God Is in the Details
Vibration
The Canyon
Rome Wasn't Built in a Day
One Out of Thousands
Independence Day
Doubtful
The Open Window
The Last Lesson
Sally Graham
One Wish Left
Commuters' Rage
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Wednesday, December 24, 2008
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Views
Two people carry one thing and an argument ensues,
It ends with the big thing left on the street when one of them blows a fuse.
A patient sues his doctor and the lawyer sports new shoes,
The doctor makes excuses, saying, "I'm always the one they accuse!"
Fans at the game are anxious to see the visitors lose,
Though the leading player rolls on the ground and rubs a swelling bruise.
Mom and Dad watch a crime in progress on the local news;
A hateful man in an interview hurts with the words he spews.
Three competing suitors are hoping the beauty will choose
Against a backdrop of music and hearts of pink in varying hues.
The tenants default on their rent with excuses by ones and by twos,
And complain of the neighbor who stinks up the hall with the garbage that he strews.
Robert propounds on Kate's erroneous definition of clerihews;
In order to get her to see the light, he gives her a book to peruse.
The church falls short on worshippers who can't sit in predestined pews,
And Masons turn out their membership for failing to pay their dues.
A husband abandons his wife in aborted attempts to amuse;
Her demeanor is drowned in pot luck casseroles, soups and stews.
A detective sifts through the ashes searching remains for clues;
He's found an earring, a tooth and a nail, but he doesn't know whose.
Teenagers wooing, say they aren't smoking. They are. It's only a ruse.
They're thinking of eloping because her father is turning the screws.
Workers waiting for jobs are standing outside in queues,
While the hardnosed factory owner seeks alternatives to use.
Someone is at the zoo with a child his girlfriend won't let him abuse,
And an old man who's lost a fortune regains it by singing the Blues.
Check out student writing at TEC Inglés.
It ends with the big thing left on the street when one of them blows a fuse.
A patient sues his doctor and the lawyer sports new shoes,
The doctor makes excuses, saying, "I'm always the one they accuse!"
Fans at the game are anxious to see the visitors lose,
Though the leading player rolls on the ground and rubs a swelling bruise.
Mom and Dad watch a crime in progress on the local news;
A hateful man in an interview hurts with the words he spews.
Three competing suitors are hoping the beauty will choose
Against a backdrop of music and hearts of pink in varying hues.
The tenants default on their rent with excuses by ones and by twos,
And complain of the neighbor who stinks up the hall with the garbage that he strews.
Robert propounds on Kate's erroneous definition of clerihews;
In order to get her to see the light, he gives her a book to peruse.
The church falls short on worshippers who can't sit in predestined pews,
And Masons turn out their membership for failing to pay their dues.
A husband abandons his wife in aborted attempts to amuse;
Her demeanor is drowned in pot luck casseroles, soups and stews.
A detective sifts through the ashes searching remains for clues;
He's found an earring, a tooth and a nail, but he doesn't know whose.
Teenagers wooing, say they aren't smoking. They are. It's only a ruse.
They're thinking of eloping because her father is turning the screws.
Workers waiting for jobs are standing outside in queues,
While the hardnosed factory owner seeks alternatives to use.
Someone is at the zoo with a child his girlfriend won't let him abuse,
And an old man who's lost a fortune regains it by singing the Blues.
Check out student writing at TEC Inglés.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Friday, November 14, 2008
Vibration
“Teacher, did you feel the earthquake,” one of them asks as they enter the room.
Yes, I think, that would be your first question. Yes, I felt my house and my bed trembling at 4:59 this morning as I was making love to my wife and something terrible happened. I felt it as I was having my cutomary breakfast of chicken broth, lemonade and a banana. No, I slept through it. I have a hangover and I thought it was happening inside my head. Five or six different scenarios race through my mind, but they all sound like excuses. This particular tremor is one that will stay with me forever.
“No, I didn’t feel it,” I say, “When was it?”
David, the one who had asked, says, “Huh?” He’s told me that sometimes I speak too rapidly in English. Three or four in the back who have heard my response start speaking.
“This morning at about five o’clock.”
“It was a strong one. Probably about four point five.”
“It was in Oaxaca, but we could feel it here in Chiapas.”
“I was sleeping,” I say, “I didn’t feel this one.” This was the third tremor I’ve experienced since I began my stay here in Tuxtla Gutiérrez. The first was on an afternoon while I was drinking with some friends in Chiapa de Corso. It was momentary and mild. We laughed about it and blamed it on the beer and bad botanas. The second occurred while I was at home alone sitting in front of my laptop and preparing exams for the second parcial. Aura was at the Secondaria teaching her history class. She called me on my cellphone while I was standing outside the house and smoking a cigarette. She said she tried calling me on the regular phone but I didn’t hear it ringing. I remembered she had told me the first thing to do when you feel the vibrations is to get out of the building and wait until it passes. But this morning’s tremor was the strongest.
“Oh, teacher,” David says, “You must have felt it in a dream.”
In my dream I was being entertained by my Three Fates. Tania, Ileana and Nathalie. They were not seventeen year old prepa students in this English class. They were women and they knew how to accommodate the ugly American so he didn’t feel like an interloper. The three of them always did everything together and so their actions fed off each other, but Nathalie was the one with the eyes, deep, penetrating soulful brown eyes.
The students are looking at me as if I am lost. They seem eager to help me find my way back to reality.
They notice I have the laptop with me. “Are we going to see a movie today, teacher?”
“No, not today,” I say, “We have to finish Unit Twelve.”
“Oh, teacher, no.” Groans.
It’s the end of the semester. Nobody wants to work.
Nathalie is filing her nails and she looks at me without moving her head so that those eyes are looking upward in a way that says she knows. She knows.
What am I going to do?
“Open your books to page one oh two.”
“Is that one or two?” somebody asks.
“One hundred and two,” I say.
“Teacher, you didn’t take the asistence.”
“I’m here,” David says, as he always does. “Presente.”
I’m losing them again.
Tania whispers something to Ileana. Nathalie still filing nails, nods agreement. She knows.
“Come on,” I say, “We’ve got a lot of things to do today. There’s more material to cover before the final exam.”
“We can study the last unit at home,” someone says and two of the students start mock-fighting.
“Hey, come on,” I say, but it’s hopeless. They’re on their own time now.
“Teacher,” Ileana asks, “Do they have earthquakes in New York? Did you ever feel the ground shaking?”
“There may have been,” I say, “But I never felt one.”
I think of still mornings in bed back home. Before coming to all this. Before Mexico. Before teaching. Before Aura. I lived alone but I was bored. It was noisy in the streets but tranquil inside my overpriced, underfurnished apartment. At times too tranquil. I longed for change. And now my situation is about as different as it could be.
I think about this morning when I woke, stiff from my dream, feeling guilty with Aura lying beside me. I kissed her and she responded. I entered her and she was ready. She almost pushed the Three Fates out of my mind as I made love to her, trying to see it as only to her and no other. I felt giddy with accomplishment and on the edge of satisfaction when the room and everything in it started to tremble just a little. Aura was about to cry out something and I put my hand over her mouth. I came into her and couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. I was trembling, eyes closed, in a torpid dream state for several moments after everything else had stopped moving. Including Aura. When I came to and rolled off her she lay motionless with a look of panic frozen on her face.
I didn’t know what to do.
I sat at our breakfast table for a half hour and smoked three cigarettes. Words like extranjero and interloper and coward and unfaithful were flashing unconnected through my mind.
Without realizing, I dressed and came to school this morning.
I am thinking about finding Aura's lifeless body still lying there when I leave the school this afternoon.
Yes, I think, that would be your first question. Yes, I felt my house and my bed trembling at 4:59 this morning as I was making love to my wife and something terrible happened. I felt it as I was having my cutomary breakfast of chicken broth, lemonade and a banana. No, I slept through it. I have a hangover and I thought it was happening inside my head. Five or six different scenarios race through my mind, but they all sound like excuses. This particular tremor is one that will stay with me forever.
“No, I didn’t feel it,” I say, “When was it?”
David, the one who had asked, says, “Huh?” He’s told me that sometimes I speak too rapidly in English. Three or four in the back who have heard my response start speaking.
“This morning at about five o’clock.”
“It was a strong one. Probably about four point five.”
“It was in Oaxaca, but we could feel it here in Chiapas.”
“I was sleeping,” I say, “I didn’t feel this one.” This was the third tremor I’ve experienced since I began my stay here in Tuxtla Gutiérrez. The first was on an afternoon while I was drinking with some friends in Chiapa de Corso. It was momentary and mild. We laughed about it and blamed it on the beer and bad botanas. The second occurred while I was at home alone sitting in front of my laptop and preparing exams for the second parcial. Aura was at the Secondaria teaching her history class. She called me on my cellphone while I was standing outside the house and smoking a cigarette. She said she tried calling me on the regular phone but I didn’t hear it ringing. I remembered she had told me the first thing to do when you feel the vibrations is to get out of the building and wait until it passes. But this morning’s tremor was the strongest.
“Oh, teacher,” David says, “You must have felt it in a dream.”
In my dream I was being entertained by my Three Fates. Tania, Ileana and Nathalie. They were not seventeen year old prepa students in this English class. They were women and they knew how to accommodate the ugly American so he didn’t feel like an interloper. The three of them always did everything together and so their actions fed off each other, but Nathalie was the one with the eyes, deep, penetrating soulful brown eyes.
The students are looking at me as if I am lost. They seem eager to help me find my way back to reality.
They notice I have the laptop with me. “Are we going to see a movie today, teacher?”
“No, not today,” I say, “We have to finish Unit Twelve.”
“Oh, teacher, no.” Groans.
It’s the end of the semester. Nobody wants to work.
Nathalie is filing her nails and she looks at me without moving her head so that those eyes are looking upward in a way that says she knows. She knows.
What am I going to do?
“Open your books to page one oh two.”
“Is that one or two?” somebody asks.
“One hundred and two,” I say.
“Teacher, you didn’t take the asistence.”
“I’m here,” David says, as he always does. “Presente.”
I’m losing them again.
Tania whispers something to Ileana. Nathalie still filing nails, nods agreement. She knows.
“Come on,” I say, “We’ve got a lot of things to do today. There’s more material to cover before the final exam.”
“We can study the last unit at home,” someone says and two of the students start mock-fighting.
“Hey, come on,” I say, but it’s hopeless. They’re on their own time now.
“Teacher,” Ileana asks, “Do they have earthquakes in New York? Did you ever feel the ground shaking?”
“There may have been,” I say, “But I never felt one.”
I think of still mornings in bed back home. Before coming to all this. Before Mexico. Before teaching. Before Aura. I lived alone but I was bored. It was noisy in the streets but tranquil inside my overpriced, underfurnished apartment. At times too tranquil. I longed for change. And now my situation is about as different as it could be.
