its panting tongue, canine teeth, the dull, vacant, brown eyes. I smelled the dog, and the dog looked at me. I looked deep into the eyes of the dog--man's best friend--and wondered if this one particular dog--this one member of Canis familiaris ever wondered about stuff, ever wondered about the Socratic lie that the unexamined life is not worth living. This dog before me, blood rushing through its veins and arteries, heart and lungs pumping precious unexamined life, its breath stinking with each unexamined breath, this dog looking at me looking at it with rapture, with wonder, with awe and disgust. This one particular dog, never once in its unexamined life ever considering the suicide option, this dog with its legs galloping in dream-sleep on the cool, shady summer patio, this irreplaceable citizen of the planet, this being with whom I've shared so much of my life--looking at me, looking at it, looking up together in silent turmoil into the blue sky--the beautiful, best-color blue sky. In celebration, in thanksgiving, in anger and frustration at the cosmic joke.
Am I really looking at the dog? Does the dog exist anywhere but as a piece of my own demented, fragmented, twisted, warped and lacerated, perverse, sublime imagination? And vice versa?
I look at the dog; I look at the dog. The dog stretches again, and I look at the dog. It prepares to leave, and I look at the dog. I look at the dog, and the dog yawns, and its tongue curls up around the edges and then disappears back inside as the dog closes its mouth. I look at the dog. I continue to look at the dog. I sadly look at the dog, and the dog looks at me. The dog begins to walk away, and I look at the dog, and the dog looks at me, and I look at the dog. Walking and looking back over its shoulder, the dog looks at me, and I look at the dog, and the dog keeps walking; and the dog keeps living. And I keep looking; and I keep living; and the dog keeps living; and I keep looking.
There Are No Stars In Beijing
THERE ARE NO STARS IN BEIJING
THERE ARE NO STARS in Beijing. None of the eleven million citizens of that great city have ever seen the stars that live in the sky above Beijing. Occasionally, some of the people will see a glow from above--the moon. And some of those who see the glow in the sky may stop to wonder what it is; and some will even speak of the thing in the sky to others, but . . . there are no stars in Beijing.
One day, just as the sun was setting through the yellow and brown haze, something happened that was to change the way the people in the city of Beijing were to think. Suddenly, as if on cue, all of the factories came to a halt, all of the computers shut down, all of the government offices went dark, and just as all of the lights of the city were about to come on, none of them did. At first the people wondered what was happening. They came out of their homes, out of their places of work, and they began to talk. The mayor, the city council, the chief of police, the fire department all got together and began to talk. Soon they learned that the problem was a power outage. The electric company came together with the city officials and explained that there was a problem at the plant: something had overloaded, or broken, or--well, they didn't know exactly what had happened. Except that the electric company was no longer producing electricity; there was no electricity in Beijing.
They said that it would take many days--a week perhaps--to repair the damage--five days, at the very least, if they worked hard and around the clock and if they had any luck. The mayor, the governor (who was called on the telephone for advice), the chief of police, and the city council all agreed with the electric company, and said to fix the problem at once; don't worry about the cost; just fix the problem. Give us back our electricity.
They began work immediately.
In the city, the people continued to gather outside. For the first time in their lives, they saw darkness. The lights were out, and the sky was unlit.
But they could still see no stars; nor did they know that they could see no stars, for they had never seen stars before. Never.
But the second night the skies began to clear; because the factories were unable to do their work, the skies began to clear of the smoke and the haze and the smog, and some of the brighter and bigger stars began to peak out and down on the city of Beijing. The people stared up into the sky and wondered what it was they were seeing. They continued to talk. And the next night, because the factories were again unable to go about their business, there were more stars in the sky, and the people remained out of their houses all night long and marveled at what they saw. The children pointed upward and played, and traced patterns in the sky: from star to star to star, and they made up stories about the figures they drew in the sky, and gave the figures names, and added stories to the stories.
The next night the stars in the sky were so bright and so many that in places the light shining down looked more like clouds almost than stars.
And all the while, the workers in the electric plant worked on and on. They were almost done with their work; they were nearing completion of the repairs on the turbines and the generators that supplied the city with the electrical power they needed to get back to work. The police chief ordered the police officers to go throughout the city and inform the citizens that the repairs were almost completed and that they would be able to return to work not the next day, but perhaps the day after. . . That's what it looked like.
And the people were happy. Even though they enjoyed having the time off from work and for once having the time to sit and think or even to just do nothing but look at the sky (which some people began to realize was really something), most of the people of Beijing were glad to know that they would be going back to work.
And two days later that's exactly what they did. They went back to work, and life returned to normal.
Or. . . almost normal.
That evening, after the citizens of Beijing had returned home from work, and after they had eaten their good meals, they went outside, as they had been doing for the past week, to visit and to talk with one another and to look up into the sky to admire and to be grateful for the stars they had gotten to know.
But the sky was no longer bright with stars or the Milky Way. Now, once again, the sky was bright with the lights of the city. The citizens of Beijing could not see the stars. Again, there were no stars in Beijing.
The people wondered what to do; they had come to love the stars, and they wondered what they could do to see the stars again. Some of the people turned off their house lights, and that helped a little, but only a little. Not enough. There were still no stars in Beijing. In some of the neighborhoods, some of the restless ones gathered in the streets to look up at the sky and the stars, and when they could not see the stars, some of these restless ones began to talk. And after talking, some of them began to walk through the neighborhoods collecting stones, and when they had collected enough, they threw the stones at the streetlights. And when enough of the streetlights were put out and darkened, those who had gathered could see some--not many, but some--of the stars again. And so more of the streetlights had to be broken.
It would take the city officials a number of days to learn about the destruction of the streetlights.
But before they did--on the second night after the people were able to return to work--at the end of the day and after the sun had gone down and the people had eaten their meals and gone outside to visit and talk and to look up into the sky in hope, once again they could not see the stars they had gotten so used to--even though many of the streetlights were gone. Now the sky was hazy and dirty again because the factories had been able to do their work for two solid days.
The next day, everyone went to work again, and at the end of the day, after they had come home and the sun had gone down, they noticed that they hadn't exactly been able to see the sun go down, for the sky was now more smokey and hazy than the day before. The day just gradually got darker. And as the sky got darker and the lights of the city came up, the citizens, gathering outside to talk among themselves and to look up into the night sky, once again could not see the stars. But it was not because of the streetlights; the streetlights were not the problem now; this time the problem was what had happened to their sky.
The faint, fading glow of the moon reminded them of how things had once been.
One day, after many nights of not seeing the stars in Beijing and talking about the things they loved and needed but did not have, some of the people went to the owners of the factories and asked why the factories were putting so much smoke into the sky, and could they please please stop it. The smoke kept the people from seeing the stars, they said, and enjoying the evening, they said, as they had been doing for so many of the previous evenings. The owners of the factories said, No, they could not stop putting the smoke into the sky, for they were providing good jobs for the good citizens of Beijing.
The electric company, when asked the same question, said, No, we must provide electricity for the citizens of Beijing.
The city officials--the mayor and even the governor, who was in the city that day to make a speech--said similar things: We need to build the city and the country and make it big and good and strong.
