walk slowly along

Stomach Pain

2009-10-11T18:21:00.000-05:00

I had just finished my evening shift at the Wallgreens downtown. You know, the one across from Millennium Park that all the tourists come to. "Where is Grant Park? Where is State Street? Where can I find the Red Line train?" This time of year answers are our main product; that and lots of water, soda pop, and candy bars. Thankfully we're coming to the end of it. With autumn comes the return to normalcy, but I can feel the summer exhaustion set in. The hours 8PM to 11PM drag on, punishing, dragging like an Egyptian slave drags a block of the pyramids. Is this what I will remember from the summer before my senior year of high school?

The trips home after that shift are always the longest. The number 56 bus and I have become the best of friends. 11:04PM and I wait at the lonely stop. A family is beside me.

Joseph and Samuel, two brothers, not tourists. Joseph was no more than 7. He had the body of the boy who would be picked last for every sport in gym class. He had clearly been overfed on a diet that would tie his stomach up in knots for years. It's something I could relate to, but I thought it better not to give any unsolicited advice that this moment.

His parents. Overwhelmed (and in physical appearance, clearly of contrasting philosophies on diet and health). Joseph and Samuel were done with the city. They wanted to get home and they were vocal. More importantly, Joseph wanted to go to the bathroom—.

So, Joseph had to go potty. He made that much clear to his father. He made that much clear to his mother. He would have made that much clear to his little brother Samuel, if he didn't so desperately have to go potty. But this was downtown and for the family from the suburbs, downtown Chicago doesn't exactly present a lot of options when its 11PM and your child is on the verge of explosion.

Joseph began yanking at his father's arm, holding his other hand against his stomach. His mother began panicking. Now was the time to offer my unsolicited advice. I told them which buses would get them to the Metra station as quickly as possible. Joseph's parents debated. I told them that there weren't many other options at this hour. Joseph cried out again that he had to go potty. They looked for an available bus, but none were coming. Joseph moaned in pain, and his father took action. Joseph's father took him by the hand and stated that they were going to find a place now. A waste of time. He began to walk away when he realized that Joseph was not with him. Joseph had gone potty.

It was 11:12PM. I was waiting for the number 56 bus.

Unexpected autumn

2009-10-04T12:59:00.003-05:00

Signs of change were in the air. Damp blades of grass almost hinting at frost. Leaves browned, fallen to the ground. Two chipmunks scrambling over a fallen acorn.

Signs of change in the Windy city, autumn was well on its way. With a new season comes change. A chance to see familiar surroundings in a new light.

It was under this mindset of something new that a few unexpected occurrences took place.

An old woman, slowly walking along where stone meets water. One arm decrepit and dangling wastefully toward the stone fence, daring to touch it, as if wishing for the touch of the world to return but unsure of what it might feel like. Her head bowed in quiet contemplation, or perhaps exhaustion. She had a small toy with her, two dangling balls at the end of a long string. She metronomically beat her back as if walking in a flagellant procession. Prayers and penitence asking for salvation from an unknown disease. Spooky, and fitting for the month of October.

A turn away from ghastly figures and towards the calm lake. Soothing. The sun shining down along a narrow strip, blinding the eyes, making it hard to focus. To my right a bobbing ball. Not a bobbing ball but a head. A human head. Thankfully arms connected. Arms wadding through the water, slowly making their way towards me, towards shore. But not in any rush. Slowly paddling through water that could not have been any warmer than 55 degrees. No matter, this person seemed to be indifferent to the elements, slowly slowly moving closer. With the sun to this person's back, there was an illuminating glow around them. Their calm controlled demeanor spoke of some coming revelation. A holy message?

These were not the expected visions on a cold Sunday morning. But with autumn's arrival, perhaps it is time to reconsider what is possible.

Cigarette and Silence: An Exchange

2009-09-27T09:58:00.002-05:00

It was an exhausting journey through the emotional swell of opportunity. Opportunity sought, opportunity found, and opportunity lost. I considered the alternatives, but instead I retracted into the solitude I have come to know as home. I sit in this Kaffeehaus and write, as so many before me have done.
--Unknown, found 2004 in Vienna (2. Bezirk - Leopoldstadt)

... Sunrise after a night shaded in the orange glow of the downtown Chicago lamps. It never really goes dark here, and true sleep is hard to come by. I'm in need of temporary comforts. After some time wandering I approach a man, young. He is selling the Sun-Times on the corner of Michigan and Washington. he has something I want, not too much to ask. The simple gift of a half smoked cigarette. He is lazy with his cigarette, disrespectful to those of us who crave the simple pleasure. Flickering by his side, burning away without any regard for its value. Of course he can smoke lazily at this hour, it is too early for his hands to be busy with the exchange of money. He will give it to me, surely he will. I approach. As politely as I can, I ask him if I could bum the rest of his cigarette. He returns a look that clearly says, “Fuck off.” I would have felt the same towards him if I was still concerned with matters of pride. I move on, still in need of temporary comforts.