I think about this morning when I woke, stiff from my dream, feeling guilty with Aura lying beside me. I kissed her and she responded. I entered her and she was ready. She almost pushed the Three Fates out of my mind as I made love to her, trying to see it as only to her and no other. I felt giddy with accomplishment and on the edge of satisfaction when the room and everything in it started to tremble just a little. Aura was about to cry out something and I put my hand over her mouth. I came into her and couldn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. I was trembling, eyes closed, in a torpid dream state for several moments after everything else had stopped moving. Including Aura. When I came to and rolled off her she lay motionless with a look of panic frozen on her face.
I didn’t know what to do.
I sat at our breakfast table for a half hour and smoked three cigarettes. Words like extranjero and interloper and coward and unfaithful were flashing unconnected through my mind.
Without realizing, I dressed and came to school this morning.
I am thinking about finding Aura's lifeless body still lying there when I leave the school this afternoon.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Doubtful
I doubted I could write without telling the stories of my family and having everyone angry with me for giving away secrets.
I doubted that I could succeed at anything to the degree where it would provide me a state of being comfortable and being able to retire at an early age. I always felt I would be working at some hum-drum job until the day I dropped over from exhaustion and they would have to carry me away from some conveyor belt or assembly line and that would be my ignominious end.
I doubted that my mother and father respected me as an adult when I became one. I thought, 'They will always see me as their little child and that is part of the reason I am unable to function the way I think I am supposed to at the stage I have reached.'
I doubted that my wife trusted me when I left three different jobs because I needed to try something fresh. Twice I took a hiatus and did temporary work while trying to write the Great American Novel. I have reams of typewritten sheets in desk drawers and can fully understand why my ex-wife does not respect me.
I doubted my son would want to follow in his father's footsteps, but as he did not survive past the age of thirteen that will not be a topic of discussion.
I doubted my daughter would be able to quit taking drugs and stay away from them once and for all. If she is anything like me she will have difficulty completing any kind of twelve-step program. She says she has been clean for the last four years but I know she drinks a bit. No amount of my speaking to her has any effect. She gets on better with her mother, but won't listen to her either.
I doubted my doctor when he advised me to get more exercise, when he told me I was too sedentary, that my cholesterol was too high, and I doubted my eye doctor when he told me that I was in danger of developing glaucoma. I figured he was in league with the optometrist who wanted to sell me glasses. I thought it was strange how once I started wearing them just for reading I seemed to need them more and more of the time. Now I have to wear them to the movies. But I don't go to the movies too often. My doctor says I need to walk more.
I am such a doubter that lately I am having doubts about my doubting. I am trying to use reverse psychology on myself. I figure if I question something it probably is good for me, but then if I think it is good for me I am sure the doctor will tell me it isn't and most of the things I have done in the past have led me to this ornery position I am currently in.
Now I live alone and I write most of the time in the evenings. On the weekends, I see a woman I work with. We go to dinner and maybe once a month, I stay at her place or she stays at mine for a night. Once in a while, the family photo I keep on the bookcase catches my eye. It was taken thirteen years ago. If I think about it, I miss my wife and daughter living here with me. I especially miss my son and sometimes I find myself crying before I realize I've made myself sad. I miss my Mom and Dad. When I get like that and it's not the weekend, not yet time to get together with Evelyn, I sit at the keyboard and try to put my feelings into words.
I'm still trying to write that novel, but I doubt it will ever be finished. All that I've read says you should write about what you know, but nothing exciting ever seems to happen to me.
I doubted that I could succeed at anything to the degree where it would provide me a state of being comfortable and being able to retire at an early age. I always felt I would be working at some hum-drum job until the day I dropped over from exhaustion and they would have to carry me away from some conveyor belt or assembly line and that would be my ignominious end.
I doubted that my mother and father respected me as an adult when I became one. I thought, 'They will always see me as their little child and that is part of the reason I am unable to function the way I think I am supposed to at the stage I have reached.'
I doubted that my wife trusted me when I left three different jobs because I needed to try something fresh. Twice I took a hiatus and did temporary work while trying to write the Great American Novel. I have reams of typewritten sheets in desk drawers and can fully understand why my ex-wife does not respect me.
I doubted my son would want to follow in his father's footsteps, but as he did not survive past the age of thirteen that will not be a topic of discussion.
I doubted my daughter would be able to quit taking drugs and stay away from them once and for all. If she is anything like me she will have difficulty completing any kind of twelve-step program. She says she has been clean for the last four years but I know she drinks a bit. No amount of my speaking to her has any effect. She gets on better with her mother, but won't listen to her either.
I doubted my doctor when he advised me to get more exercise, when he told me I was too sedentary, that my cholesterol was too high, and I doubted my eye doctor when he told me that I was in danger of developing glaucoma. I figured he was in league with the optometrist who wanted to sell me glasses. I thought it was strange how once I started wearing them just for reading I seemed to need them more and more of the time. Now I have to wear them to the movies. But I don't go to the movies too often. My doctor says I need to walk more.
I am such a doubter that lately I am having doubts about my doubting. I am trying to use reverse psychology on myself. I figure if I question something it probably is good for me, but then if I think it is good for me I am sure the doctor will tell me it isn't and most of the things I have done in the past have led me to this ornery position I am currently in.
Now I live alone and I write most of the time in the evenings. On the weekends, I see a woman I work with. We go to dinner and maybe once a month, I stay at her place or she stays at mine for a night. Once in a while, the family photo I keep on the bookcase catches my eye. It was taken thirteen years ago. If I think about it, I miss my wife and daughter living here with me. I especially miss my son and sometimes I find myself crying before I realize I've made myself sad. I miss my Mom and Dad. When I get like that and it's not the weekend, not yet time to get together with Evelyn, I sit at the keyboard and try to put my feelings into words.
I'm still trying to write that novel, but I doubt it will ever be finished. All that I've read says you should write about what you know, but nothing exciting ever seems to happen to me.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
One Out of Thousands
One day you'll wake, he had said, and I'll be there. I will take your hand and bring you back with me. Until then you must wait here. You must take care of yourself now and things on this end. I will prepare a place for us there.
She was upset because she thought, he has no control over this. He will go and I will never see him again. This is what she thought at first. Then the dreams came and she lived for the day he would keep his promise.
Days tumbled down and she learned to exist without his physical presence though he was always in her heart. She had a photograph of the two of them at her home in Providence. She had the sketch a woman had made of him at Nantucket. She had a locket with a hank of his hair and she had his signature on a piece of paper. These were things she could touch. These were things to fuel her dreams.
As she aged, her hair turned white. Her skin grew slack and lost its elasticity. Her favorite chair seemed to grow larger. In the photo, they never changed. She worried for some time that if he did keep his promise and she woke one morning she would see the back of him as he realized certain ambitions were unattainable and a handsome young man left a withered old woman alone in her bed.
They'd traveled together to the top of the world. They swam in wonder-filled seas. Together they had mourned the loss of an unborn child. For a dozen years they were inseparable. Then a cancer grew inside him. It possessed him before they knew it existed. She thanked her God for the mercy He bestowed in taking him rapidly before his beauty was ruined. He did not believe in God, and the funny thing was, neither had she before they'd met.
After he was gone, she lit a candle for him once a week. Her fingers brushed the marble rail and she prayed he'd keep his promise.
For many months she woke believing she'd spent dreamless nights. Something must have passed her eyes but nothing came to mind. Then one night he came and spoke to her and reminded her of his intent. She asked him if he now believed in God. He told her he had seen Him. She must not stop believing. When she woke she felt the locket in her hand and looked over at the photograph. It takes a catalyst, she thought.
He came in dreams many times after that. Not every night. No one is so blessed to see their dear departed so frequently, but when the day had made her weary, or she had worried over her finances, or she met an acquaintance who related bad news at the market or on the road, when her arthritis flared or it rained for hours and the sun seemed not to rise, on those nights he came. Mornings after a visit she woke refreshed and thanked her God.
One night many years after he had gone, more lonely years than she could remember, she sat in her enormous chair and recalled a time when the two of them ran laughing on the beach, through the dunes at Provincetown. Bohemians and artists had been their friends. They had been to a party and wine had been served. The night sky was clear and ablaze with stars. He pointed and said, Do you see that one? The one that seems to grow and shrink? She said, Yes, and truly believed she knew which one he meant out of all the thousands to be seen. That one is where we will make our eternal home. Then a friend called them and told them to come back to the party. It was getting cold. They laughed and went behind a dune where he removed her blouse and the cool air made the hairs on her shoulders stand on end. Then she lay in the sand and he on top and inside her raised a fire that delivered her from the chill and over his shoulder she saw her home star beckoning. As she now sat in her chair, she recalled that night more vividly than any that had passed in all the intervening years.
Early next morning, before the sun rose, she woke to a smoky gray sky. She put on a robe and walked to the window. She was looking for a specific star but they were quickly disappearing as the sky began to lighten. She had hoped to see it. But it didn't matter. He knew the way.
She wondered if his hair would still be brown and how she'd look to him, remembering he had told her to take care of herself.
She was upset because she thought, he has no control over this. He will go and I will never see him again. This is what she thought at first. Then the dreams came and she lived for the day he would keep his promise.
Days tumbled down and she learned to exist without his physical presence though he was always in her heart. She had a photograph of the two of them at her home in Providence. She had the sketch a woman had made of him at Nantucket. She had a locket with a hank of his hair and she had his signature on a piece of paper. These were things she could touch. These were things to fuel her dreams.
As she aged, her hair turned white. Her skin grew slack and lost its elasticity. Her favorite chair seemed to grow larger. In the photo, they never changed. She worried for some time that if he did keep his promise and she woke one morning she would see the back of him as he realized certain ambitions were unattainable and a handsome young man left a withered old woman alone in her bed.
They'd traveled together to the top of the world. They swam in wonder-filled seas. Together they had mourned the loss of an unborn child. For a dozen years they were inseparable. Then a cancer grew inside him. It possessed him before they knew it existed. She thanked her God for the mercy He bestowed in taking him rapidly before his beauty was ruined. He did not believe in God, and the funny thing was, neither had she before they'd met.
After he was gone, she lit a candle for him once a week. Her fingers brushed the marble rail and she prayed he'd keep his promise.
For many months she woke believing she'd spent dreamless nights. Something must have passed her eyes but nothing came to mind. Then one night he came and spoke to her and reminded her of his intent. She asked him if he now believed in God. He told her he had seen Him. She must not stop believing. When she woke she felt the locket in her hand and looked over at the photograph. It takes a catalyst, she thought.
He came in dreams many times after that. Not every night. No one is so blessed to see their dear departed so frequently, but when the day had made her weary, or she had worried over her finances, or she met an acquaintance who related bad news at the market or on the road, when her arthritis flared or it rained for hours and the sun seemed not to rise, on those nights he came. Mornings after a visit she woke refreshed and thanked her God.