Even the captain of the fire department said there was nothing he could do to help. No, he said, there is no fire to put out; it is only smoke.
And the police chief, when asked what he could do for the citizens of Beijing, said only, You should probably go home now.
And so the people went back to their homes.
And the officials, since they were through talking, went not back to their homes, but back to their offices, even though it was night.
Later that evening, after they had eaten their meals, the people gathered once again outside their homes and began to talk. And the talking led to thinking; and the thinking led to talking; And the talking led to more thinking; and more talking; and more thinking. . . .
And on the next day some of the people returned again to talk to the mayor and the owners and the captain and the chief and all the others. But this time they did not ask questions; this time they told the authorities that they liked the stars in the sky--in fact, they said that they liked the stars in the sky more than they liked the smoke in the sky.
"We want our sky back," they said; "we want our stars back."
But this time the officials did not seem to be listening. And so the people stopped talking. But they did not stop thinking.
And so one evening, not too many days later, after work and after eating their meals, some of the good citizens of Beijing, under a sky they could not see but under stars they knew were there, organized an evening walk over to the electric company, and there, even though it was night, they went to work.
THERE ARE NO STARS in Beijing. None of the eleven million citizens of that great city have ever seen the stars that live in the sky above Beijing. Occasionally, some of the people will see a glow from above--the moon. And some of those who see the glow in the sky may stop to wonder what it is; and some will even speak of the thing in the sky to others, but . . . there are no stars in Beijing.
One day, just as the sun was setting through the yellow and brown haze, something happened that was to change the way the people in the city of Beijing were to think. Suddenly, as if on cue, all of the factories came to a halt, all of the computers shut down, all of the government offices went dark, and just as all of the lights of the city were about to come on, none of them did. At first the people wondered what was happening. They came out of their homes, out of their places of work, and they began to talk. The mayor, the city council, the chief of police, the fire department all got together and began to talk. Soon they learned that the problem was a power outage. The electric company came together with the city officials and explained that there was a problem at the plant: something had overloaded, or broken, or--well, they didn't know exactly what had happened. Except that the electric company was no longer producing electricity; there was no electricity in Beijing.
They said that it would take many days--a week perhaps--to repair the damage--five days, at the very least, if they worked hard and around the clock and if they had any luck. The mayor, the governor (who was called on the telephone for advice), the chief of police, and the city council all agreed with the electric company, and said to fix the problem at once; don't worry about the cost; just fix the problem. Give us back our electricity.
They began work immediately.
In the city, the people continued to gather outside. For the first time in their lives, they saw darkness. The lights were out, and the sky was unlit.
But they could still see no stars; nor did they know that they could see no stars, for they had never seen stars before. Never.
But the second night the skies began to clear; because the factories were unable to do their work, the skies began to clear of the smoke and the haze and the smog, and some of the brighter and bigger stars began to peak out and down on the city of Beijing. The people stared up into the sky and wondered what it was they were seeing. They continued to talk. And the next night, because the factories were again unable to go about their business, there were more stars in the sky, and the people remained out of their houses all night long and marveled at what they saw. The children pointed upward and played, and traced patterns in the sky: from star to star to star, and they made up stories about the figures they drew in the sky, and gave the figures names, and added stories to the stories.
The next night the stars in the sky were so bright and so many that in places the light shining down looked more like clouds almost than stars.
And all the while, the workers in the electric plant worked on and on. They were almost done with their work; they were nearing completion of the repairs on the turbines and the generators that supplied the city with the electrical power they needed to get back to work. The police chief ordered the police officers to go throughout the city and inform the citizens that the repairs were almost completed and that they would be able to return to work not the next day, but perhaps the day after. . . That's what it looked like.
And the people were happy. Even though they enjoyed having the time off from work and for once having the time to sit and think or even to just do nothing but look at the sky (which some people began to realize was really something), most of the people of Beijing were glad to know that they would be going back to work.
And two days later that's exactly what they did. They went back to work, and life returned to normal.
Or. . . almost normal.
That evening, after the citizens of Beijing had returned home from work, and after they had eaten their good meals, they went outside, as they had been doing for the past week, to visit and to talk with one another and to look up into the sky to admire and to be grateful for the stars they had gotten to know.
But the sky was no longer bright with stars or the Milky Way. Now, once again, the sky was bright with the lights of the city. The citizens of Beijing could not see the stars. Again, there were no stars in Beijing.
The people wondered what to do; they had come to love the stars, and they wondered what they could do to see the stars again. Some of the people turned off their house lights, and that helped a little, but only a little. Not enough. There were still no stars in Beijing. In some of the neighborhoods, some of the restless ones gathered in the streets to look up at the sky and the stars, and when they could not see the stars, some of these restless ones began to talk. And after talking, some of them began to walk through the neighborhoods collecting stones, and when they had collected enough, they threw the stones at the streetlights. And when enough of the streetlights were put out and darkened, those who had gathered could see some--not many, but some--of the stars again. And so more of the streetlights had to be broken.
It would take the city officials a number of days to learn about the destruction of the streetlights.
But before they did--on the second night after the people were able to return to work--at the end of the day and after the sun had gone down and the people had eaten their meals and gone outside to visit and talk and to look up into the sky in hope, once again they could not see the stars they had gotten so used to--even though many of the streetlights were gone. Now the sky was hazy and dirty again because the factories had been able to do their work for two solid days.
The next day, everyone went to work again, and at the end of the day, after they had come home and the sun had gone down, they noticed that they hadn't exactly been able to see the sun go down, for the sky was now more smokey and hazy than the day before. The day just gradually got darker. And as the sky got darker and the lights of the city came up, the citizens, gathering outside to talk among themselves and to look up into the night sky, once again could not see the stars. But it was not because of the streetlights; the streetlights were not the problem now; this time the problem was what had happened to their sky.
The faint, fading glow of the moon reminded them of how things had once been.
One day, after many nights of not seeing the stars in Beijing and talking about the things they loved and needed but did not have, some of the people went to the owners of the factories and asked why the factories were putting so much smoke into the sky, and could they please please stop it. The smoke kept the people from seeing the stars, they said, and enjoying the evening, they said, as they had been doing for so many of the previous evenings. The owners of the factories said, No, they could not stop putting the smoke into the sky, for they were providing good jobs for the good citizens of Beijing.
The electric company, when asked the same question, said, No, we must provide electricity for the citizens of Beijing.
The city officials--the mayor and even the governor, who was in the city that day to make a speech--said similar things: We need to build the city and the country and make it big and good and strong.
Even the captain of the fire department said there was nothing he could do to help. No, he said, there is no fire to put out; it is only smoke.
And the police chief, when asked what he could do for the citizens of Beijing, said only, You should probably go home now.
And so the people went back to their homes.
And the officials, since they were through talking, went not back to their homes, but back to their offices, even though it was night.
Later that evening, after they had eaten their meals, the people gathered once again outside their homes and began to talk. And the talking led to thinking; and the thinking led to talking; And the talking led to more thinking; and more talking; and more thinking. . . .