... I need a new job. Every day sending out resumes. Always the same freak'n excuse, “We're impressed with your skills but just aren't hiring right now. Try back in a few months.” I'm sick and tired of this job, but I need to pay rent. Every morning, wake up at 4am. Drive downtown to pick up the morning papers. Who reads these any more? Sit on the corner of Michigan and Washington for 5 hours straight. “Papers! Get your paper here!” I yell. In the early morning there's rarely a soul around who is interested in this artifact of a dying time. I see men and women walk right by me, reading the news on their Blackberry or iPhone. Another dollar lost to a kid in jeans, there goes another in a suit, and another in a dress, repeat ad nauseam. I sit and smoke. It makes the time bearable. A homeless man approaches me; I get this at least a hundred times a week. I'm sure he needs something, and I'm too bitter about my own situation to care. He asks me for a cigarette and I give him an irritated look. That sends a quick and direct message. He walks away rather quickly, and I feel no remorse. 4 more hours to go.

Bart's People: Time to Feed the Ducks

2009-09-20T14:41:00.003-05:00

“The connotators do not fill the whole of the lexia, reading them does not exhaust it. In other words (and this would be a valid proposition for semiology in general), not all the elements of the lexia can be transformed into connotators; there always remaining in the discourse a certain denotation without which, precisely, the discourse would not be possible.”
-Roland Barthes “Rhetoric of the Image” from Image-Music-Text

A new business suit: pressed, clean, and stylish. Truly a signifier of those who are members of western professional work. Those who are respected to make the giant cogs in the system turn. It was under this assumption that a strange little curiosity occurred to me on my morning walk to work.

It was in the early hours of the morning, no later than 7:30AM, when the first mass of workers make their way into their offices. My particular path, running along side of the elevated tracks, is only busy when a load of passengers makes their way off the platform and onto the street. With no trains in sight, the empty sidewalks made for a wonderfully empty stage for this scene to play out.

Enter our actor, a man in a new business suit, briefcase in hand, on his way to what surely would be a day of importance. He was walking briskly to the shelter of the train platform's stairway, seeming to be in a hurry to feed some inner desire. Must be in dire need of a smoke, I thought.

As he approached, a pigeon swooped in next to him, close enough that it certainly would have made me jump. But this man was unperturbed, indeed, he remained calm as another, two more, ten more, then seemingly hundreds more pigeons descended upon his created shelter under the stairway. Framed by the slanted angle of rusting steel support beams, this canvas was painted with angry brush strokes of black and white feathers. So thick was the paint that I completely lost sight of the man for a number of seconds.

Is this some horrific realization of a Hitchcockian nightmare, I wondered?

After what seemed like much too long for a man in a business suit to be surrounded by an army of pigeons, the birds began to settle into place, anxiously shifting from one foot to the other. I saw the man open his briefcase. He pulled out a small plastic container, the kind of thing you would buy peanuts or almonds in. He opened the container and began shaking out pieces of bread, slowly turning until he had made a complete circle.

The pigeons went wild. Jumping on, over, next to, and underneath one another. This was their breakfast, and it was clearly expected. This man was recognized and expected by the pigeons, as if he had been there numerous times before, part of his normal morning routine: 1. Put on a suit 2. Walk to the train station 3. Exit down town 4. Feed the pigeons 5. Enter the office. Simple as that, the kind of thing where if someone asked him if anything interesting happened on his way in, he would casually reply, “Oh you know, the usual.”

The usual. This scene added to the list of meanings for business suit.

Back in Session

2009-09-13T14:19:00.000-05:00

On that trip there was beauty in contrast. We came across a Bavarian man, a member of but not integrated into, a small Buddhist temple. This was not yet an adopted home. He was slowly weaving bracelets made of neon colored string; his hands moving automatically freeing his mind for deeper reflection. His body was a detailed story of adaptation to the Thai landscape- a brightly colored rash covering his back, scars on his forearms, and mosquito bites scattered throughout. We chatted for some time in German, after which he handed me a bundle of his bracelets, smiled widely, and told me to go in peace. I wear those bracelets today as a reminder of strength, choice, hope, and an element of longing.

2009-06-21T22:01:00.002-05:00

All in all, he was grateful for the second chances he was afforded in life. He understood them not as an opportunity to correct a wrong doing, but rather as a blessing to continue producing the imagined worlds he lived in.

She was a writer and he an illustrator. In both their minds, their relationship was always in doubt. As artists, they hungered for vision and creation. When an idea developed they would spend days scribbling, sketching, and shuffling post-it-notes, scrap paper, and cut outs. They would post their ideas on a large wall, an entire room acting as their canvas, their studio, their blank sheet of paper. It was in these moments, that they knew their partnership was something special.