One night many years after he had gone, more lonely years than she could remember, she sat in her enormous chair and recalled a time when the two of them ran laughing on the beach, through the dunes at Provincetown. Bohemians and artists had been their friends. They had been to a party and wine had been served. The night sky was clear and ablaze with stars. He pointed and said, Do you see that one? The one that seems to grow and shrink? She said, Yes, and truly believed she knew which one he meant out of all the thousands to be seen. That one is where we will make our eternal home. Then a friend called them and told them to come back to the party. It was getting cold. They laughed and went behind a dune where he removed her blouse and the cool air made the hairs on her shoulders stand on end. Then she lay in the sand and he on top and inside her raised a fire that delivered her from the chill and over his shoulder she saw her home star beckoning. As she now sat in her chair, she recalled that night more vividly than any that had passed in all the intervening years.
Early next morning, before the sun rose, she woke to a smoky gray sky. She put on a robe and walked to the window. She was looking for a specific star but they were quickly disappearing as the sky began to lighten. She had hoped to see it. But it didn't matter. He knew the way.
She wondered if his hair would still be brown and how she'd look to him, remembering he had told her to take care of herself.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Rome Wasn't Built in a Day
Len says, I don't get it.
I tell him, You don't have to get it. Just enjoy it for what it is. When I first met you there was something about your eyes that drew me in. I couldn't say for sure what it was but the longer I looked, the less I wanted to leave.
As a matter of fact, I think it was specifically because we didn't hit it off that first time that I knew it was a thing. I frequently place myself in situations like that.
You make me question my own esthetics, he says.
That's not a bad thing, I say. He nods but I think he is annoyed.
Do you think you should always trust your first reaction, I ask. Now he appears baffled.
How do you take step two, if the first one isn't on firm ground?
Interesting people continue to reveal themselves over years.
Are you trying to Gaslight me? Don't try it, he says. I'm not stupid.
I don't think you're stupid at all. At all. Charming was my thought. It's in the sincerity of your smile when you are truly amused. I didn't believe you were aware of how appealing your smile is. Of course, now that I've mentioned it...
Oh, yes, he says, I'm very charming.
A child looking at the sculpture in front of us brings his hand to his lips and giggles. He touches the cool marble as I have done many times. Then he looks at Len and me and he stops giggling but continues to smile.
How charming is this little guy, Len asks and reaches to pat his head but the child walks away and stops with his back to us in front of another sculpture, one of a nude woman.
Touch it, I suggest. It feels cold and yet sensual at the same time. He puts his hand on the nodule shape close to the plinth but his eyes are on the nude in front of the child. If he can "get it" he appreciates it. Some things just take a little time. Years ago I was the same way.
Len smiles and I feel an irresistible urge to plant my lips on his.
Let's go look at some paintings, he says.
I tell him, You don't have to get it. Just enjoy it for what it is. When I first met you there was something about your eyes that drew me in. I couldn't say for sure what it was but the longer I looked, the less I wanted to leave.
As a matter of fact, I think it was specifically because we didn't hit it off that first time that I knew it was a thing. I frequently place myself in situations like that.
You make me question my own esthetics, he says.
That's not a bad thing, I say. He nods but I think he is annoyed.
Do you think you should always trust your first reaction, I ask. Now he appears baffled.
How do you take step two, if the first one isn't on firm ground?
Interesting people continue to reveal themselves over years.
Are you trying to Gaslight me? Don't try it, he says. I'm not stupid.
I don't think you're stupid at all. At all. Charming was my thought. It's in the sincerity of your smile when you are truly amused. I didn't believe you were aware of how appealing your smile is. Of course, now that I've mentioned it...
Oh, yes, he says, I'm very charming.
A child looking at the sculpture in front of us brings his hand to his lips and giggles. He touches the cool marble as I have done many times. Then he looks at Len and me and he stops giggling but continues to smile.
How charming is this little guy, Len asks and reaches to pat his head but the child walks away and stops with his back to us in front of another sculpture, one of a nude woman.
Touch it, I suggest. It feels cold and yet sensual at the same time. He puts his hand on the nodule shape close to the plinth but his eyes are on the nude in front of the child. If he can "get it" he appreciates it. Some things just take a little time. Years ago I was the same way.
Len smiles and I feel an irresistible urge to plant my lips on his.
Let's go look at some paintings, he says.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
HP has me furious
All those complaints, and they do little or nothing about making things right with their customers. Compaq always had a reputation for problems with their products, but they were also known to respond very quickly with solutions or replacements.
Ever since HP took over, they've been cutting corners and offering cheaper machines. What savings occur when you run into problems and are ignored by the company you trusted.
Things change, but not always for the better.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
A Thousand Things You Don't Really Have to Do
How many books and/or stories and/or articles can the well-educated person read in a lifetime? How many films and/or television shows can s/he watch? How many popular songs can one listen to, and appreciate? How many works of art can be viewed? In each case, there must be many thousands, no? But to truly appreciate each piece, to get something from it that you can take away with you, that you want to share with others; how many, really? Every year lists are produced by pundits advising us of the ten best novels or non-fiction titles of the year, the ten best films, the best songs, the best albums, and so forth. Every once in a while, especially at year's end, we get the 100 all-time best. And Dr. Robert Boxall has come up with a book listing the "1001 Books You Must Read Before You Die."
Reading 1001 books of an average of 250 pages per book at an average reading speed of 50 pages per hour would take 625 8 hour days (almost two years of reading 8 hours a day!). That's about five days per book, and many of the books on this list are much longer than 250 pages, but I suppose if it holds your interest, you could finish a four hundred plus page book in a week. I did read the highly anticipated last Harry Potter in two and a half days, but, of course, there are no titles like that on a must-read list. The book 1001 Books… would take 2.4 days to read. Seeing the same amount of films of 90 minutes would likely take a third of the time.
So, depending on the medium chosen, it should not be impossible to set yourself a list to follow to edify your cultural cravings. So many of us enjoy looking at these lists and arguing for inclusion of our favorites. The arguing probably arises from the fact that we have all gone "off-list" and do not want to feel we have wasted time on our path towards enlightenment. However, such guilty pleasures as reading the latest popular bestseller, classified by critics as "no-brow", or getting sidetracked by working one's way through a particular author's oeuvre, or watching campy B-movies, when there are still so many must-sees on our list cannot be avoided unless we approach a project like this in robotic fashion, from which, surely, we will derive little appreciation. More than likely, we will give up or put our list aside "to be worked on during vacation," or when we have more time (?).
Nowadays, with the Internet and its trove of (mis)information available on myriad subjects, there is even more to distract us from such an endeavor than merely fleeting time itself. Still, I buy and store, and dip into, many, many sources for entertainment and edification, and I suppose to discover more about myself. With two bookcases overflowing with unread material, an mp3 player stocked with 1500 songs, thousands more archived on CDs, and more still on my hard drive, five or six year's worth of stories from the New Yorker, and other sources stored electronically along with hundreds of novels, articles culled and categorized in my own precisely detailed filing system from all over the world, and let's not even discuss the two or more films I see every week, thereby missing out on some while consoling myself with, "I'll see it when it comes to DVD," as I look for the latest uploads to YouTube, I think what I've discovered about myself is that I'm an uncultured slob with an overreaching desire to know all. What made me this way? And why does it seem, lately, that time is mocking me?
As a teacher, I've always professed the idea that it is not necessary to memorize everything. It's enough to know how to delve into an information source and find what you need when you need it. I suppose that is behind my collecting habit. But I admit that nothing beats that moment of epiphany when reading, actually reading, a good book, that connection that occurs between your mind and that of the author. This cannot be gleaned through scanning or skimming, nor does it reside in the perusal of a list or a summary. Those epiphanies are necessary to life and learning.
This started out to be a calculation of how many cultural artifacts one could absorb and still have time for actual living, but I was sidetracked. I couldn't remember the name of the author of 1001 Books… and went to look it up. A search led me to Listology, where a link led me to A Vocabulary of Culture, which I discovered is no longer being maintained. So, of course, I had to check out Jahsonic's blog, but not before I looked at one of the articles on dance music and Paradise Garage, where another link led me to Disco-Disco.com, and I felt compelled to reread a comment I had left there two years ago.
All this sidetracking had me reformulating my aim here. I think now it's just a matter of focus. Nobody can learn or know everything. It's just impossible. We can only dip into the well and come up with a handful at a time, and hope it contains a treasure that we can write home about.
Reading 1001 books of an average of 250 pages per book at an average reading speed of 50 pages per hour would take 625 8 hour days (almost two years of reading 8 hours a day!). That's about five days per book, and many of the books on this list are much longer than 250 pages, but I suppose if it holds your interest, you could finish a four hundred plus page book in a week. I did read the highly anticipated last Harry Potter in two and a half days, but, of course, there are no titles like that on a must-read list. The book 1001 Books… would take 2.4 days to read. Seeing the same amount of films of 90 minutes would likely take a third of the time.
So, depending on the medium chosen, it should not be impossible to set yourself a list to follow to edify your cultural cravings. So many of us enjoy looking at these lists and arguing for inclusion of our favorites. The arguing probably arises from the fact that we have all gone "off-list" and do not want to feel we have wasted time on our path towards enlightenment. However, such guilty pleasures as reading the latest popular bestseller, classified by critics as "no-brow", or getting sidetracked by working one's way through a particular author's oeuvre, or watching campy B-movies, when there are still so many must-sees on our list cannot be avoided unless we approach a project like this in robotic fashion, from which, surely, we will derive little appreciation. More than likely, we will give up or put our list aside "to be worked on during vacation," or when we have more time (?).
Nowadays, with the Internet and its trove of (mis)information available on myriad subjects, there is even more to distract us from such an endeavor than merely fleeting time itself. Still, I buy and store, and dip into, many, many sources for entertainment and edification, and I suppose to discover more about myself. With two bookcases overflowing with unread material, an mp3 player stocked with 1500 songs, thousands more archived on CDs, and more still on my hard drive, five or six year's worth of stories from the New Yorker, and other sources stored electronically along with hundreds of novels, articles culled and categorized in my own precisely detailed filing system from all over the world, and let's not even discuss the two or more films I see every week, thereby missing out on some while consoling myself with, "I'll see it when it comes to DVD," as I look for the latest uploads to YouTube, I think what I've discovered about myself is that I'm an uncultured slob with an overreaching desire to know all. What made me this way? And why does it seem, lately, that time is mocking me?
As a teacher, I've always professed the idea that it is not necessary to memorize everything. It's enough to know how to delve into an information source and find what you need when you need it. I suppose that is behind my collecting habit. But I admit that nothing beats that moment of epiphany when reading, actually reading, a good book, that connection that occurs between your mind and that of the author. This cannot be gleaned through scanning or skimming, nor does it reside in the perusal of a list or a summary. Those epiphanies are necessary to life and learning.
This started out to be a calculation of how many cultural artifacts one could absorb and still have time for actual living, but I was sidetracked. I couldn't remember the name of the author of 1001 Books… and went to look it up. A search led me to Listology, where a link led me to A Vocabulary of Culture, which I discovered is no longer being maintained. So, of course, I had to check out Jahsonic's blog, but not before I looked at one of the articles on dance music and Paradise Garage, where another link led me to Disco-Disco.com, and I felt compelled to reread a comment I had left there two years ago.