And on the next day some of the people returned again to talk to the mayor and the owners and the captain and the chief and all the others. But this time they did not ask questions; this time they told the authorities that they liked the stars in the sky--in fact, they said that they liked the stars in the sky more than they liked the smoke in the sky.
"We want our sky back," they said; "we want our stars back."
But this time the officials did not seem to be listening. And so the people stopped talking. But they did not stop thinking.
And so one evening, not too many days later, after work and after eating their meals, some of the good citizens of Beijing, under a sky they could not see but under stars they knew were there, organized an evening walk over to the electric company, and there, even though it was night, they went to work.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
The Two-Step Program
THE TWO-STEP PROGRAM
WHEN ADAM SMALL GOT TIRED, he went to bed and to sleep. When he was done sleeping, he got up. When he was done being up, he went back to bed. Then he’d go to sleep. Then he’d get back up. That was the way it was with a lot of things in Adam’s life. When he was done with something, he did something else. When he was done with a book, he put it down. When he was hungry, he ate; when he was full, he stopped. Thirst too: Water in, water out.
Adam Small was a human being. He had a birth certificate to prove it.
Once (a long time ago), when Adam Small was done sitting, he stood up. Later, when he was done standing, he sat back down.
Another time (still a long time ago), when he was done standing, instead of sitting, he walked. When he was done walking, he stood. Another time he ran. Another time he got on his bike and rode away. And then sometimes, again, he’d just sit. Or go to the bathroom (sitting or standing). Or go to bed. And go to sleep. And when he was done sleeping (or when he had to go to the bathroom), he got up. And sat down. And when he was done sitting down and going to the bathroom, he went back to bed. And to sleep. Adam was beginning to recognize a whole range of possibilities in his life.
One day (still a long time ago, but no longer as long) he walked through a doorway. Once through the doorway, he stood outside. He did not sit. He did not walk. But he knew that that was Ok. He knew that it was Ok because he knew that the focus did not always need to be on himself. There were other beings in the world. There were other non-beings in the world.
Outside, the sun shined. When the sun was done shining, the sun set. The sun shined, the sun set. The moon rose, the night fell. Darkness filled the sky, except, of course, for the moon and the stars. When the moon and the stars were done, the sun replaced them.
Two weeks later, the moon did not rise. The sun set, but the moon did not rise. The stars did, and then they set. The sun returned. The sun set.
Sometimes, there were clouds. When the clouds were done, the sun shined again. And the moon and the stars. Sometimes, when there were clouds, the sun and the clouds shared the sky. And one could see all three: the sun and the clouds and the sky. Adam Small could see all three. Sometimes, when there were clouds, it rained; other times it didn’t. Sometimes there were floods, and sometimes there weren’t.
Sometimes, there were even rainbows.
When things were no longer cloudy, clarity set in.
Other times, when things were cloudy and clouds filled the entire sky, clarity still set in.
And other times still, there was no clarity at all, no matter what the weather.
When Adam Small was done with high school, he went to college. When he was done with college (temporarily), he went into the Army. When he was done with the Army, he went back to college. When he was done with college, he didn’t quite know exactly what to do, and so there were a lot of things that he did not do. Likewise, there were a lot of things he did do. He was single. When he was done being single, he married. When he was done being married, he divorced. There were kids, and the kids came, and the kids went, in between the marriage and the divorce. And afterwards too.
In between and all along, and inside and outside, and standing and sitting, waking and sleeping, in sunshine or in rain. Good weather or bad, although Adam did not always know which was which.
Adam Small was a human being.
Adam Small’s life contained both happiness and sorrow. When he was done being happy, he was sad; when he was done being sad, he was happy. Sometimes he was happy and sad at the same time; other times he was neither happy nor sad, but something in between. Most of the time he was neither happy nor sad, but that place in between, which confused him. When he was done being confused, he was happy again, and when he was done being happy, he was sad again, and when he was both, he was as confused as when he was neither.
When Adam found a job (which then became his career, which then became a big part of his life), he worked. At the end of each day, when he was done working, he stopped working, and he went home. At home he ate, and when he was done eating, he stopped eating; and after he had stopped eating, he did a number of other things until it was time for him to go to bed. After he got into bed, he went to sleep. When he was done sleeping, he woke up. After he woke up, he got up. After he got up, he went to work. Soon he began to realize that he was doing a lot of these things a lot of the time--going to work and coming home from work and eating and drinking and going to bed, and all the other things in between --and with that realization, he understood that he would be doing all of this for a long, long time to come. He called it his career. He called it his life.
Adam Small was a human being. He had a birth certificate to prove it.
He worked and he worked, and it seemed that he was never done working. Even when he was done working, it seemed that he was never done working. He called it his career. He called it life.
Finally--many, many years later--after he had completed his career, he stopped working. He planned to take a long vacation. After taking his long vacation, he came home to his house. He sat down in his house, and after he was done sitting down in his house, he stood up, and after he stood up and had been standing for awhile and he was done standing, he sat back down. And got back up. He went to the window, and he looked out the window at all the world outside. All the world that he could see, that is. And when he was done looking out the window, he turned away from the window. Then he went to bed and to sleep. After he was done sleeping, he got up. He filled his days and nights sleeping and waking and sitting and standing and eating and drinking and looking out the window. And probably some other things too.
Adam Small was a human being; he had a birth certificate to prove it, although he didn’t know exactly where it was anymore.
When he was happy, he laughed, and when he was done laughing, he cried. Adam Small cried a lot, but he laughed a lot too. Which is how it is, and--fortunately--how it should be.
Adam Small lived. Adam Small had lived. Adam Small knew that when he was done living, he would die. He was sleeping more and more these days. And when he was done sleeping, he did not always get up. Sometimes he stayed in bed all day. When he did get up, he would sometimes sit for a long time in his favorite chair that he had moved over to and in front of the window, and for a long time he would sit and look out the window at the world that he could see. And then he would get up and go back to bed. And go back to sleep, which he was doing more and more often.
He was a human being.
The sun rose, and the sun set. The moon rose, and the moon set. The stars crossed the big, huge, big sky in the day and in the night, when Adam could see the stars and when he could not. It did not matter whether or not he could see the stars; they crossed the sky regardless. Everything crossed the sky regardless. More and more Adam Small stayed inside, and less and less he ventured outside. But when he was up and awake, he would still go to the window and look out at the world that was outside and which included the sky. When he was in bed, he could not see the sky, but when it rained, he could hear the sky, or at least he could hear that part of the sky that was falling--the rain on the roof, which reminded him of the outside and of the days when he had been able to be outside and look at the sky and the rain and the rainbows and the sun and the moon and, at night, the stars, where there was clarity.
He grew tired. He grew more tired. He became very tired, and it seemed that he was sleeping more often than he was awake. Until finally, he never finished sleeping. He was never done sleeping. And so he never woke up. And so, therefore, he never got up.
Smile
SMILE
MARY MAGDELINE CARTER WAS BORN with something wrong with her face. No one saw it at first, but within the first six months of her life, her parents began to notice that she never smiled--she seemed incapable of it. Mary was not an unhappy child. To the contrary, she was perfectly delightful. But she did not smile.