She believed their partnership could not survive a single idle moment. He believed that there was a bond between them that would be an infinite well of inspiration. As partners, they struggled to co-exist in the same space, could not overcome petty bickering, and finally distanced one another. At times they would spend weeks away from each other, heavily obsessing over their own work, breaking any sense of a shared commitment. It was in these moments, that they knew their partnership would cripple each other.

And so, during their first chance, it did.

All in all, he was grateful for the second chances he was afforded in life. He was waiting for his second chance. But characteristic of their relationship, he was not waiting for her, he was waiting for inspiration.

2nd chances

2009-06-14T21:41:00.004-05:00

When I met professor Burkes I was taken aback by his frank questions to the class, “When you leave Cal, how will you apply what you have learned?”

Looking back, this should not have surprised me. He was a professor of Peace and Conflict studies. His job was resolving dissonance between parties. But at the time I was unaware that a conflict could even exist between my studies and what lay ahead.

I realize now, a few years out, that I had effectively learned to succeed at school rather than learned how to apply school towards success. A delicate dance of the right amount of reading, engagement, and strategizing would guarantee me the grades that I felt were necessary for advancement. Sure my grades were a big influence in why I got my job, but my grades did not guarantee my success.

If I had to do it all over again, I would have taken Professor Burkes's questions to heart and written a real answer instead of the answer that I thought would give me a good grade.

.Tracey.

2009-05-31T23:25:00.002-05:00

May ^31st, 2009

“Don't get involved in partial problems, but always take flight to where there is a free view over the whole single great problem, even if this view is still not a clear one.” -LW

The older I get, the more things there are that fill me with regret. When I was younger it was easy to push it all aside and get on with life. Now that the emotional chains are much heavier and my body weaker, I cannot ignore 61 years— my story.

Still, it does not imply that I am willing to sit still. There are still chances to correct that which is in my control.

I met with Mary on Thursday evening. We met over a cup of coffee and almond muffins (her favorite) at the Mercury Cafe. I hadn't seen her in over a year, and the first thing I noticed was how much college was changing her. She looked like a full on adult for the first time in her life. She was cleanly dressed, looked slightly weathered, and exuded an aura of passionate focused. It made me proud to be her father and sad for the lack of engagement with her over the past few years.

Our conversation mostly concerned the little things. It was as if she was testing the waters of getting to know me again. I can't blame her, I would be skeptical too. But still, I am her father, and being able to talk to her at all made me happy. We had made progress and the dimmed light of a reconnect didn't seem so hopeless.

2009-05-22T19:09:00.004-05:00

Archived on Sunday, May 23rd, 2009

Annie (10:03AM): Sarah, do you have a minute?
Sarah: What's up?
Annie: It sounds like my sister and my dad might be talking again. But Mary isn't sure that she wants to risk bringing him back into her life just to lose him again. I'm meeting with her in a few minutes to talk it over. She seems really fragile about this all. you know how she gets
Annie: but she wants my advice on whether or not to respond to him.
Sarah (10:05AM): What would she be missing if he did leave again? She already feels like a stranger to him.
Annie: But that's just it, she probably believes that all of a suddenly they'll be close again, and that if he leaves she'll lose everything again. She's thinking in black and white.
Sarah: And you don't think that'll happen?
Annie: No. I think their relationship is damaged to a point where it's going to be a looooong time to get to the point where she'll be losing a lot if he checks out again. We're talking years.
Sarah: And you're worried about telling her that because she'll flip out...
Annie (10:06AM): Yeah, she won't take that statement well.
Sarah: I think you need to give it to her straight. I know easier said than done, right? but remember what coach fredricks used to say, "No pain no gain."
Sarah (10:07AM): think of the extra damage it would cause if you tell her that things will be absolutely wonderful and all of a sudden they'll be close, like some father daughter disney film. leave fantasy for the movies.
Annie: You're right. thanks.
Sarah (10:11AM): This might cheer you up: Stupid stuff people do.
Sarah: I was at dominicks and the automatic door was broken. This guy walked up to it and nothing happened so he started looking around all confused. This dumb ass just stood there in front waiting for something magic to happen. Then he got impatient and started waving his hands, stomping on the mat. It was like he'd never pushed open a door before.
Sarah: But this is waht kills me. He said out loud, How do I get in?
Sarah (10:012AM): -How do I get in- as if without automatic doors all entrances are closed and locked. What is this world coming to?
Annie (10:13AM): We are much too privileged.
Annie: I need to go meet Mary. Thanks for the talk. bye!

2009-05-17T15:05:00.003-05:00

Date: Sun, May 17^th at 2:18PM Subject: Dad talking again? mailed-by: pitt.edu

Annie,

Dad sent me a letter the other day and I don't know what to make of it. He basically apologized for not being there for me after he and mom split up. I think he was honest, but I don't know. Has he said anything about it to you recently?