All this sidetracking had me reformulating my aim here. I think now it's just a matter of focus. Nobody can learn or know everything. It's just impossible. We can only dip into the well and come up with a handful at a time, and hope it contains a treasure that we can write home about.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Independence Day
Yes, we're going up on Marco's roof later to watch the fireworks, she was shouting. We're by the marina now, waiting for the big boats to pass. Yeah, it's packed. I think they opened it to the general public just a little while ago.
When we came down this morning, oh, that's a lie, we actually got up around noon, but when we came down around two, I said to Freddy we were lucky to have these tickets. When they let us through, there were only about twenty people on the plaza. We had the place all to ourselves.
Okay, I'll bring the beer and some chips. I gotta stop off and get an anniversary gift for Anna and Bob first then I'm gonna hop on a train and we'll be up.
Wait for us and we'll all go to Marco's together, okay? 'Kay, see ya. By-ee.
She clicked off.
Okay, now that was Marco and Anna and Kieron. Who else was there?
Oh, right. My dad. Hold on Freddy, let me call my dad. I'll just be another few minutes.
I made a low vertical gesture as if to say, yeah, it's all right take your time, but also hoping she might take it as a subtle hint to lower her voice.
She dialed and started hollering to her dad.
I wanted to smack her off side the head and say to her, Why are you speaking so loudly? There aren't that many people right here near us. You've been on the phone for the last half hour. I thought we came here first because we wanted some time alone together before joining the others. I thought you agreed watching tall ships would be a romantic thing to do. I thought you would be quiet for a little while, or at least speak to me if your lips must be flapping.
I waved and indicated I was going to get a drink. I motioned Do you want something to drink? She waved as if to dismiss me. Words were directed electronically toward others. And they were all hers. We were reduced to communicating in a sort of pidgin signing.
I left her on the plaza, talking to her dad. I walked towards the restaurant with the outdoor tables, went into the restaurant, used the men's room then left through a different door. I walked about four blocks up along the river and found a place by the railing where I could stand and quietly watch the ships as they passed. I thought, let her find her own way to Marco's. Maybe I would see her there later. Or maybe I wouldn't. I hadn't made up my mind.
She was speaking so loudly on that new cell phone.
Fourth of July. I was feeling very independent. I thought now I'll do what I feel like doing, but I couldn't really make a firm decision. It was very quiet. I stood and waited for the tall ships for what seemed like hours.
When we came down this morning, oh, that's a lie, we actually got up around noon, but when we came down around two, I said to Freddy we were lucky to have these tickets. When they let us through, there were only about twenty people on the plaza. We had the place all to ourselves.
Okay, I'll bring the beer and some chips. I gotta stop off and get an anniversary gift for Anna and Bob first then I'm gonna hop on a train and we'll be up.
Wait for us and we'll all go to Marco's together, okay? 'Kay, see ya. By-ee.
She clicked off.
Okay, now that was Marco and Anna and Kieron. Who else was there?
Oh, right. My dad. Hold on Freddy, let me call my dad. I'll just be another few minutes.
I made a low vertical gesture as if to say, yeah, it's all right take your time, but also hoping she might take it as a subtle hint to lower her voice.
She dialed and started hollering to her dad.
I wanted to smack her off side the head and say to her, Why are you speaking so loudly? There aren't that many people right here near us. You've been on the phone for the last half hour. I thought we came here first because we wanted some time alone together before joining the others. I thought you agreed watching tall ships would be a romantic thing to do. I thought you would be quiet for a little while, or at least speak to me if your lips must be flapping.
I waved and indicated I was going to get a drink. I motioned Do you want something to drink? She waved as if to dismiss me. Words were directed electronically toward others. And they were all hers. We were reduced to communicating in a sort of pidgin signing.
I left her on the plaza, talking to her dad. I walked towards the restaurant with the outdoor tables, went into the restaurant, used the men's room then left through a different door. I walked about four blocks up along the river and found a place by the railing where I could stand and quietly watch the ships as they passed. I thought, let her find her own way to Marco's. Maybe I would see her there later. Or maybe I wouldn't. I hadn't made up my mind.
She was speaking so loudly on that new cell phone.
Fourth of July. I was feeling very independent. I thought now I'll do what I feel like doing, but I couldn't really make a firm decision. It was very quiet. I stood and waited for the tall ships for what seemed like hours.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Summer Eases In
The teachers' course went well. It's all over except for the final exam on Monday. This time I made up a lot of Powerpoint presentations and realized how much time it saves in not having to write things out on the board. But in order not to have the slide all plain and vanilla flavored, it takes quite a bit of time to put together a little show that moves and zings.
No plans yet for my break in July. Would really like to travel, but it's currently out of the budget. In lieu of something exotic, perhaps I can get some time by a pool and finish the Bolaño book.
Have seen quite a few movies, some awful - like M. Night Shamylan's The Happening, some okay - like Get Smart, and a really enjoyable one with Audrey Tatou. Been listening to Israeli pop music, and watching Madonna age. Gathering resources for next semester. Getting bored and tired doing very little.
Missing things and people. Some people especially.
It feels the way it feels during the Christmas season, or like a constant string of Sunday nights. Where's this summer I keep hearing about?
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Chain
What else can go wrong? Or is this the turning point at mid-day?
Woke up a little late and soon discovered there was no water to shave or shower with. Attempting to turn on the "bomb", I learned it was not working.
Called in to the Coordinator to tell her I'd be late and she reminded me there were many last minute things to take care of before my trips this weekend to Tapachula and then to Monterrey, and this being the end of semester, these chores have an urgency to them. I said I'd try to get to work very soon, but knew I'd be somewhat late for having to look for a plumber.
Shaved and washed with a bucket of water directly from the cistern. There were gnat corpses floating in it and the bucket (the only one available) hadn't been used since housepainting, months ago, so it was a distasteful process, and not at all refreshing.
Friend Á drove us around looking for the plumber, and the third stop promised to be successful. Someone would be there in a little while. Á said he'd take me to school, and go back to take the plumber to the house, but first we'd have to stop and get money from an ATM to be able to pay for his services, and Á also needed some gas. Of course, the usually reliable cash machine in the Extra near the gas station was out of order today, so we turned round and headed back to the machine near the other Tec, which had a queue. Last option, head for the plaza and the ATMs beside the bank. At each of these stops he made, I noticed Á dutifully buckled his seatbelt.
Got the money, and back on the road toward school, now quite late.
This time the transit police were diverting traffic and pulling over the odd motorist for... not having seatbelts on, and wouldn't you know, the one time someone had forgotten to buckle up... Á got a summons for $200 (but actually for not carrying his papers which the transit guy asked for after stopping him for the seatbelt oversight).
Á laughed as if he couldn't care less, but there was an edge of something else in his laugh. He dropped me off at school and said he'd go back and take care of the plumber, who, he told me later, got angry for having to wait too long and left. Á hunted down another guy who said he'd come to the house.
Meanwhile, after arriving late and in a grouchy mood, something I said chased away a student who needed to take his final exam. The system would not accept changes necessary to a student's record in order to prevent her from missing her graduation. I couldn't locate a chart necessary to evaluate the final averages of a certain group, nor could I find the student whom I had sent running. I also had to make the arrangements about the trip. Should it be a zig-zag thing between the two destinations, or could some of the zag be cut out? I was advised I'd be flying up to my course directly after administering the exam rather than returning and flying out from here.
At about 3:30, I had resolved several of the items on my agenda, though the touchy system still required one and only one particular signature to authorize the change for the graduating student.
I called Á, who told me a plumber had fixed the bomb for a nominal charge and water was running again. However, while we were speaking, he told me water was running down the stairs. He'd overcompensated to fill the empty tank on the roof and had left the bomb running a little too long. The water overflowed and came out through the television cable vent, flooding the upstairs hallway.
I finished my cigarette (during the standard "Character's Reflective Delay") and returned to my office to get Rodrigo's signature. Servicios escolares says they will handle the rest of the changes.
So let's see... $350 for the plumber, $200 for the traffic summons, and water damage in the house. Although the school is paying a fortune for the trip, I am sure I'll be spending additional money there, but I think, with fingers crossed that the day from hell is drawing to a close. Would love to relax and do nothing this evening, but have to plan out the material for the teachers' summer Intermediate English course.
Woke up a little late and soon discovered there was no water to shave or shower with. Attempting to turn on the "bomb", I learned it was not working.
Called in to the Coordinator to tell her I'd be late and she reminded me there were many last minute things to take care of before my trips this weekend to Tapachula and then to Monterrey, and this being the end of semester, these chores have an urgency to them. I said I'd try to get to work very soon, but knew I'd be somewhat late for having to look for a plumber.
Shaved and washed with a bucket of water directly from the cistern. There were gnat corpses floating in it and the bucket (the only one available) hadn't been used since housepainting, months ago, so it was a distasteful process, and not at all refreshing.
Friend Á drove us around looking for the plumber, and the third stop promised to be successful. Someone would be there in a little while. Á said he'd take me to school, and go back to take the plumber to the house, but first we'd have to stop and get money from an ATM to be able to pay for his services, and Á also needed some gas. Of course, the usually reliable cash machine in the Extra near the gas station was out of order today, so we turned round and headed back to the machine near the other Tec, which had a queue. Last option, head for the plaza and the ATMs beside the bank. At each of these stops he made, I noticed Á dutifully buckled his seatbelt.
Got the money, and back on the road toward school, now quite late.
This time the transit police were diverting traffic and pulling over the odd motorist for... not having seatbelts on, and wouldn't you know, the one time someone had forgotten to buckle up... Á got a summons for $200 (but actually for not carrying his papers which the transit guy asked for after stopping him for the seatbelt oversight).
Á laughed as if he couldn't care less, but there was an edge of something else in his laugh. He dropped me off at school and said he'd go back and take care of the plumber, who, he told me later, got angry for having to wait too long and left. Á hunted down another guy who said he'd come to the house.
Meanwhile, after arriving late and in a grouchy mood, something I said chased away a student who needed to take his final exam. The system would not accept changes necessary to a student's record in order to prevent her from missing her graduation. I couldn't locate a chart necessary to evaluate the final averages of a certain group, nor could I find the student whom I had sent running. I also had to make the arrangements about the trip. Should it be a zig-zag thing between the two destinations, or could some of the zag be cut out? I was advised I'd be flying up to my course directly after administering the exam rather than returning and flying out from here.
At about 3:30, I had resolved several of the items on my agenda, though the touchy system still required one and only one particular signature to authorize the change for the graduating student.
I called Á, who told me a plumber had fixed the bomb for a nominal charge and water was running again. However, while we were speaking, he told me water was running down the stairs. He'd overcompensated to fill the empty tank on the roof and had left the bomb running a little too long. The water overflowed and came out through the television cable vent, flooding the upstairs hallway.