She could laugh, she could giggle, but she did not smile.
Months went by.
At the end of a year’s time, doctors drew blood and conducted other tests and found that the lower portion of her face and jaw were lacking certain tiny muscles that are necessary for the act of smiling. Because Mary was not an ugly child in any of the other usual ways, the team of physicians consulting on the case recommended against surgery. For one thing, they said, the procedure was relatively new, and they could not guarantee its success; for another, some of the staff were not even convinced that smiling would make a difference. The family, on its own--in a separate decision (that is, for a different reason)--also decided against the operation: they felt that they could still love young Mary even if she didn’t meet all of their expectations.
And so, though the rationales were different, the outcome was the same: Mary’s face was left alone.
As she grew older, friends and extended family--and, of course, classmates--commented on Mary’s frozen look, her inability to show happiness in the conventional manner. When confronted, she’d just look back at her friends--or her family and teachers--with neither a smile nor a frown. She’d stare back blankly--and kindly. And sometimes ask a question of her own. A calm, direct question: Why do you hold these views?
Because she was able to articulate her thoughts with a skill much beyond her years, she never remained for long the subject--or the object--of ridicule. Of laughter or discrimination.
(Those reading this account should be cautioned about over-reading. There’s no symbolism here. Mary’s inability to smile was just a fact of her life, a natural law, nothing more. The same is true with her name.)
Throughout childhood and adolescence--and even into adulthood --her lack of a smile followed her wherever she went. But it was no serious handicap; instead, it just helped to define her more completely. For if her face revealed no genuine emotion, neither did it convey deception. And in some segments of contemporary society, honesty still goes a long way.
Mary’s inability to smile carried over into almost every aspect of her life. For one thing, she saw everything literally; she never spoke in metaphors. The sky never rained cats and dogs; it just rained hard--or heavily--or a lot. When she said that the sun was shining, the sun was shining; when she said that there was a fork in the road, there was a fork in the road. She spoke directly and clearly--and with a great economy of language.
Sometimes, however, this got her into trouble, for most people, whether they will admit it or not, do not really know how to talk. They say words; they mouth words. They construct sentences. Occasionally, they will even build a paragraph. But words and sentences and paragraphs, by themselves--or even together--do not a communication make.
Sometimes, when Mary’s friends--or ex-friends--speak, Mary will ask them what a certain word means: What do you mean by the word yes? What are you trying to say when you say the word know? Is there anything significant--or obvious--about the word I? Who is you? What about the verb to be? To breath? To eat? To be hungry?
The trouble came not with her friends’ initial responses, which were usually vague and indistinct--and often helpless and pathetic--but when Mary would pursue the issue further and suggest that perhaps they were not really answering her questions. Perhaps they were not hearing her questions. She’d ask for further clarity: No, she’d say, I don’t mean the word. Speak from here, she’d say, pointing to her chest--and then lower: to the gut. The center. The core. The source.
She continued with this line of questioning, which soon took on the quality of silence, which then took on the quality of sound, and which her friends still attempted to respond to as before: with words; with sentences; with smiles.
When Mary was younger--in high school and even in college--she’d, of course, had relationships--or rather, she had attempted to have relationships. But they never got anywhere; they never worked. They became something else--something that made no sense to her. They seemed "beside the point." For Mary believed that people put too much emphasis on things that don’t really matter, on things that she did not have. Or want. On things that she could–-and would-–not do. The truth of the matter was that even if she could have smiled, she would not have. For a smile always says the wrong thing. Always. No exceptions.
By the age of twenty-five, she had few friends. By thirty, she had none. She lived alone. She’d meet new people, as is almost unavoidable in today’s world, but probably because she never smiled (or worse, because she laughed and giggled without smiling) and because she always asked literal questions, the people she met tended to think of her as odd, and therefore they came to avoid her, much like the plague.
And so she lived alone--with her pets and her plants and her musical instruments and her cooking utensils. Which is to say: she did not live alone. For she lived with her pets and her plants and her musical instruments and her cooking utensils.
Mary is 52 years old now, and she can remember when she was 24, and 16, and 33. And eight. She can remember things when she was 43, when she was 44, when she was 35. And she remembers specific, actual incidents that happened when she was 21 and 18 and even as far back as when she was three. And even as recently as yesterday.
Paper
PAPER
SUSAN PAPER WAS BORN NORMAL. Her first eight years of life were also normal. But then, the next year, just before she hit the double digits, a birthmark-like pigmentation appeared on her back, just behind her left shoulder blade. Susan herself could not see it, but her mother noticed it one morning as she was brushing her daughter’s hair. Technically speaking, it was not a birthmark at all, since it had not been there since birth, but it looked like a birthmark, and so everyone began calling it that.
It was small--less than an inch across--and it looked exactly like the Nike swoosh.
Susan did not like it.
Three years later, at puberty, another birthmark-like pigmentation appeared on her chest, right there at her new, beginning cleavage. Because she had been paying very close attention to the changes taking place in her body, Susan noticed this mark immediately. But she also noticed this: It was in the exact same shape as the McDonald’s Golden Arches. Susan did not like this new addition to her body any more than she liked the previous one--the image itself or its location. She was young, and she had been liking the way her body had been growing and developing and becoming more and more beautiful. And, like most of her friends, she was at that age where she was enjoying meeting and making new friends and also occasionally flirting and wanting to be attractive. And eventually to be desired. But now, because of these unusual markings appearing on her flesh, she became more withdrawn and embarrassed and even a little bit ashamed of her own body, so that she wore clothing that, as a teenage girl, she would not ordinarily have worn, clothing that covered up the youthful parts of her body. She would not even let her girlfriends see her whenever they got together for sleep-overs. Or even in gym class.
Susan asked her mother once if birthmarks could be removed, but her mother answered evasively, assuring her that the blemishes she had would eventually go away. They had appeared suddenly, she said, and they would probably disappear just as suddenly. They were not actually birthmarks at all, she reminded her, and would most likely go away if left alone and given time. She should probably just try to ignore them, her mother had said.
Susan was unhappy with her mother’s reply, but she accepted it nonetheless because she was still young and because she still trusted her parents entirely and their wisdom altogether.
At the age of eighteen, the summer after she had graduated from high school, Susan discovered--and then watched in alarm--as another birthmark-like image slowly came into existence. It was located halfway down between her navel and her pubic hair and bore a striking resemblance to the McIntosh Apple.
Susan stopped wearing low-hugging pants.
She became more discouraged.
She began to withdraw even more.
And the birthmarks did not go away.
"None of my friends have to deal with this type of stuff," she complained one day, looking at herself in the mirror above her dresser. She picked up the small hand mirror and used it to look closely at her back and her shoulder, where the first mark had appeared years before. She also checked out her buttocks, behind her legs and under her arms. She wondered where the next intrusion might show up.
Still, Susan was eighteen years old--an adult now, and growing less naive--and so one day she decided to take things into her own hands. She called a dermatologist and made an appointment to see what the doctors there would say–-to see if they could do anything about the unwanted markings on her body. The doctors stated they had never seen such a thing. But at the same time they also suggested a couple possible procedures, but only if she, Susan, were really, genuinely serious about dealing with her problems. They said that there was no guarantee, but they also said that they had read in recent medical journals that there had been "some successful" results. Susan Paper said that she would be willing to try just about anything.