It's funny, the last time I remember him being involved was when I was in 8th grade. You must have been out driving around with Jason (what a bad choice!) at the time. I demanded that I be able to go on that cheerleading trip to Boston and he, as usual, refused. I started yelling at him and telling him how much he was ruining my life. I remember being so angry with him when and then he just walked away from me. That pissed me off even more, as you can imagine. Later that night he came to my room and told me how difficult this past year had been, and that I was making it more difficult. He had a calm voice. He wasn't angry at all. He looked incredibly exhausted with everything, do you remember him then? Then he looked me straight in the eye and he said that my behavior had to change. Period. That was it, nothing more. He left my room and we didn't talk about it again.

I don't know why, but at the time, that worked. He looked so... So upset. I started to see things from his perspective. I think that is why I had such a hard time when he left mom. I think I saw how hard of a decision it was for him to leave. He could have gone either way and neither would have been a good option. I thought he would stay with us.

I don't want him back in if he is going to leave again. You know him better than I do. Do you think he will leave again or is this for real?

-M

2009-05-10T09:22:00.003-05:00

May 10^th, 2009

Mary,

You must be finishing up your last few classes at Pitt. I'm sure it felt like your first year went by much too fast.

Now that you have moved away from home and started the next chapter of your life, I feel like there is more I can tell you. I wish I could say that your move was only one of many reasons that this letter was delayed for so long, but I must be honest with you and myself. Your mother is a powerful figure; you know this. I was not strong enough to confront her, even when you were clearly in need. I left you to cope with her instability alone. You living with her prevented me from acting. For that I am deeply sorry.

Why didn't I act when there was still a chance of reconciliation? I didn't recognize the problems and miscommunication, and I let fear control how I reacted. I was silent when I should have allowed room for discussion. It is important to face problems head on. Once again, I am sorry.

Over the past year I've heard you call out for help, and I was silent. I want you to know that as many flaws as I may have, giving up on you will not be added to that list. You know how to contact me if and when you can forgive me for the past.

~Dad

Correspondence

2009-05-03T23:06:00.004-05:00

May 3^rd, 1997

“Why don't they make the city bird the pigeon?” she asked her father. Her tone was honest, that of a child trying to make sense of the world.

“They wouldn't do that” her father replied.

“But there are so many of them. Shouldn't the thing with the most get to choose?” she continued.

“Well, they wouldn't choose a pigeon. A pigeon is a dirty bird,” her father answered, his patience waning. Though he would never admit it, he thought to himself, why is Mary in such an talkative mood today?

“Who is they? And why is a pigeon dirty?” she probed.

“It just is. They're not clean, they don't look pretty, there's nothing beautiful about them. They're a dirty bird,” he repeated.

“But why should being clean matter if there are so many of them? Shouldn't they have a chance also?” she petitioned. She looked dissatisfied at the answers provided, as if to say, This isn't the world I signed up for. Still, one could see her knowledge building, acknowledging dissonance with what she thought should be and what was. These were the stories she would recall 11 years later.

Long distance communication

2009-04-26T12:05:00.009-05:00

When I look back on that time, I wish I could say that I knew she was happy. Truth is, I'm pretty convinced she was miserable, but all I could do was listen. I rarely wrote back, and when I did, I wrote about what I was doing, not in response to her. To me, the written word solidified thoughts and feelings in a way I wasn't willing to commit to. There were opportunities to guide and comfort her and all I did was listen. All these years later I still have pangs of guilt when I think of my silence.

During those three years she was traveling first throughout the United States, and later the world at large. From time to time I would receive messages from her, an e-mail here a letter there. She moved, that much was evident from the curious origin of some of her letters: Tumbes, Equador and Nagpur, India coming to mind.

She never told me much about what she was doing in each of these places. She only told me that she was safe and was keeping her eyes open for where to go next. Her tone was almost always vague, so much so that it drove me crazy when I tried to settle on an interpretation. But settling on an interpretation was part of my nature, I desired to resolve some of the conflict of what I read. It was through these letters that I understood she was unhappy.

Looking at the bundle of letters on the whole, her tone of discontent stands out. I read this from the passages she included in every letter. Passages from a host of books about death, love lost, pain, misery, and missed opportunity. Each passage seemed hand picked to make a point. That is what I was left to interpret. It was the single biggest piece of evidence I had to work with when trying to understand what she was going through.

Her final letter ended with this passage:

What had she been expecting, while she fiddled with the buttons on her dress, while she shifted the purse on her shoulder and tried not to unbalance her Macy's hat? A mess, un toyo certainly, but not a husband looking nearly destroyed, who shuffled like an old man, whose eyes shone with the sort of fear that is not easily shed. It was worse than she, in all her apocalyptic fervor had imagined. It was the Fall.

Junot Díaz, The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao

The gifts we are given

2009-04-18T23:01:00.006-05:00

When he was four he asked, “Why are those dogs fighting with each other?”
And his mother replied, “Because they made the choice to.”

When he was a teenager he asked, “Will his humiliation ever end?”
And his older brother replied, “If you want it to, you have to make some changes.”