I finished my cigarette (during the standard "Character's Reflective Delay") and returned to my office to get Rodrigo's signature. Servicios escolares says they will handle the rest of the changes.
So let's see... $350 for the plumber, $200 for the traffic summons, and water damage in the house. Although the school is paying a fortune for the trip, I am sure I'll be spending additional money there, but I think, with fingers crossed that the day from hell is drawing to a close. Would love to relax and do nothing this evening, but have to plan out the material for the teachers' summer Intermediate English course.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Closer
Well, today was the last day of semester 13. Grades are in. Time to start thinking about the summer session.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Open Window
The boy lay bathed in sweat on his bed, awake. Water covered every inch of his body, and as he lay there in only his briefs there was nothing to absorb the flood of perspiration. His hair was matted and soaked. The sheet was sticking to his back every time he moved.
His eyes were red and swollen. In desperate need of sleep, he closed them a few times and tried to rest, but he was too uncomfortable. Something was making his brain itch. Something would not let him sleep.
He was alone in the apartment, but he had been alone many times before. Nothing so simple as being by himself should irritate him. It shouldn't. He tried to think of something else.
People were passing in the street below and adding to the din of Harbor Avenue. It was late, but quite a few were out and about, but as he heard them milling below, it reminded him of his being alone and he had to turn to something else. He picked up a paperback book and began reading a dog-earred page, but soon he remembered it was a murder mystery. That would never do. He tossed it on the bureau.
God! He was sweating buckets! He knew he should open a window or two, but it was his wont to keep every one closed and locked. The doors were locked also. He dabbed at his neck and face with a damp handkerchief. It didn't do much good so he took a clean one from one of the drawers in the bureau. Hundred and thirty-nine dollars that bureau had cost on a Labor Day sale. It looked like crap. He was sweating and the wood felt sticky.
Still searching for something to do, he picked up a comic magazine. It was light-hearted enough, but when he finished with it, he realized there were no more lying around.
He lay down again on the sweat-soaked sheet and closed his eyes, but it was useless. He could not sleep. Something would not let him. He did not, as a rule, suffer from insomnia, and could find no rationale for this perverse sleeplessness. He could say it was too hot and there was little air circulating in the room, but he had fallen asleep under these conditions many times before. He could say he was overtired, and the room was not dark enough, and there was the din in the street, but these things also he had hitherto conquered.
He sat up again and turned on the radio on the night table. Out came a song he had heard many, many times before. Listlessly, he lay there and let the words drone through his head:
Ahm gonna give ya mah love, girl,
Gonna let it fly in through yer window.
Ahm gonna make love to you...
Suddenly, it came to him. He had certainly locked the doors as soon as his folks went out, front door and back, and shut the windows, but he was not quite sure about the window in the kitchen, at the other end of the apartment. True, he could not feel any breeze blowing through the apartment, but it did not settle his mind. He was afraid to leave his room to check on it, but he knew he would not be able to fall asleep until he did. Well, then, he thought, he would just stay awake until the folks came home. When Mama and Frank got in they would open most of the windows, but that would be all right because the three of them would all be there in case anyone ever tried to break in or something.
No! He couldn't stay awake until that late. Besides, they might be tipsy. He should be asleep when they came in.
Why should he be so paranoid about an open window? That was silly, right? To prove to himself how silly he was being torturing himself in this dreadful heat, he opened his bedroom window a few inches, opened it a crack as Frank would sometimes say.
He could hear noises from the pier and sounds of people below on Harbor Avenue more clearly.
Then he thought, sure, this is fine. There's nothing outside this window but the street. There was a fire escape leading up to the one in the kitchen, and it came up from a dark back yard.
He must get up and close it or he would never fall asleep. He was afraid. Afraid enough to feel a chill, a chill which, even in this heat, was not welcome. All he had to do was go out and close it quickly, twist the lock and go back to bed. That was all. Then he could even open his bedroom window all the way. That was safe enough. There was no fire escape out there.
Slowly, he crept through his doorway to the sitting room, and from there, slowly, ever so slowly, through three more rooms to the doorway of the kitchen.
He stood there looking across the room at the window. It was wide open. The short cafe curtains were fluttering in the slight breeze, which he could now feel hitting his bare chest, making the short hairs of puberty stand on end. He felt a sickening sensation inside that adolescent chest.
Breath held fast, he strode across the room and stood before the window, ramshackle window, cheap curtains, slightly soiled and billowing carelessly.
Why had he felt so frightened? God! He felt like such a wimp!
Oh, well, might as well get it over with. It was best to play it safe anyway. He was not afraid anymore, but he thought, with a fire escape outside, this one window should be kept closed, and yes, maybe locked also.
He reached up, put both hands on the window to bring it down, and then it happened. A man stepped out of the darkness where he had been standing and stared open-eyed into the boy's face.
Slowly, the boy's fingers lost all their feeling and his legs wouldn't hold him up. His vision blackened and he fainted dead away, crumpling in a heap on the floor in front of the window.
His eyes were red and swollen. In desperate need of sleep, he closed them a few times and tried to rest, but he was too uncomfortable. Something was making his brain itch. Something would not let him sleep.
He was alone in the apartment, but he had been alone many times before. Nothing so simple as being by himself should irritate him. It shouldn't. He tried to think of something else.
People were passing in the street below and adding to the din of Harbor Avenue. It was late, but quite a few were out and about, but as he heard them milling below, it reminded him of his being alone and he had to turn to something else. He picked up a paperback book and began reading a dog-earred page, but soon he remembered it was a murder mystery. That would never do. He tossed it on the bureau.
God! He was sweating buckets! He knew he should open a window or two, but it was his wont to keep every one closed and locked. The doors were locked also. He dabbed at his neck and face with a damp handkerchief. It didn't do much good so he took a clean one from one of the drawers in the bureau. Hundred and thirty-nine dollars that bureau had cost on a Labor Day sale. It looked like crap. He was sweating and the wood felt sticky.
Still searching for something to do, he picked up a comic magazine. It was light-hearted enough, but when he finished with it, he realized there were no more lying around.
He lay down again on the sweat-soaked sheet and closed his eyes, but it was useless. He could not sleep. Something would not let him. He did not, as a rule, suffer from insomnia, and could find no rationale for this perverse sleeplessness. He could say it was too hot and there was little air circulating in the room, but he had fallen asleep under these conditions many times before. He could say he was overtired, and the room was not dark enough, and there was the din in the street, but these things also he had hitherto conquered.
He sat up again and turned on the radio on the night table. Out came a song he had heard many, many times before. Listlessly, he lay there and let the words drone through his head:
Ahm gonna give ya mah love, girl,
Gonna let it fly in through yer window.
Ahm gonna make love to you...
Suddenly, it came to him. He had certainly locked the doors as soon as his folks went out, front door and back, and shut the windows, but he was not quite sure about the window in the kitchen, at the other end of the apartment. True, he could not feel any breeze blowing through the apartment, but it did not settle his mind. He was afraid to leave his room to check on it, but he knew he would not be able to fall asleep until he did. Well, then, he thought, he would just stay awake until the folks came home. When Mama and Frank got in they would open most of the windows, but that would be all right because the three of them would all be there in case anyone ever tried to break in or something.
No! He couldn't stay awake until that late. Besides, they might be tipsy. He should be asleep when they came in.
Why should he be so paranoid about an open window? That was silly, right? To prove to himself how silly he was being torturing himself in this dreadful heat, he opened his bedroom window a few inches, opened it a crack as Frank would sometimes say.
He could hear noises from the pier and sounds of people below on Harbor Avenue more clearly.
Then he thought, sure, this is fine. There's nothing outside this window but the street. There was a fire escape leading up to the one in the kitchen, and it came up from a dark back yard.
He must get up and close it or he would never fall asleep. He was afraid. Afraid enough to feel a chill, a chill which, even in this heat, was not welcome. All he had to do was go out and close it quickly, twist the lock and go back to bed. That was all. Then he could even open his bedroom window all the way. That was safe enough. There was no fire escape out there.
Slowly, he crept through his doorway to the sitting room, and from there, slowly, ever so slowly, through three more rooms to the doorway of the kitchen.
He stood there looking across the room at the window. It was wide open. The short cafe curtains were fluttering in the slight breeze, which he could now feel hitting his bare chest, making the short hairs of puberty stand on end. He felt a sickening sensation inside that adolescent chest.
Breath held fast, he strode across the room and stood before the window, ramshackle window, cheap curtains, slightly soiled and billowing carelessly.
Why had he felt so frightened? God! He felt like such a wimp!
Oh, well, might as well get it over with. It was best to play it safe anyway. He was not afraid anymore, but he thought, with a fire escape outside, this one window should be kept closed, and yes, maybe locked also.
He reached up, put both hands on the window to bring it down, and then it happened. A man stepped out of the darkness where he had been standing and stared open-eyed into the boy's face.
Slowly, the boy's fingers lost all their feeling and his legs wouldn't hold him up. His vision blackened and he fainted dead away, crumpling in a heap on the floor in front of the window.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
Blackboard Updated
Well, it seems our platform is going to be updated before the next semester begins. We received an announcement that we're moving up to Version 7.3. We're only a little behind. In researching, I see the app is up to Version 8, which looks quite different from what we're using currently. I really enjoy working with BB because you only have to take care of things once and then the system grades and maintains the work so it can be reused each semester, but of course students find things to complain about.
The brightest always seem to be able to log in, do their assignments, and log out without any issues, while the (for lack of a softer description) slackers always have problems. "I couldn't finish the quiz. The system locked me out." "I finished the quiz, but I didn't get the correct grade!" And we don't even make use of adaptive release. If there were criteria to be met before being able to proceed, it would probably cause more problems than the teachers have time to handle.
MacMillan's English Campus (MEC) was not popular with the students, even though the exercises were relatively easy. I think because it worked too well at what it was supposed to do. I love all my students (when I run into them at the mall, that is.), but very few show innovation or enthusiasm, and most just go through the motions. Was I like that at their age? It was so long ago, I don't remember.
To give an idea of how long ago that was - I remember one semester, early in the term, when our English teacher predicted that a song just beginning to get airplay on the radio (remember when the major source of music was the radio?) would be a big hit before the term's end. The song she was referring to was "Light My Fire" by The Doors!!!
Anyway, it's a new era. Now we work online so much. Back then, there wasn't even a line to be on. And so, Blackboard is being updated. I'm looking forward to the changes, but not the excuses. By the way, I've been listening to a lot of indy music, and I predict...oh, nevermind, I never get this right.
What's Happening at The Office?
The latest episode just wasn't funny. Everyone except Pam and Jim showed their mean side. Ryan was the worst. He's become so nasty since his promotion. I suppose later the writers will try to convince us that his coke problem brought out his nastier nature, but after seeing everyone scratching at the walls like that, who cares?.
Discussing this with a friend, we came to the conclusion that this fourth season should be scratched when the show goes into syndication, except for maybe the dinner party episode which was pretty funny.