And so she made another appointment, two weeks hence.
Then, three days before her first treatment was to begin, she received in the mail a letter from the McDonald’s Corporation, cautioning her about taking any actions that might subject herself to a potential lawsuit. In the privacy of her room Susan read the letter over and over again. She did not understand; what were they talking about? The following day, she got two more letters, one from Nike and the other from McIntosh, indicating that they too were following her activities very closely. The destruction of legally protected property--in this case, a company’s logo--could not be allowed to go unchallenged.
The letters sent Susan into a tizzy. "But this is my body," she said to herself and, later, to a friend, Kathy Friend, one of the few friends she still had left. "This can’t be happening!"
Kathy encouraged her to consult with an attorney.
Which she did.
And who was encouraging.
Although not entirely.
And certainly not to Susan’s satisfaction.
After their first consultation, the attorney said that he would write to the three companies and inform each of them that the property in question was the girl’s own personal, private possession–-her own body--and that the claim of the three corporations constituted an unwarranted--and perhaps even illegal--intrusion into her life and the pursuit of happiness and freedom that his client desired. He mailed the letter the next day.
Susan postponed her doctor’s appointment.
Within a week, Susan’s attorney received a reply in the form of a single correspondence, from all three companies, who had by now formed a tri-corporate alliance. The letter conceded that the property in question may indeed be the girl’s own, but that the logo itself still remained--and always would remain--the property of the involved corporations, regardless of the location. They further cautioned that if the attorney’s client took any action whatsoever to remove or in any way deface or destroy said property, legal action would be set in motion immediately. They would have no other recourse, the letter said, but to sue.
Susan’s attorney called her into his office and read the letter solemnly, in a tone that revealed the very serious nature of the situation. After a difficult and anguished discussion, he advised Susan that it would be to her benefit to take no immediate action to try to remove the marks from her skin--unless she were willing to spend the next several years in litigation. The cost, not only in money, but also in the time and energy fighting this legal battle, she could not even begin to imagine.
Susan realized, for the time being at least, the wisdom of her attorney’s advice, which she took. Reluctantly. But at the same time, she also went out immediately and got a new job, one that paid much more than her present one at the restaurant. And she swore that she would work and save and scrimp and save until she had saved enough money. And when she had saved enough money, she said to herself, she would find the best damn attorney she could and take her case to court and get her body back. That’s what she’d do, she said. And, by god, she’d win.
Headache
HEADACHE
ANGELA SAXON WOKE UP without a headache. This was not the first time that this had happened. The truth was, Angela had never in her entire life ever waken up with a headache. Or even gotten one midway through the afternoon. But just because she had never suffered through that kind of an ordeal did not diminish her relief each morning as she greeted what she knew would be another pain-free day. At least in the sense of a hurt in the head.
She had observed countless others in their experience, had listened to their descriptions, seen their agony, watched their slippage into dysfunction. And she knew from the evidence that she never wanted that to be a part of her life.
Lying there in bed, reflecting on her own good fortune and still not yet ready to rise, she felt her body for broken bones, lesions, ulcers on the skin, swellings, boils. Once more, she found none. Angela had never broken a bone in her life; her complexion was flawless. Still, she checked herself each morning, just in case. Her health was perfect.
Later, in the shower, after shampooing and cream-rinsing, and with the water still on, she inspected herself for rashes and bruises: her arms, legs, chest, and stomach. She even kept a small hand-mirror in the shower so that she could check her back and her backside. Done, she turned off the water. Another morning had come, and she was still rash-free. Not a bruise or a blemish in sight. Not on her entire body. This too was not especially surprising since she had also, in all of her twenty-three years, never had any type of skin disorder. Not so much as an itch. Not even acne. But she breathed a sigh of collective relief anyway as she stepped out of the stall. Once more, she felt that things would be good. Once more, it would be another fine day.
After the shower, and after toweling herself dry, she bent down and looked closely between her toes and under the toenails, to make sure that no strange creatures were growing--or hiding--or dying–-there in the secret place.
Then she got dressed.
At the breakfast counter, eating and thinking and, of course, shaping the myth of herself, she read the eye chart on the opposite wall: 20/20 vision, she was. As usual. As always. No break in the pattern. No calls to the optometrist today. (She had never seen an optometrist. No need to.) Her eyes were good; her eyes were perfect: hazel. (Angela loved the fact that there was a z in the color of her eyes.)
After breakfast, she brushed her teeth. After brushing her teeth, she looked at her teeth. Looking at her teeth, she noted that they too were perfect, clean and white and straight and bright; no chips or pitting. No cavities. No fillings. (Not a one.) No braces either. (Are you kidding?!) Her gums were pink.
Time to get to work. But before she did, she made a quick sweep of each room of the house: her routine check for earthquake damage: the walls, the windows, ceiling, and floor. Outside, she walked around the yard–-the front and the back--looking for evidence of any recent meteorite impacts. Or comets. Debris from above. Again there was nothing. Nothing that she could see. Nothing out of the ordinary. No craters. No injuries to the flower garden. No foreign visitors. Indeed, no unwanted visitations at all.
Then, just before getting into her car, she looked up to the sky, cloudless and blue, scanning that same sky for any potential threats to her safety. Again nothing. Satisfied, she slipped inside her car and started the engine and pulled out of the driveway.
* * * * * * *
Angela’s day moved along: the commute, work, lunch.
* * * * * * *
During lunch, on her walk (to keep the muscle tone in her legs accurate and aesthetically pure), she again looked up into the sky. And this time she saw it: the crack. It was not the first time that she had seen a crack. But this was the first time she had been able to spot one so easily, so quickly. Without any doubts as to what it was. At the bottom of the fissure, there was a little opening--larger than any she had ever seen before--that let the outside in, ever so slightly. Would it be too much? she wondered. She couldn’t tell. She’d never seen or heard of any serious problems from weaknesses in the sky before. But she had read enough to know that, in theory, it could present problems; it could be serious: It could be disastrous. In theory. Maybe even in Life.
The flaw was in the west, low on the horizon, and as Angela continued to stare, she set to memorize its place in the sky. Where it was exactly. She noted where she was standing, where a certain building was, and then approximately how high above that landmark her spot was. She marked it with her thumb. She’d check on it later.
* * * * * * *
(There is a photograph sitting on an end table in Angela’s living room, right there bedside the fireplace. The photo is of vicious, wild beasts: rattlesnakes, javelinas, dingoes, a black widow spider, a mosquito, the AIDS virus, a cancer cell, pride. They all look like family. They are a family. They are Angela’s family: her mother and her father, and her two brothers and one sister, and her own former husband (who had taken his life the previous year), and, of course, herself. When she looks at the photograph, she does not see the terrible beasts in the picture; instead, she sees Love. Angela dusts the photograph every day, and when anyone comes to visit, she shows them the picture and points out each member of her family, and tells them a little story about each one of them. Sometimes the stories change, but most of the time she keeps to the script.)