When he was in his late twenties he asked, “Will you marry me?”
And his girlfriend smiled and kissed him.

When he and his wife had their first child he asked, “Will I do this better than my parents?”
And his wife said, “Remember to keep asking that question and you will.”

When he was raising his child he asked, “Can I do this forever?”
And his father replied, “One day your role will change. The time when that happens will be the choice of your daughter.”

When he was at the end of his career he asked, “Is this the right time to retire?”
And something outside of him gave him an answer.

When he was an old man he asked, “Am I able to keep living alone?”
And his children replied, “Dad, you know what we think. The decision is left to you.”

When he was dying he asked, “Did I ask enough questions; were they at the right time?”
And there was no answer.

Epilogue of a Departure

2009-04-12T07:38:00.006-05:00

“I feel sick.”

That was the way a friend of mine described her shock. During those first few days she felt disoriented, her sign posts of life had been removed. She knew where she wanted to go but had no sense of how to get there. She said her stomach felt hollowed out, scraped to the edge of her skin. It was a debilitating sickness, one that challenged her professional goals and purpose.

Yes, I thought, I would qualify that as sickness.

What was she so sick about you ask? She had lost her friend. Not in a life or death sort of way, but in the manner that most people lose a friend when they move to a new city or change jobs. A permanent disconnect from their shared daily interactions; hard to ignore. Her friend was the glue that gave her work verve and support. She said that her friend made the sum of the parts of her professional life greater than the whole.

In the following months I saw her creep back towards acknowledgment and acceptance. It was slow, and I often didn't know how to help other than providing an open heart and mind. She accepted the change and found comfort in the fact that she had the honor of knowing, even for a brief time, such an influential person. She would often tell me that her friend became an important role model in life. I saw her emulate that model as time went on, doing good things for the people around her, and I could tell she was forever greatful to her friend's example.

It was late in autumn when we had our last long conversation about her friend leaving. This conversation served as a kind of epilogue, as I think she had finally found her peace. She had invited me to a pleasant dinner at a quiet little restaurant on Wabash Ave. Late in the dinner, I asked her if she had heard from her friend. She looked lost in her thoughts, long enough that I thought she had not heard my question at all. When she finally replied she said she hadn't heard anything from her in a little while. Then she took a sip of water, taking in and crushing a piece of ice. However, she continued, she knew her friend was doing good things in her new role. Being that positive role model for others. She finished crushing the piece of ice and added, that woman, she was one of a kind.

We didn't know any different

2009-04-05T22:26:00.004-05:00

She would hold the picture that depicted her early years in a way that she barely remembered. The back of the card read Carla - age 6 - Easter 2009. She was cute as can be, dressed in a small bunny costume, carrying a basket of multicolored plastic eggs.

Those were the days that her mother worked three jobs and she spent much of her time at the family restaurant. Those days that she was under the care of her loving but much too busy grandmother. Running from table to table, seating new customers, ringing up bills, managing the kitchen staff, and dealing with angry customers, her grandmother did what she could to make sure that Carla was engaged with something.

Her grandmother would give her random tasks to complete. On this day, dressed in pink and white fur, she quietly sat in a corner of the restaurant. That corner she remembered as being a world unto itself, but upon returning as an adult, saw it as a wobbly little stool next to a broken wooden shelf. She sat quietly completing her task, putting individual chocolate pieces inside of colored Easter eggs. As customers left she would offer them an egg. A shy child, she would lift up the basket towards them, but not say a word, offering merely through gesture. Quiet, obedient, part of a loving world that could not afford to give her time; this was her 6 year old experience.

She would look at the picture now, tears running down her face as a flood of memories came rushing back. She sympathized with the little girl, dressed in that little Easter bunny suit, as the woman she is now, and it broke her heart. How much things had changed since those days of a quiet simplicity. And that was the realization that led her to a new beginning.

“ ... the feeling of right and wrong is the beginning of wisdom.”

2009-03-29T12:06:00.004-05:00

widsom

noun

the quality of having experience, knowledge, and good judgement

After many days of travel, I happened upon this curious scene in the city.

A group of children were building piles of fallen autumn leaves. Each child seemed to preside over 3 or 4 piles, which they were piecing together into miniature forts. One child, who was finishing off a clover leaf formation, suddenly popped up and stood at attention. He carefully circled his creation stepping inside and outside of the rings of leaves, inspecting his craftsmanship. I believe it got his seal of approval.

He walked over to a woman, who I guessed was his mother. She was sitting on a black mesh park bench, not far from me, reading a murder mystery book. While not completely disengaged from the world around her, up until this point, she did seem more concerned with the intrigue ongoing in her book rather than the world around her.

In an instant the child appeared at his mother's knees and asked, “Mommy, it's perfect! Look! I can attack from each ring, but I am safe in the middle. I think we should make our house like my fort, then we'd never see those men again. We would be safe, right?”

“Yes honey. We'd be safe,” she replied in a tone that conveyed genuine care but lacked careful consideration.