Having seen all of the British version, most of which made me cringe, I thought the Americans had made the comedy way more palatable. Now, I'm not so sure.
Anyway, I'll keep watching for a while, and hope things come around to where they were, character-wise.
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Some Interesting Sites Noted
Check out what Emily Jo Cureton has done by illustrating some of the words she finds each day in the crossword puzzle in the New York Times. New York Times Crossword Drawings. Her work and that of many more illustrators is featured on Drawn! The Illustration and Cartooning Blog.
Watch some Brickfilms. Not sure what they are? They're video clips made with Lego (usually parodies of cinema films). You can find loads of them on YouTube or you can search the source at Brickfilms.com.
For insightful reviews of new (and some older) movies visit Cinematronics by Álvaro. His reviews are en español. I find myself agreeing with his viewpoint more times than not.
To hear the latest indy music being made (also accompanied by insightful reviews) visit Ryan's Smashing Life.
Lifehacker presents hundreds of tips and tricks for you to try out on your computer, and they offer many helpful hints on how to give new life to things around the house that you might have been thinking of throwing away. You can also find Free Download of the Day here, wherein you get to try out software, sometimes fully functioning versions that are given away on a time-limited basis. You have to act quick or lose opportunities.
BigThink is an ambitious online project that brings together the views of experts from a range of different fields across the world and enables users the opportunity to interact and make their own contributions with an easy-to-use and accessible interface.
I have all of these sites on an RSS feed so I am constantly made aware of updates. My aggregator is Bloglines. You should check it out and sign up for free. There's nothing to download, but whenever you sign on, you can find all your favorite blogs and news in one place. I used to waste hours surfing all over the 'Net for interesting information. Now I just spend a couple of hours poring over my growing list of favorite sites.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
If the devil only knew...
April 23rd, 2008
Rating:
Before the Devil Knows You're Dead
This was a finely made, riveting movie. Some reviewers in the NY Times Readers' Reviews say the scene on the porch between father and son didn't add much, or has been done better before, but for this viewer it was a gratifying explication for the motives which began the terrible events here related. This was the kind of thing missing from such highly rated (and Oscar-rewarded) stories as There Will Be Blood and No Country For Old Men. When those films were over I did leave the theater wondering why such pathological characters were the focus of our current crop of "great story-telling movies." Unexplained motivation leaves me cold.
In Before the Devil... Lumet has not missed a beat. Everything we need to know to be involved in these characters' tales is included. Sterling performances by all in an excellent display of cinematography, from Amy Ryan's few scenes up through the histrionics of Hoffman and Finney. Pooh to anyone who finds fault in this film, and Coen brothers, take a lesson in how to involve your audience in caring about dysfunctional characters. It's not enough to just be quirky and photograph it beautifully. It helps a lot to include even a small scene supplying motivation.
- michaelbrown7
Saturday, April 19, 2008
The Last Lesson
Dear Haojun:
Thanks for your nice letter. I can tell from your tone China is very excited about the return of Macao. I hope the transfer is as smooth as that of Hong Kong. You seem all caught up in the festivities and they seem less worrisome than the Y2K business and millennium madness we are experiencing over here. I wonder how you are doing vis-à-vis computer problems. We have not exchanged e-mail in quite some time.
It has been a long time since we last communicated. I know you have been very busy redecorating your new home. It must be coming along beautifully. Perhaps you can send me a photo.
Let me tell you why I have not written. Just as you are trying to improve your English, I have been trying to better my writing abilities in my native language. As I told you before mostly I write fiction. There is much need for improvement if I wish to capture a readership. I wish I had the abilities of our mutual favorite Lu Xun, but that is another story.
I signed up for a six-week online writing course and have made many new friends. Each lesson required us to approach the craft of fiction writing from a specific perspective. One week we had to pretend to be one of our characters so as to introduce ourselves to each other. I found it difficult trying to discover my own personality as if looking at myself from the outside. Another time we had to focus on point of view and how to use it to tell a story. For that one, I wrote the assignment three times before I settled on telling it in the second person. I wrote, "You say..." and "You go..." as if I were telling the character what to do. It was critiqued positively so I guess the rewrites paid off. And once, we had to interview one of the characters we'd created as if he or she were applying for a job in our stories. That piece took me a while before I settled on a magazine type interview wherein I pretended the reporter wanted to speak to "the man on the street" rather than a celebrity.
Each week I struggled along slowly and painstakingly trying to get better at the craft. However, this last lesson I found most difficult of all. It was concerned with conflict, complications and plot. How to build to a crisis and then resolve it. And I was at a loss. My conflict was I could not come up with a plot I liked well enough to post and perhaps develop later as I go into further courses.
My friend John suggested I use the tension filled story I wrote about the boy and the unlocked window, but I had written it so long ago, I found it sophomoric. I really felt uncomfortable using any of my very early writing.
Then he advised me to use two characters who have been floating around in my head for a long time without a story, but as I explained to him, they don’t have a story yet. They are just colorful characters without conflicts of their own. I need to think up some interesting situations to place them in, but for this exercise I was drawing a blank.
I thought of writing to you to ask for help with something that would seem exotic to my friends over here, but there wasn’t enough time and besides, many of the online students are not from America, so if I wrote of something I was unsure of I would just look foolish.
What to do? What to do? Time was running out.
I came up with a plan, which I am not proud to tell you. I cobbled together an unbelievable labyrinthine plot from a book I purchased a very long time ago. It wasn’t much help back then and I should have known better than to try to make it work for me now, but I was desperate to end this course with a completed assignment. I used the book’s suggestion to string together little bits of action that were supposed to coalesce into a complicated tale of vengeance. What I wound up with was a tepid second rate murder mystery and it was so badly put together and underdeveloped, it read more like a summary than a story. As the final day approached and no other ideas were forthcoming, I threw up my hands in exasperation and went ahead and posted my work.
I regretted my action immediately.
As was to be expected, it was met with a lukewarm reception. We critique each other’s work and a few of my fellow students said some kind things, but most, including my mentor, made it clear they did not think it was my best work. They were right.
I was ashamed. It’s only a writing course, you might say, and there is always tomorrow to do better. It’s true, but my pride would not allow me to let this hodgepodge represent me in my final assignment of my freshman course. I was not being true to myself, and so, I deleted it from the postings. Now, I had nothing to represent me.
What to do?
I went out to take a walk to clear my thoughts and saw all the signs of the coming millennium celebration. I also saw a dead pigeon in the street. It made me heartsick to think of how many hours flying the poor useless creature had put in to arrive nowhere, and here it was, a pile of crumpled feathers someone had brushed off the sidewalk into the street.
When I returned to my apartment building, your letter was waiting for me and it made me feel so much better. Every time we communicate, I realize how big this world is and how insignificant some of my “problems” are.
I read your letter and like a flash, I came up with an idea and must run now to re-post my final assignment. I realize where the conflict is and how it could be resolved. I must thank you for writing and unknowingly helping me to see what was under my nose all the time.
Thank you very much for the stamps and the magazine clippings.
Please extend my greetings to your mother and the rest of your family.
I will write to you again soon now that this course is finishing up and I will have some free time.
Your friend,
Michael
Thanks for your nice letter. I can tell from your tone China is very excited about the return of Macao. I hope the transfer is as smooth as that of Hong Kong. You seem all caught up in the festivities and they seem less worrisome than the Y2K business and millennium madness we are experiencing over here. I wonder how you are doing vis-à-vis computer problems. We have not exchanged e-mail in quite some time.
It has been a long time since we last communicated. I know you have been very busy redecorating your new home. It must be coming along beautifully. Perhaps you can send me a photo.
Let me tell you why I have not written. Just as you are trying to improve your English, I have been trying to better my writing abilities in my native language. As I told you before mostly I write fiction. There is much need for improvement if I wish to capture a readership. I wish I had the abilities of our mutual favorite Lu Xun, but that is another story.
I signed up for a six-week online writing course and have made many new friends. Each lesson required us to approach the craft of fiction writing from a specific perspective. One week we had to pretend to be one of our characters so as to introduce ourselves to each other. I found it difficult trying to discover my own personality as if looking at myself from the outside. Another time we had to focus on point of view and how to use it to tell a story. For that one, I wrote the assignment three times before I settled on telling it in the second person. I wrote, "You say..." and "You go..." as if I were telling the character what to do. It was critiqued positively so I guess the rewrites paid off. And once, we had to interview one of the characters we'd created as if he or she were applying for a job in our stories. That piece took me a while before I settled on a magazine type interview wherein I pretended the reporter wanted to speak to "the man on the street" rather than a celebrity.
Each week I struggled along slowly and painstakingly trying to get better at the craft. However, this last lesson I found most difficult of all. It was concerned with conflict, complications and plot. How to build to a crisis and then resolve it. And I was at a loss. My conflict was I could not come up with a plot I liked well enough to post and perhaps develop later as I go into further courses.
My friend John suggested I use the tension filled story I wrote about the boy and the unlocked window, but I had written it so long ago, I found it sophomoric. I really felt uncomfortable using any of my very early writing.
Then he advised me to use two characters who have been floating around in my head for a long time without a story, but as I explained to him, they don’t have a story yet. They are just colorful characters without conflicts of their own. I need to think up some interesting situations to place them in, but for this exercise I was drawing a blank.
I thought of writing to you to ask for help with something that would seem exotic to my friends over here, but there wasn’t enough time and besides, many of the online students are not from America, so if I wrote of something I was unsure of I would just look foolish.
What to do? What to do? Time was running out.
I came up with a plan, which I am not proud to tell you. I cobbled together an unbelievable labyrinthine plot from a book I purchased a very long time ago. It wasn’t much help back then and I should have known better than to try to make it work for me now, but I was desperate to end this course with a completed assignment. I used the book’s suggestion to string together little bits of action that were supposed to coalesce into a complicated tale of vengeance. What I wound up with was a tepid second rate murder mystery and it was so badly put together and underdeveloped, it read more like a summary than a story. As the final day approached and no other ideas were forthcoming, I threw up my hands in exasperation and went ahead and posted my work.
I regretted my action immediately.
As was to be expected, it was met with a lukewarm reception. We critique each other’s work and a few of my fellow students said some kind things, but most, including my mentor, made it clear they did not think it was my best work. They were right.
I was ashamed. It’s only a writing course, you might say, and there is always tomorrow to do better. It’s true, but my pride would not allow me to let this hodgepodge represent me in my final assignment of my freshman course. I was not being true to myself, and so, I deleted it from the postings. Now, I had nothing to represent me.
What to do?
I went out to take a walk to clear my thoughts and saw all the signs of the coming millennium celebration. I also saw a dead pigeon in the street. It made me heartsick to think of how many hours flying the poor useless creature had put in to arrive nowhere, and here it was, a pile of crumpled feathers someone had brushed off the sidewalk into the street.