* * * * * * *
Angela knocked off work earlier than usual: 4:30. She was curious. She simply could not get her mind off the sudden fracture in the sky. And as the afternoon had advanced, she’d had a bad feeling about it. A premonition, you might say. She walked outside her office and her building. She looked up into the sky: Off to the west, to the spot she had marked with her thumb--with her mind--she saw the fissure. Immediately. And what she saw alarmed her: it was bigger than it had been at noon; much bigger. It now stretched out all the way from the western horizon to almost the sky’s zenith, with secondary cracks branching outward at intervals. The opening too had widened. Angela looked around. It seemed that no one else on the street was concerned; no one else even seemed aware.
The sun, though not yet setting, was nevertheless descending, approaching, seeming to be aiming directly for the weakness in the sky.
Angela jumped into her car and headed for high ground, away from the ocean and the lowlands. She made it just in time.
On a little hill perhaps 500 feet above the town and the shoreline, she parked her car. She got out of her car and stood beside her car to watch. And as she watched, she saw the sun make its first contact with the crack. Immediately, pieces of the sky, small at first, began to break apart and fall away. She could not believe how fragile the sky was. Pieces fell off into the ocean. She saw the enormous splash in the water and the subsequent wave spread out and begin its approach toward the land. But the real sight, for now, was still up above: the first pieces to break away were only the beginning. Almost like a chain reaction, larger chunks began to split and fall, each one higher than the one before. All was silent, no noise at all. (Or at least Angela could detect no sound.) She wondered if the people in the city had begun to notice yet. She heard no sirens, no loud speakers, no cries for help; she saw no panic. Traffic-–automobile and bicycle and pedestrian--continued to move in its orderly, leisurely--yet conjested--fashion. She looked back to the sky and now saw whole pieces, jagged and sharp, collapsing. They looked like they could slice the ocean to shreds. The sun caught these scraps, twisting and spiraling and turning and curling as they fell, so that the reflected light of the huge, falling shards created, arguably, one of the most stunning displays of a sunset Angela had ever witnessed.
Flies
FLIES
WILLIAM S. BURROUGHS WROTE down the following words: "Fly past my ear; does it think I’m deaf?" Moments before, a fly had buzzed past his ear, and so he recorded his thoughts--his impression--on a piece of paper. Later, he typed it up as a two-line haiku, the line division between "ear" and "does."
Years later--thirty years later (forty? twenty-one?)--A.F. Caldiero swatted at a fly that had just flown past his ear. He wrote down the words, "Fly past my ear; does it think I’m deaf?" He was pleased with the poem.
The next day, however, with the lines still fresh on the page, he kept thinking about the words and the image and the sound. They seemed familiar, like he’d heard them somewhere before, like he’d read them somewhere else. The thought stayed with him for a good part of the day. Until finally, by nightfall, he remembered: He’d read Burroughs’ poem years before, but had forgotten about it until reminded by his own experience. His own shared experience. Their own shared experience.
He worked on the poem, shaping it, molding it, building and adding to it--until, at last, it had become something else. And when he was done, he scribbled at the top, next to the title, the words, "For Bill Burroughs."
Seven years before Caldiero had conceived his poem, another man, Tiny Montgomery, a non-poet from Woodstock, New York, swatted at a fly that had just flown past his ear. He thought to himself, "A fly past my ear; does it think I’m deaf?" But Tiny was not a poet, and so he did not even think to write down his thoughts.
Echo Hill, another non-poet, an Army brat who, growing up, had lived in Georgia, Germany, California, and Washington D.C., felt an idea come into her head with no provocation whatsoever. She did not write it down, but the idea lingered on for several days, until at last it disappeared entirely and went to wherever faded memories go.
Lulu Toast, while still married to Joe Pancake, heard a fly buzz next to her ear. She waved it away without a thought. Later, that evening, she wrote in her journal an entry that began, "A fly passed my ear; does it think I’m deaf?" She showed it to Joe, who nodded and smiled and said, "Yes."
In Antarctica, where there are very few flies, a glaciologist by the name of Noam Post, who’d grown up in the American South, suddenly realized one day that he had neither seen nor heard a fly the entire six months he’d been researching in the southern continent. He paused from his work and closed his eyes, imagining the sound of insects, and jotted down on a legal pad the words, "A fly passed my face; does it think that I’m deaf?" He’d never heard of William Burroughs.
William Burroughs died in 1997, in the same lunar month as Princess Diana and Mother Teresa (an odd, ambiguous juxtaposition). During his lifetime, he held no official titles and had killed only person, his wife.
Patrick Cole, an aspiring but not very talented poet, sat on his front porch one day, reading Sharon Olds in the sun. A fly buzzed past his face. He looked up from the poetry he’d been reading and thought. He wrote down the words that had come to his head: "A fly past my ear. Does it think I’m deaf?" He liked what he’d written; in fact, he thought it the best two-line poem he had ever written. He sent it to a journal he’d submitted his work to before (but had never been published in). Five weeks later, he received a letter cautioning him about plagiarism. Attached was the original Burroughs poem.
The six-year-old Amanda Foote, sitting on the lawn by the big yellow roses in the back yard of her home, heard a fly buzzing around her ear. Without much thought, she said, "Fly past my ear! Does it think I’m deaf?"
Eleven-year-old Trudy Foot, on a bicycle at a stop signal at an intersection in San Dimas, a suburb in L.A., felt a fly buzz past her face: "A fly passed my ear; does it think I’m deaf?"
Seventeen-year-old Mark Hoffman, reading a book from his dad’s home library, came upon the Burroughs poem: "Fly past my ear; does it think I’m deaf?" He liked the poem. He wrote it down, word for word, and handed it in the next day as part of his poetry portfolio for his senior English writing class.
Jacques de Gaulle, in Paris, wrote the following words down on a napkin at a café where he was eating alone: "Une mouche pres de mon oreille; este-ce qu’elle pense que je suis sourd."
And Patrick Cole, the same unacclaimed poet mentioned above, sat on his front porch another day, reading William Burroughs in the sun. He came to the familiar poem in the book. He remembered his own poem with the same words. Once again he felt cheated. Once again he read the poem. He read the poem again. He wrote the following words down on a slip of paper: "Mosquito in my face; does it think I’m blind?" Then he wrote another poem: "Bee stings my arm; does it think I feel no pain?" He thought about writing another, perhaps about a mammal or a bird, but discarded the idea and returned to the two he had already written. He read them both many times over before deciding which one he preferred--which one was better--and then he typed it up and mailed it off to a journal that had already accepted some of his other work.
The Color Blue
THE COLOR BLUE
JUST BECAUSE The Man Who Loves Provo was color blind did not mean that he did not have a favorite color. He just had a different criteria than did those who saw--or thought they saw--and knew--color better than he. For The Man Who Loves Provo preferred the sounds of color to their actual visual quality.
His favorite was blue. He loved the texture of the voiced bilabial stop running into the voiced alveolar lateral and then ending in that rounded, back upper vowel. He especially liked colors that ended with a vowel, those voiced options that had length--indeed, that can go on forever and ever and ever: bluuuuuuu.