The child ran back to his fort, seemingly pleased with the answer he received from his mother. He jumped into the center of his fortress as the other boys were finishing up theirs. He surveyed the creations around him and pointed to the boy closest to him.

“Why don't we combine our fortresses? Then we would be stronger!” he exclaimed to the boy.

The other boy quickly replied, “No way! I spent so much time on my fortress. This fortress is mine. If I join you, you will ruin it or try and make me follow your rules.”

Shortly thereafter a tall man came walking up to the mother. He was carrying two canvas bags that were full of groceries. He exchanged a few words with the woman, then called to the boy, “Jonathan, it's time to go.”

To my surprise, the boy got up, ran out of his fortress, and towards the two adults. I wondered if his failed attempt at a union had ruined the whole idea of playing fortress.

“Did you have fun today at the park?” I heard the man ask.

“It was fun! I like it now that you're with us David. We always get to do new things. Can you stay with us forever?” replied the boy.

The man looked over to the woman, smiling approvingly, and said, “I'll see what I can do, Jonathan.”

♣ ♣ ♣

Days later I asked, “Teacher, I believe I observed basic levels of fear, greed, and hope. What can I learn from this experience?”

My teacher thought for a moment as he always does, sometimes waiting for me to stumble upon the answer for myself. He finally turned to me and said, “Learn from the boy. First, he understands a world of contrast. Second, he is willing to ask questions that bring the contrast into focus. Finally, he strives for harmony and conclusions between those contrasts.”

“ ...the feeling of deference and compliance is the beginning of propriety... ”

2009-03-22T18:09:00.005-05:00

deference

noun

humble submission and respect

Original Post

Dear Helpful Advisor,

My office tracks the shipping of food items across the entire midwest for a large food processing company. In a typical year we experience rushes in the months leading up to the major holidays, the 4th of July, Thanksgiving, and Christmas/New Year's.

In recent months layoffs have increased our workload without increased compensation. We have seen an increase in user error, work orders filled, employee retention, and general quality of job satisfaction. Morale is at an all time low. It has reached the point where a large number of staff are thinking of leaving the company before this 4th of July season.

The company has been good to me during my 13 years working here. I do not feel that I am in risk of losing my job, but I do feel that I am at risk of doing the work of 5 people instead of 1. My job is already stressful enough and if this continues I am not sure if I can keep it up. What should I do?

Sincerely,

Concerned Employee

Answer

Concerned Employee,

If you used as much time doing your work instead of writing questions that can only be answered by yourself, we wouldn't be in this mess now would we?

---Automated Work Enforcer---

---VT100 MSG SENT 10:31AM---

“...the feeling of shame and dislike is the beginning of righteousness...”

2009-03-15T16:27:00.004-05:00

shame

noun

a painful feeling of pain or humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior

It was one of those break through moments when I realized that my son was beginning to understand the world. The sun was setting on Lake Michigan after a day of strolling through the museum campus. We stopped at a street vendor and I bought him a bowl of ice cream. The man next to us was scratching off a lottery ticket and shouted quietly to himself, “Yes! I won! This is totally awesome.”

My son and I went to sit on the cool grass. Scooping into his first bite, he asked, “Dad, why was that man so happy?”

I became the parent and explained, “He must have won a lot of money on his lottery ticket. And that's a good thing for him.”

My son gave me a quizzical look and was clearly working something out in his head. I wasn't sure what he was thinking so hard about. Was he thinking about how much money the man had won? What he would buy with the money? Where the money comes from? He looked back up at me and replied, “But Dad, I bet he has spent more money buying tickets than he won on that one ticket. I don't think that is winning.”

I smiled. This complex thought from a 6 year old boy. Those are the moments I think I will cherish. My happy thought was broken by a woman walking past us. She was practically screaming into her cell phone. She had a little girl with her, no more than 4. The girl was skipping her steps in a fatigued manner that displayed her inability to keep up for much longer.

The girl seemed in awe, unfamiliar to the city. Sitting wide eyed at the rows of twinkling street lights, the sound of the waves hitting the concrete barricade, and the feel of the cool summer air, the young child was learning as only children do, experimentally aware. I saw her head swinging from side to side, taking in the world presented to her. She was remarkably unlike a child in one manner, she was incredibly quiet, only gasping and pointing at each new sight. It was as if what she was being presented with was just too much to take in. I could only wonder what conclusions she would be making.

But with what freedom? Her mother seemed disinterested. Consumed by her cell phone conversation, dragging the girl along by the hand, the mother was directing them both in a rush to uncertainty. The mother threw her bag onto a bench and pushed her child onto the seat, almost automatically scolding, “Sit down and shut the hell up.”

The child was instantly, automatically obedient. She sat down and sunk her head. With that the mother continued on with her conversation as if the little girl wasn't even there.

“The feeling of commiseration is the beginning of humanity...”