When I returned to my apartment building, your letter was waiting for me and it made me feel so much better. Every time we communicate, I realize how big this world is and how insignificant some of my “problems” are.
I read your letter and like a flash, I came up with an idea and must run now to re-post my final assignment. I realize where the conflict is and how it could be resolved. I must thank you for writing and unknowingly helping me to see what was under my nose all the time.
Thank you very much for the stamps and the magazine clippings.
Please extend my greetings to your mother and the rest of your family.
I will write to you again soon now that this course is finishing up and I will have some free time.
Your friend,
Michael
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Saturday, March 29, 2008
The What-If Factor
Ineradicable cobwebs fill the corners of my life.
The ghosts of things that might have been haunt me though they haven't.
In my dream, we said some terrible things -
No, I take that back,
I said some awful things to you -
Hate-filled words, untake-backable words,
And left you in confusion
Wondering what you'd done.
Then I walked through fire -
Returning to a past which had not, could not happen.
I took the consolation you deserved for myself,
In the arms of someone who no longer was there.
After thinking how good it felt, I realized it could not last.
It was a chimera.
I saw clearly I'd given away the present for a past I could not reclaim
And thus, my future was obliterated.
When you woke me and you were still real,
For a brief moment there was relief,
But then I noticed cobwebs
Constructed of motes of sadness
And felt the heat of the coming fire.
Somewhere in this there's a formula for figuring probability.
Somewhere there's a path to get to the average mean.
There's the murk of the future and the bottleneck of the recent past
And glorious worlds at either end,
But I'm stuck in between.
The ghosts of things that might have been haunt me though they haven't.
In my dream, we said some terrible things -
No, I take that back,
I said some awful things to you -
Hate-filled words, untake-backable words,
And left you in confusion
Wondering what you'd done.
Then I walked through fire -
Returning to a past which had not, could not happen.
I took the consolation you deserved for myself,
In the arms of someone who no longer was there.
After thinking how good it felt, I realized it could not last.
It was a chimera.
I saw clearly I'd given away the present for a past I could not reclaim
And thus, my future was obliterated.
When you woke me and you were still real,
For a brief moment there was relief,
But then I noticed cobwebs
Constructed of motes of sadness
And felt the heat of the coming fire.
Somewhere in this there's a formula for figuring probability.
Somewhere there's a path to get to the average mean.
There's the murk of the future and the bottleneck of the recent past
And glorious worlds at either end,
But I'm stuck in between.
Friday, March 14, 2008
Sally Graham
Five years ago I was intimidated by Sally Graham. Well, I respected her superior intellect. She was almost ready to retire then. I think she told me she was fifty-eight. She's a psychiatrist and a member of the American Philatelic Society and at that time I think her stamp collection numbered in the 60,000s.
The way I met her was I was talking to the doorman and I mentioned I was just renewing my interest in stamp collecting, something I had done when I was a kid. And he told me there was someone in the building who was also a collector and if I wanted he would give her my apartment number. I told him go ahead, why not, I wanted to meet other people who were into it. That evening, she rang my bell. I invited her in and we talked for an hour or so.
She sat on my dining room floor explaining things to me like how I could always tell stamps that belonged to republics of the Soviet Union because they had letters on them in the Cyrillic alphabet that looked like CCCP and NOYTA and how stamps from Taiwan differed from those from mainland China because those from the Peoples Republic had an ideogram resembling a wishbone, and it was the symbol that stood for man. It was pronounced ren, but I only had to concern myself with that on the earlier issues because the later stamps now said China in the English alphabet and the sets were numbered. She was a free spirit and her hair was unkempt and she reminded of nothing so much as a wilted flower child, but she sounded very intelligent.
She told me I should join the APS and I would get circuits on approval. It was a good way to fill up my collection cheaply and it was a very secure procedure.
The difference in our ages precluded becoming very friendly but every once in a while I would see her in the lobby on my way out to work or coming home and I remember when she told me she had officially retired. She was looking forward to more time at home and not having to see patients. They all had so many problems. She said at times she felt like she might bug out.
About a year ago I had a problem with the APS. Someone from the Society called me and told me the next person on the Peoples Republic of China circuit did not receive the booklets I had looked at and sent on. He was a Chinese with a post office box for an address and I had my suspicions. The stamps were valuable. I called Sally and asked her advice, because whenever I received a circuit from PRC she was always the prior recipient and this particular time I had foolishly forgotten to save the priority mail insurance receipt.
She told me in her soft-spoken solicitous way, "It's a test. To teach you to follow the instructions. Why don't you call the APS and tell them the number and maybe they can track it down without the actual receipt?"
"And if they can't?" I asked.
"Well," she said, "It couldn't cost you more than a hundred dollars. That's all it was insured for."
I felt like one of her patients. It was not what I wanted to hear.
I was able to clear my responsibility with the APS with a phone call, but after that I asked them not to send me anymore stamps from China. My collection was pretty full and I didn't want to be responsible for something that expensive again.
As I say, that was a year ago.
This afternoon, in the crisp December weather, I went downstairs to buy some lunch in the new Garden of Eden gourmet food shop that recently opened in our building's ground floor. It is filled with the delicious aromas of all kinds of exotic foods, fruits and baked items, meats and poultry, cooked and ready to go. I bought some three potato salad and some roast beef and when I entered the lobby I ran into Sally Graham. I was a little taken back by how she looked. Her teeth were all discolored and her hair was still unkempt but now it was completely gray. It looked dirty and she had put on quite a bit of weight. She was wearing an ill fitting down jacket with food stains on it.
"You cost me five dollars," she said, and it really sounded like an accusation.
"How's that?" I asked. I really didn't want to stand there and talk. I wanted to come upstairs and have my roast beef.
She went on to explain since I wasn't on the Chinese circuit anymore, she had to walk all the way over to Fourth Avenue to the Post Office to insure her package and send it on to the next person on the list instead of leaving it with the doorman for me.
I asked her how many stamps she had now and she told me she had stopped counting when she went over 100,000.
"How do you catalog them all?" I asked.
"Well, I haven't gotten around to doing that," she said. "They're all in shoeboxes. Some of my friends who are dealers tell me I should, especially if I want to sell them, and I may have to soon. I'm running out of money."
I was surprised and said, "Oh?"
"Yes," she said, "I just paid October's rent."
That really surprised me. It was not the kind of thing I expected from her.
The way I met her was I was talking to the doorman and I mentioned I was just renewing my interest in stamp collecting, something I had done when I was a kid. And he told me there was someone in the building who was also a collector and if I wanted he would give her my apartment number. I told him go ahead, why not, I wanted to meet other people who were into it. That evening, she rang my bell. I invited her in and we talked for an hour or so.
She sat on my dining room floor explaining things to me like how I could always tell stamps that belonged to republics of the Soviet Union because they had letters on them in the Cyrillic alphabet that looked like CCCP and NOYTA and how stamps from Taiwan differed from those from mainland China because those from the Peoples Republic had an ideogram resembling a wishbone, and it was the symbol that stood for man. It was pronounced ren, but I only had to concern myself with that on the earlier issues because the later stamps now said China in the English alphabet and the sets were numbered. She was a free spirit and her hair was unkempt and she reminded of nothing so much as a wilted flower child, but she sounded very intelligent.
She told me I should join the APS and I would get circuits on approval. It was a good way to fill up my collection cheaply and it was a very secure procedure.
The difference in our ages precluded becoming very friendly but every once in a while I would see her in the lobby on my way out to work or coming home and I remember when she told me she had officially retired. She was looking forward to more time at home and not having to see patients. They all had so many problems. She said at times she felt like she might bug out.
About a year ago I had a problem with the APS. Someone from the Society called me and told me the next person on the Peoples Republic of China circuit did not receive the booklets I had looked at and sent on. He was a Chinese with a post office box for an address and I had my suspicions. The stamps were valuable. I called Sally and asked her advice, because whenever I received a circuit from PRC she was always the prior recipient and this particular time I had foolishly forgotten to save the priority mail insurance receipt.
She told me in her soft-spoken solicitous way, "It's a test. To teach you to follow the instructions. Why don't you call the APS and tell them the number and maybe they can track it down without the actual receipt?"
"And if they can't?" I asked.
"Well," she said, "It couldn't cost you more than a hundred dollars. That's all it was insured for."
I felt like one of her patients. It was not what I wanted to hear.
I was able to clear my responsibility with the APS with a phone call, but after that I asked them not to send me anymore stamps from China. My collection was pretty full and I didn't want to be responsible for something that expensive again.
As I say, that was a year ago.
This afternoon, in the crisp December weather, I went downstairs to buy some lunch in the new Garden of Eden gourmet food shop that recently opened in our building's ground floor. It is filled with the delicious aromas of all kinds of exotic foods, fruits and baked items, meats and poultry, cooked and ready to go. I bought some three potato salad and some roast beef and when I entered the lobby I ran into Sally Graham. I was a little taken back by how she looked. Her teeth were all discolored and her hair was still unkempt but now it was completely gray. It looked dirty and she had put on quite a bit of weight. She was wearing an ill fitting down jacket with food stains on it.
"You cost me five dollars," she said, and it really sounded like an accusation.
"How's that?" I asked. I really didn't want to stand there and talk. I wanted to come upstairs and have my roast beef.
She went on to explain since I wasn't on the Chinese circuit anymore, she had to walk all the way over to Fourth Avenue to the Post Office to insure her package and send it on to the next person on the list instead of leaving it with the doorman for me.
I asked her how many stamps she had now and she told me she had stopped counting when she went over 100,000.
"How do you catalog them all?" I asked.
"Well, I haven't gotten around to doing that," she said. "They're all in shoeboxes. Some of my friends who are dealers tell me I should, especially if I want to sell them, and I may have to soon. I'm running out of money."
I was surprised and said, "Oh?"
"Yes," she said, "I just paid October's rent."
That really surprised me. It was not the kind of thing I expected from her.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Views
Two people carry one thing and an argument ensues,
It ends with the big thing left on the street when one of them blows a fuse.
A patient sues his doctor and the lawyer sports new shoes,
The doctor makes excuses, saying, "I'm always the one they accuse!"
Fans at the game are anxious to see the visitors lose,
Though the leading player rolls on the ground and rubs a swelling bruise.
Mom and Dad watch a crime in progress on the local news;
A hateful man in an interview hurts with the words he spews.
Three competing suitors are hoping the beauty will choose
Against a backdrop of music and hearts of pink in varying hues.
The tenants default on their rent with excuses by ones and by twos,
And complain of the neighbor who stinks up the hall with the garbage that he strews.
Robert propounds on Kate's erroneous definition of clerihews;
In order to get her to see the light, he gives her a book to peruse.
The church falls short on worshippers who can't sit in predestined pews,
And Masons turn out their membership for failing to pay their dues.
A husband abandons his wife in aborted attempts to amuse;
Her demeanor is drowned in pot luck casseroles, soups and stews.
A detective sifts through the ashes searching remains for clues;
He's found an earring, a tooth and a nail, but he doesn't know whose.