Orange, for example, was not nearly as beautiful as yellow. Red, phonetically, paled beside grey. And who could argue the fact that black and white were an aesthetic disgrace when compared to the sublimity of magenta? Or even lavender. But blue: ah, blue! That it was a so-called primary color meant nothing to The Man Who Loves Provo. It was the sound that mattered: Bluuuuuuu.
* * * * * * *
The Man Who Loves Provo found that as he aged, he was also losing the accuracy of his hearing. But that, too, he realized, was no handicap. For even though his ears were losing some of their function, he still liked listening to sound, though not necessarily for the sound itself; rather, for what the sound made him want to touch. For example, the sound of the bird’s wing made him want to touch sand; the sound of an ocean wave made him wish to feel the page of a book. When he listened to the oboe, he felt the desire to touch a woman’s hair. And when he heard human speech, he longed to be immersed in water. The sound of the color blue helped him to realize the importance of corn.
Building
BUILDING
for Mike
WHEN MIKE WENT TO BED at night, he had a plan in his head. When he got up in the morning and after taking a shower and drying and dressing and eating his breakfast, he found that the idea in his head was still there, and so he went downtown to look for a building. He found one that was just the right size. Walking up to it, he placed his hands carefully and tenderly against the red brick of the building and began to push with all his might. He pushed as hard as he could. Soon, the authorities came to check out the incident. A citizen with a cell phone had reported the potential disturbance.
The authorities asked him, "What do you think you’re doing?"
He said, "I’m trying to push over this building."
They said, "Why are you trying to push over this building?"
He said, "Because I want to push over a big one."
The authorities looked at each other and then said, "There’s a bigger one on the other block."
Mike kept pushing, but his concentration was shot, interrupted. He said, "I know. I saw that one, but I think that that one might be too big. I want to push over a big building, but not one that is too big. I spent a good part of the morning looking for one that was just the right size, and I think this one is it."
The authorities said, "If you push this building over, we’ll have to cite you." They paused to consult among themselves and then said, firmly, "We’ll give you exactly one hour to leave. Not a minute more." And they left.
Mike was unable to push over the building, and after an hour he did leave. But he left because he was tired, not because of anything the authorities had said to him.
The next day Mike arrived at the same building, but this time he brought some gloves and some friends. His friends lined up along the side of the building, and at the count of three, they all began pushing. They pushed and they pushed, and they talked very little among themselves, their concentration was so intense. And when the authorities came again to see what was going on because there had been another phone call from a concerned citizen, they asked the same questions: "What are you doing?" "Why are you doing it?" And: "If you do any damage to this building, we’ll have to cite you." And: "Today we’ll give you two hours to leave. Not a minute more."
After one hour one of Mike’s friends said that he didn’t think that they would be able to push over the building. It was too big, he said. Mike conceded that the building was big, but disagreed that the building was too big. He said that it was just the right size. And that that was the whole point: He wanted to push over a big building. A smaller building would not do. It had to be a building at least as big as this one: six stories high and a half
a block wide. Otherwise, there might not be enough satisfaction. "No," he said, "I think we should stick with this one."
At the end of the second hour, in which they were all very tired, they all agreed that they would resume the following day.
The following day, Mike and his friends brought more friends--more than the day before. They were men and women and even a few teenagers now, and they all looked big and strong and healthy and determined, physically and emotionally and even spiritually. Again, at the count of three, they all began pushing with all their might. They planted their feet firmly on the pavement and pushed against the building. Some turned around and leaned and pushed with their backs, using the strength of their legs for better advantage. They pushed hard and hard, and a few people on the sidewalk, who were not pushing but who had gathered to watch in amazement, were watching. They were amazed too. Some of the people inside the building stuck their heads out of the windows to see what all the commotion was about. Finally the authorities came again, but this time they had difficulty getting through the crowd of people who had gathered on the sidewalk to issue the verbal warning to the people trying to push the building over. They said that there had been two phone calls this morning, each one reporting of a potential disturbance. (One of the calls had even come from someone working inside the building itself.) This time the authorities did not ask the building pushers what they were doing or why they were doing it. They just said that they would again give them just two hours to vacate the premise. They would not give them any extensions, even though there were more people today pushing against the building than there had been the day before.
On the next day, more building pushers arrived, and more on-lookers came to watch from the sidewalk. The authorities were there too, many of them; more than before. Mike and his friends, who now numbered almost fifty-one, were very well organized. They all had gloves, and some wore hats and sweat bands and masks, and some even had name tags, and they spaced themselves along the side of the building, the side they had been pushing on, with the bigger and stronger individuals at the corners and at the center, and the smaller but very determined pushers in between. At the count of three, they began, and a tremendous sound of energy went up. The people watching on the sidewalk could see the muscles on the legs and the arms and the necks of the pushers. The muscles tightened and bulged. The on-lookers could hear the sound of energy going up: the heavy and strained breathing and the exertion. They could see the sweat beginning to run down some of the faces.
The authorities were about to speak, but even they were impressed by the strength of the human spirit.
The building began to creak, and that brought the authorities back to their purpose. The leader, holding a megaphone, spoke loudly and clearly: "I repeat: If you tip over this building, you
will be cited."
The crowd on the sidewalk, hearing the threat, suddenly rose up in a great and unified roar--non-verbal and non-linguistic--a roar that quickly reached a crescendo. And then, even more suddenly, as if on cue--but there was no cue--the people stopped. They halted. There was silence, except for the sound of the cars passing on the street, the flight of pigeons to the sky, a plane overhead, the panting of the pushers, the squeaking of the shoes of the pushers against the pavement, the shadows moving slowly--microscopically--across the city and the world; the earth turning.
This demonstration of the on-lookers’ discipline--their voices being turned on and off with such precision and control--lasted, at most, six seconds.
The authorities looked back and forth at the two groups of people, the on-lookers and the building pushers, suddenly realizing their peril.
But there was no danger, no danger from these people.
One of the people on the sidewalk sensed the tension and the insecurity on the faces of some of the authorities and called out, "Do not fear; we are just a flash-mob," and another in the crowd called out, "Yes," and then there was no more speaking. It was silent again, except for the other sounds that, for better or for worse, were bothering no one.
Back at the first creaking of the building, Mike shouted out Step Two of the Instructions: "Begin pushing UPWARD now." His friends strained even more.
In a moment, the building groaned again and began--microscopically--to tip. Some of the pigeons returned to the sidewalk, their feathers fluttering beautifully as they landed with grace and style. Some of the people on the sidewalk cleared their throats, in the way that civilization had taught them. And the authorities--from one perspective, right in the middle of all this; but from another, completely irrelevant--looked back and forth, again and again, and just stood there with blank expressions.
The on-lookers saw a story unfolding.
And then Mike let go his portion of the building, stood back, and surveyed the morning’s work. Indeed, the entire week’s work. He walked the length of the facade and watched as his friends held the building in place. He tilted his head one way, and he saw integrity. He tilted his head the other way, and he saw deception. Then he looked straight ahead and saw clarity. Feeling that things were now right, he issued the Third (and Final) Step of the Instructions: "Begin lowering the building--slowly." Then he added, for the sake of clarity, "‘Slowly’ means ‘carefully.’" And at that, he returned to his place in line against the wall and did his part.