2009-03-08T19:47:00.003-05:00

Commiserate
verb [ intrans. ]
express or feel sympathy or pity; sympathize

Natural phenomenon build fellowship. The dark nights, freezing winters, arid land, and sweltering heat have brought us together since the beginning.

The rain pounded on pavement, grass, and the idle river today. Stinging and bitter it swept in waves, orchestrating a piece of harsh strings and spotted with crashing symbols. The peaks of the Hancock, Sears Tower, and others were obscured by a thick cloud of rain and fog. There appeared to be were two worlds, the one bursting through and climbing above the rain, and the one submissive, suffering from the rain. People braving the elements were huddled underneath flailing umbrellas, soaked hooded sweatshirts, and damp pieces of newspaper. One would think this a scene colored by our shared plight.

This was not the case. There seemed to be more distance than ever from one another. Shoulders closed off, faces down, and directions static. Were we doomed to live life as separated from one another as the top and bottom halves of any given skyscraper? Has our individualism triumphed over natural phenomenon? If this is so, what have we really won?

Mencius and The Four Beginnings

2009-03-01T11:50:00.000-06:00

It was a childhood friend of mine, who served in Desert Storm, who helped me see the world as more than the sum of its parts.

"Being in combat is hard to explain. The best I've come up with is to say it'd be like watching a child falling into a well. You see it happening and something inside of you either freezes or reacts. It puts you in that inexplicable nether world where your actions don't make sense and you don't ask them to."

The rain was falling so hard against the metal support of the 'el' tracks that you feel trapped in a bubble of bass vibrations. The rumbling of the trains, oddly, muted.

You find yourself surrounded by a tall metal fence. Cross hatched pieces of steel wrapped in a thick green plastic sheets covers your view of what is around the bend. It is a maze.

A small child, no more than 3 and heavily wrapped in winter clothes, walks by. Shifting their weight, waddling aimlessly forward. They seem alone. You pause and look around for an explanation, but none can be seen; no parents, siblings, or caretakers. You yell but it is barely audible against the pouring rain. Why don't you stop the girl and ask her if she's ok? Have we grown that individualistic, disconnected? A peek around the construction fence. A stroller, two women huddling under a miniature umbrella. Their faces meet and shift side to side, frantically observing the world around them; panic. They see you, hone in on your face. You lift a finger and point to the child, partially obstructed by the metal fence. Your finger directing them to relief, your brain seemingly on pause, but your finger reacting in a way you cannot explain.

The two women see the child, their shoulders drop, a powerful exhale, and the tension in their bodies relax.

Then clarity of the world around you returns. The drone of rain pounding on metal, the wind of trains moving above you, the destination you were walking to. All return from that brief moment of something inexplicably and unsatisfactorily labeled, other.

2009-02-22T17:15:00.004-06:00

"He himself could not think of a life away from his house and garden, which perhaps he continued to see in his own way, perhaps even saw as whole and perfect, the way we fail to see the tarnishing that has gradually come to flats or houses where we have lived a long time."
-V.S. Naipaul
The Enigma of Arrival

Monday
I find it funny that this might be the last book I read. I read the words, so youthful and unaware of the weakness of old age. It is not that our perception changes, I can still see the cracks in my life: bitterness, regret, lost faith. Mr. Naipaul, it is that I no longer have the strength or will to mend them.

It has been so long that I have taken the same medicine. The effects are dormant. Dr. Weiss told me to keep taking them, as if hope was the secret ingredient that I've been missing. As if hope will mix with the chemicals to create some potent elixir of health.

If not for my daughter I might have given up already. I asked her to go away today because I had no more strength left to argue. She has a life that needs to be lived. She came late last night, brought me some soup from the Chinese restaurant we used to go to so much. Mother and daughter, together on 805 north Paulina. That was a simple place, functional. Little porcelain cat shaped money banks, their paws waving to the people on the street. I remember we were there when I told her that I was leaving her father. I can hear the kitchen so clearly, the clanging pots, the clumps of food hitting oil, and the soft drone of the ventilator fan. I remember finishing a bite of egg drop soup when I turned to her to tell her the news.

"Do yer know if we hat ta pay the parking meters after five?" yelled a southern man who had just burst in the door. That ruined the moment. She found out later that night when Harry told her, and I will never forgive him for that.

But she came today to visit me. I told her that she should drive back home and that I didn't want to argue. I told her that there was no point to stay with me, that I was feeling fine. I reminded her that she too had a life to live. If she did not go back she should not feel like she was failing me as a daughter, she would only be failing the chance to have other opportunities for herself. I should not like to see that.

We began to argue at that point. We argued about what is important in a persons' life. How can you convince someone that already has their mind made up? Were we wasting time? I think so. I told her that I would be fine until Friday if she felt the need to come again. Then I told her that I was tired and too weak to argue. She left shortly after that.

Now if only I can make it till Friday.