Teenagers wooing, say they aren't smoking. They are. It's only a ruse.
They're thinking of eloping because her father is turning the screws.
Workers waiting for jobs are standing outside in queues,
While the hardnosed factory owner seeks alternatives to use.
Someone is at the zoo with a child his girlfriend won't let him abuse,
And an old man who's lost a fortune regains it by singing the Blues.
Check out student writing at TEC Inglés.
It ends with the big thing left on the street when one of them blows a fuse.
A patient sues his doctor and the lawyer sports new shoes,
The doctor makes excuses, saying, "I'm always the one they accuse!"
Fans at the game are anxious to see the visitors lose,
Though the leading player rolls on the ground and rubs a swelling bruise.
Mom and Dad watch a crime in progress on the local news;
A hateful man in an interview hurts with the words he spews.
Three competing suitors are hoping the beauty will choose
Against a backdrop of music and hearts of pink in varying hues.
The tenants default on their rent with excuses by ones and by twos,
And complain of the neighbor who stinks up the hall with the garbage that he strews.
Robert propounds on Kate's erroneous definition of clerihews;
In order to get her to see the light, he gives her a book to peruse.
The church falls short on worshippers who can't sit in predestined pews,
And Masons turn out their membership for failing to pay their dues.
A husband abandons his wife in aborted attempts to amuse;
Her demeanor is drowned in pot luck casseroles, soups and stews.
A detective sifts through the ashes searching remains for clues;
He's found an earring, a tooth and a nail, but he doesn't know whose.
Teenagers wooing, say they aren't smoking. They are. It's only a ruse.
They're thinking of eloping because her father is turning the screws.
Workers waiting for jobs are standing outside in queues,
While the hardnosed factory owner seeks alternatives to use.
Someone is at the zoo with a child his girlfriend won't let him abuse,
And an old man who's lost a fortune regains it by singing the Blues.
Check out student writing at TEC Inglés.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
One Wish Left
“What’s that?” Lisa asked, “It looks like one of those genie bottles.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Richard said, “A little six month anniversary gift for you.”
“Oh, Rich, you’re so sweet.” Smoothing out the edge of her black silk negligee, she sat at the vanity and reapplied her make-up. “But it actually looks like a giant phallus. I can’t bring that home. How would I explain it to my husband?”
“Tell him you bought it at a flea market.”
“It’s so large.” She rubbed the gnarled wooden bottle. “I wish you were this big, all the time.” She giggled and aimed it at him like a rifle.
Back at the office, Rich received a telephone call from the ancient sage who sold him the bottle. “I make grave mistake,” said the old man, “I meant to sell you novelty copy of actual bottle. That one contains very powerful magic. You not be able to handle consequences.”
“Well, that’s too bad, pop,” Rich said, “I’ve already given it to my girlfriend as a gift.”
“Please, you must return it to me. I give you copy. She is in grave danger. I'm sorry I make mistake. You must believe me.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see, pop.” Rich hung up the phone while the old man was still protesting.
Twenty minutes later, Rich felt a twitching in his pants. His crotch area became uncomfortable as a certain part of him began to gain about three pounds of flesh. For a moment he thought he had subconsciously recalled his afternoon tryst with Lisa, but then he remembered the wish she made.
He tried calling her at home, which he almost never did. There was no answer.
She was in her white Camaro, stalled in traffic. ‘I hate having to deal with situations like this,’ she thought, ‘I wouldn’t have to if I were a wealthy woman with a chauffeur driven car. I could be in the back of a limousine, eating caviar and drinking champagne.’ “I wish I was rich. Really Rich,” she heard herself saying aloud. Suddenly the gridlock cleared and she zoomed off.
Rich drove toward Lisa’s home, finding it somewhat uncomfortable to fit his newly developed bulk under the steering wheel. She was going to go wild when she saw that. He hoped he could get to her before she wasted her other two wishes.
He had to slow down and stop as he approached the scene of an accident. A white car was badly banged up and wrapped around a divider. Traffic at a standstill, Rich got out of his Lexus and asked one of the attending policemen, "“What the hell happened, officer?"
The cop did a double take as if he recognized him. “Er, uh,” he stammered, “Damn fool guy must have been drunk. Wracked up his vehicle pretty good.”
As they removed the body from the wreck, Rich almost fainted. It could have been his twin. The dead man’s face looked so much like his own. And the guy had a huge bulge in his bloody pants.
The driver’s side door was mangled. It wouldn’t close properly. When the tow truck lifted the Camaro, a gnarled wooden bottle fell out of the car, rolled across the highway and disappeared into the grass.
“That’s exactly what it is,” Richard said, “A little six month anniversary gift for you.”
“Oh, Rich, you’re so sweet.” Smoothing out the edge of her black silk negligee, she sat at the vanity and reapplied her make-up. “But it actually looks like a giant phallus. I can’t bring that home. How would I explain it to my husband?”
“Tell him you bought it at a flea market.”
“It’s so large.” She rubbed the gnarled wooden bottle. “I wish you were this big, all the time.” She giggled and aimed it at him like a rifle.
Back at the office, Rich received a telephone call from the ancient sage who sold him the bottle. “I make grave mistake,” said the old man, “I meant to sell you novelty copy of actual bottle. That one contains very powerful magic. You not be able to handle consequences.”
“Well, that’s too bad, pop,” Rich said, “I’ve already given it to my girlfriend as a gift.”
“Please, you must return it to me. I give you copy. She is in grave danger. I'm sorry I make mistake. You must believe me.”
“Yeah, well, we’ll see, pop.” Rich hung up the phone while the old man was still protesting.
Twenty minutes later, Rich felt a twitching in his pants. His crotch area became uncomfortable as a certain part of him began to gain about three pounds of flesh. For a moment he thought he had subconsciously recalled his afternoon tryst with Lisa, but then he remembered the wish she made.
He tried calling her at home, which he almost never did. There was no answer.
She was in her white Camaro, stalled in traffic. ‘I hate having to deal with situations like this,’ she thought, ‘I wouldn’t have to if I were a wealthy woman with a chauffeur driven car. I could be in the back of a limousine, eating caviar and drinking champagne.’ “I wish I was rich. Really Rich,” she heard herself saying aloud. Suddenly the gridlock cleared and she zoomed off.
Rich drove toward Lisa’s home, finding it somewhat uncomfortable to fit his newly developed bulk under the steering wheel. She was going to go wild when she saw that. He hoped he could get to her before she wasted her other two wishes.
He had to slow down and stop as he approached the scene of an accident. A white car was badly banged up and wrapped around a divider. Traffic at a standstill, Rich got out of his Lexus and asked one of the attending policemen, "“What the hell happened, officer?"
The cop did a double take as if he recognized him. “Er, uh,” he stammered, “Damn fool guy must have been drunk. Wracked up his vehicle pretty good.”
As they removed the body from the wreck, Rich almost fainted. It could have been his twin. The dead man’s face looked so much like his own. And the guy had a huge bulge in his bloody pants.
The driver’s side door was mangled. It wouldn’t close properly. When the tow truck lifted the Camaro, a gnarled wooden bottle fell out of the car, rolled across the highway and disappeared into the grass.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Commuters' Rage
It used to be a long comfortable commute on the train from Westchester down to her job on Wall Street during which Alison immersed herself in books from the bestseller list. "I can never find time to read evenings or on weekends, so I always read on the way to work," she told her friend Macy once, before Macy married and moved to an island off the coast of South Carolina. They still compared notes on the latest bestsellers, but not as often. Alison found little time to write letters or e-mail with all the work she brought home to do in the evenings and over weekends. There were so many details. She had to be careful not to leave anything out.
One day, a man ran through the train shooting at people indiscriminately. Alison, looked up from her book at the sound of the first shot and for an elongated moment she could not comprehend what was happening. Then she was hit in the shoulder by one of the bullets, just inches from her heart.
She spent her long recuperation reading accounts of the man's life. Various newspapers told how he had been arrested on burglary and assault charges several times, but had served only two years in prison. He was the son of a teen-aged unwed mother who had died early of a drug overdose. He had been raised by his grandmother who could not understand where he had gone wrong. He was always a good child. She had three other daughters. Each had several children. None had turned out like Vaco. "Vaco's cousins cannot understand this tragedy either," the grandmother said. A photograph showed her crying, next to a photograph of Vaco, with his arm reaching forward, as if to block the photographer's view. From what Alison could see of his face in that picture, he appeared to be smiling. In another, he had a glazed look in his eyes. His defense attorney said Vaco was filled with an uncontrollable rage against society. This rage anesthetized him to the wrongs he commited. The attorney argued, under the powerful grip of such rage, a person, surely, cannot be held completely accountable for how he reacts to the society he feels has wronged him.
Details of Vaco's life filled newspapers for many weeks. Alison read them all. She had plenty of time in her hospital bed and later at home. There was very little written about the sixteen people who were hurt or the man who was killed on the train that day. When she mentioned this to Macy during a phone conversation, Macy said the victims' stories would be related in the soon to be published book about commuters' rage. Alison told her nobody had interviewed her for such a book, and that she thought that was a callous thing to say. After hanging up, she thought it might be a long time before she could speak to Macy again.
Alison went back to work eventually. She still commutes from Westchester, but these days, she never reads on trains no matter how long the ride is.
One day, a man ran through the train shooting at people indiscriminately. Alison, looked up from her book at the sound of the first shot and for an elongated moment she could not comprehend what was happening. Then she was hit in the shoulder by one of the bullets, just inches from her heart.
She spent her long recuperation reading accounts of the man's life. Various newspapers told how he had been arrested on burglary and assault charges several times, but had served only two years in prison. He was the son of a teen-aged unwed mother who had died early of a drug overdose. He had been raised by his grandmother who could not understand where he had gone wrong. He was always a good child. She had three other daughters. Each had several children. None had turned out like Vaco. "Vaco's cousins cannot understand this tragedy either," the grandmother said. A photograph showed her crying, next to a photograph of Vaco, with his arm reaching forward, as if to block the photographer's view. From what Alison could see of his face in that picture, he appeared to be smiling. In another, he had a glazed look in his eyes. His defense attorney said Vaco was filled with an uncontrollable rage against society. This rage anesthetized him to the wrongs he commited. The attorney argued, under the powerful grip of such rage, a person, surely, cannot be held completely accountable for how he reacts to the society he feels has wronged him.
Details of Vaco's life filled newspapers for many weeks. Alison read them all. She had plenty of time in her hospital bed and later at home. There was very little written about the sixteen people who were hurt or the man who was killed on the train that day. When she mentioned this to Macy during a phone conversation, Macy said the victims' stories would be related in the soon to be published book about commuters' rage. Alison told her nobody had interviewed her for such a book, and that she thought that was a callous thing to say. After hanging up, she thought it might be a long time before she could speak to Macy again.
Alison went back to work eventually. She still commutes from Westchester, but these days, she never reads on trains no matter how long the ride is.
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