Wedding
WEDDING
WHEN JENNY RABBIT heard through the grapevine that her ex- was getting married, she burst into tears. When she got the wedding announcement informing her of the precise date, place, and time, she got angry. And at the ceremony itself, when she saw the bride (for the first time) and the groom (for the last time) prancing down the aisle, she laughed out loud--so loud that other people looked at her. Afterwards, at the reception, in which she mingled with friends and acquaintances she had not seen in months and years and even weeks, she felt a great and growing calm.
That night in bed, with her dog Camel on the floor beside her, she lay staring at the ceiling, trying not to think. It took some effort, but at last she succeeded. She began giggling again, and Camel awoke and looked at her in the darkness.
Camel and Jenny are friends. They know which end is up.
When Jenny’s at work, Camel gets into her own routine. She’s got the entire house to herself: she sleeps a lot, she paces a lot; she walks past the fireplace, the guitar, the end table with the lamp and the framed photograph of herself and Jenny. She looks at the photograph regularly. For long moments sometimes. She goes outside. (There’s a special, small swinging hinge of a door on the kitchen door for Camel to go in and out of.) In the backyard she urinates and defecates. Jenny will clean up after her. Camel sleeps and wakes and paces, drinks from her bowl, eats dried food from another bowl, and yawns. She performs her constitution. This is her life; this is her routine. Sometimes she whines (or is she singing?) to the empty house, but she always acts happy--Jenny interprets it as happiness--when Jenny comes home.
During the day, when Camel’s at home by herself, with a free run of the house, Jenny’s at work, in her own routine. At her office she’s awake most of the time, and she stares out her office window a lot. She works on the eighteenth floor. She drinks a lot of water, and as a result she urinates often and defecates just once. She’s got a clean, smooth-running system. She’s got a routine. She’ll tell you that she drinks a lot of water, and she eats rather simply. Vegan. Jenny has a small, framed photograph of herself and Camel that sits on her desk, and when she is not working or looking out the window or sleeping, she stares at it for long moments. Regularly. When she’s happy, she hums a little tune to herself, softly, one that she made up and plays on the guitar, but after she’d learned of her ex-husband’s wedding plans, she deleted the words of the song (which had nothing to do with him--or with herself), so that now she just hums the melody--without the words. And she likes the song a whole lot better that way: without the words.
Sense
SENSE
AT FIRST, Janie Lemon-Lime did not know how many sounds there were in the universe, and so she began to count them. She loved all the variety of tone--the highs and the lows, the long and the short, and the deep and the soft and the silent. But after a number of days of counting, she found that the counting was beginning to interfere with her hearing of the actual sounds, and so she stopped counting altogether and just listened.
Later, when she began counting the colors that were in the sky and the earth and the water and the air and the plants and the animals--with all their variety of shape and texture, depth and size, and, of course, tone too--the same thing happened again: counting interfered with the seeing. And so, once more, she stopped counting and instead just looked.
Janie did not even bother trying to count the other senses that she was coming to love because she knew that the counting was not nearly as important as the touching and smelling and the tasting. And so, as before, she just entered into the experience of those experiences.
Janie’s husband’s name was Gary Lime. When she married him, she added his last name to her last name to form the hyphenated Lemon-Lime. Because Gary loved her so much, he decided to take her maiden name to add to his own last name. Hyphenated, he became Gary Lime-Lemon, which, people noted when they were introduced, was much more difficult to pronounce than his wife’s more beautiful and smooth-sounding Lemon-Lime. Gary said not to worry; it would just take some getting used to.
Janie and Gary, like many couples who marry, talked about having children. It was not a lengthy discussion, but it was an important one nonetheless, one that brought back a decision in the affirmative: They would bring off-spring into the world. What took much longer to work out, however, was the last name that any future children would take: Lemon-Lime, Lime-Lemon, or even just Lemon or Lime, by itself. At first, the discussion seemed to be going along quite well, each of the future parents bringing up the points of each side of each choice. But when it came right down to making the actual decision, they could not agree. They each held a separate--and firm--position on the matter, but--for the sake of harmony–-neither would state it. For they each suspected, at each other’s core, was a basic disagreement.
And so they decided to just sit on it for awhile. Which made sense. The issue was not pressing. They had no kids; they were not even pregnant yet. They could talk about it later.
When they did talk about it--later--they decided that if they could not agree on this one very important issue, perhaps they should just not have any children at all. This worked fine for awhile. But eventually, love got the best of them, and they found themselves with child.
Lulu's Sister
LULU’S OLDER SISTER
LULU’S OLDER SISTER, Lucy, was killed in an automobile on one of the many Tuesdays that she, Lulu, was sixteen years old. The family, of course, was devastated.
On Thursday, the day before the funeral, Lulu’s younger sister, Lacy, was killed in a freak accident on the vacant lot out by the school. Again, the family was devastated. Lucy’s funeral was postponed, and a joint service was scheduled the following Monday for the two tragic sisters.
Then, the day after the funeral, Lulu’s older brother was struck and killed by a stray bullet as he sat alone at the breakfast table eating lunch.
All of this was more than the family could bear. Nothing made any sense anymore. The thought of yet another funeral in the same week was just too much for the battered family. And so, in an act that everyone--from the funeral director to the priest to even close friends–-thought bizarre, Lou’s funeral was delayed a full six months--until the immediate family thought that they would be better able to handle the grief.
Lulu’s parents lived another 36 years--until she, Lulu, was 52 years old. During that time no other family members passed away. But with the deaths of the two parents, a week apart from each other (her mother of cancer, her father in another automobile), the painful memories of a decades-old absurdity returned. Lulu was beside herself.
Columbus helped, and Molly helped, and her husband Ray helped too; and Joe did what he could. But Lulu, out of a growing sense that something even more terrible was about to happen, began making little wishes to herself: that she could disappear; that she could live forever; that little ponies might one day rule the world; that she could somehow make sense of the senseless. These wishes, in turn, became a kind of hidden reality for her, a place where she could go when there was no other place to go.
She asked for--and got--time off from work.
She went away for a year. By herself. No one worried about her because she had asked that no one worry about her. And when she returned, she said nothing about her year alone: where she had been or what she had done. But her eyes, which had been green her entire life, were now dull and dim, and turned indistinct. There were new wrinkles too, of course; and something had happened to her hair, something she could not put a finger on. No one asked her about any of these changes, and that upset her--although, in those moments when she was honest with herself, she had to admit that she would have been equally upset if anyone had asked.
She got her old job back, but when she returned, she noticed a whole new turn of employees. She introduced herself, and sometimes the new employees came up and introduced themselves to her. None of them asked about her eyes or the wrinkles or the hair. But then, why would they? They didn’t know her and how she had been before. They knew nothing about Lulu, just as Lulu knew nothing about them. And besides, it wouldn’t be polite. And besides, what’s the point? And besides that, what difference would it make, anyway?
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