2009-02-15T08:30:00.008-06:00

"And yet it was astonishing to me to come upon it one day, a working hotel in a busy street ... The hotel had lived in my imagination rather than memory like something from earliest childhood ... Like dreams rather than memories, and yet suited to the occasion, for me: for on that day space and time had become one. Both space and time separated me from my past at the end of that day."
-V.S. Naipaul
The Enigma of Arrival

Tuesday
This must be another test, testing my will and strength. I have tried to be strong for much too long, but I do it alone, and in my solitude my strength can only go so far. I was proud of many things in life, including my strength, but I also carry a deep sense of regret.

I regret that day I ran from Chester. When I try to pin a date on that day I feel like it must have been over 60 years ago, before I entered Samuelson Junior High School. There was that creek by my house, remember? It wound its way by the Dietz's house, the Bancrofs, and scattered further for unknown miles and miles. The homes stood high on opposing cliffs, their roofs toying with the blue sky. When I waded through that creek, skipping from stony patch to stony patch, I felt as if the creek was cowering from the homes around it. It was as if the creek had something to be ashamed of.

Chester sat on an offshoot of clay and rock. He was picking at berries in his hand and was flicking them into the creek. I remember his torso looking crooked, like the bend of his back had switched places with the gut in his stomach. His clothes were faded and torn, but patched numerous times. His face was a spattering of color, reds, yellows, and deep blue shadows, but Chester's face also displayed aged lines that gave him an authority that betrayed the color. In all his appearance was not unlike a clown but more like a taunting mentor.

I remember freezing when I saw him; again. He couldn't have been any closer than a dozen yards, but he seemed infinitely closer. I stood there, trying to be strong. It was then that Chester let out an exaggerated grin. Sharp, chiseled teeth protruded out at endless angels. His gums and teeth stained red from where he had seemingly cut himself with those perpendicular stairways of teeth. His back, still bent forwards, snapped up to attention, sounding the cracking of bone that would guarantee paralyzation in anyone else.

I reacted. I don't know why but I reached into the water for a stone and threw it at him, hard. I remember seeing it ricochet off his shoulder, and I remember his body slapping back against the creek bed wall. I remember turning to run. Not worrying to step on the sure footing of the dry rock, I slid over the grimy moldy sections, falling once and cutting my knee deeply. But I got up and kept running. It was in that dash that I remember the feeling of weight passing through me. Weight not alluding to a vision or a specter, but rather a shivering feeling of weight beyond my understanding. It was not painful. It felt very much like watching a snake attack its prey, something so smooth and orchestrated that it eludes our understanding.

I turned around to look and see where it had come from, but there was nothing but running water and an empty creek. I looked down further, to where Chester was sitting and saw nothing. Had I been running so long that he had moved? No, the water was deep in the opposite direction and the cliffs high; his body was too twisted for that. I could still see his ledge and the berries around it. My legs took over at that point and kept me moving. Kept me running until I was out of that creek, through the neighborhood, and grabbing for my front door.

That day I lost all my strength. Later in life, it probably motivated me to regain that strength, but at what cost? With regret as my only motivator? Regret leading to bitterness at my own fallibility? Tomorrow I must consider the alternatives.

2009-02-08T11:02:00.004-06:00

"Every fortnight now the hanged man's family came to have this communion with him - which no doubt explained their composure: they were believers. There was a simple message for each child - help Mummy, be good at school; and each child waited for his or her message; and became grave when the message came. What memories they would retain of these visits!"
- V.S. Naipaul
The Enigma of Arrival

Wednesday
Memories, at least they had that much to take away. There is the decency of receiving in that scene, decency my messages were not given. The birds that perched on my oak tree have gone quiet, or I would have claimed them as the only decent creature I know.

In my solitude there is one question that lingers, that binds me to this bedridden existence. In the morning, which pills do I take? There is the orange thin bottle with the white cap and the white fat bottle with the orange cap. When I wake up in the morning my body instinctively lifts a quivering skeletal hand towards the orange bottle. My head is violently lifted away by a persistent force that removes me of any clarity. So I rely on feel, the feel of the orange thin bottle. My fingers clasp the bottle tightly, the jagged grooves of the plastic providing comfort like an old cherished childhood toy. I take the pill and wait, wait for a restoration that lately never comes. That's when I look at the white fat bottle, so squat, plump, and cheery. Why would it not share some of that cheer with me?

I'm going to do it. I need cheer in my life. I need something to battle the idleness. Idleness will kill me well before my lungs collapse.

Collapse - That word brings such theatrics to my mind. A building collapsing, slowly at first, then accelerating into billowing dust. A man collapsing, bursting with joy upon arriving from a distant journey and into the embraced of loved ones. An empire collapsing, infected and diseased from the inside yet finally submitting to the health and prosperity of the outside. Are these grand visions a precursor to the collapse that my lungs will undertake on the quiet stage of my dying body? I think I'd rather not be in the audience for that.

I ask for this simple message to be received. Let this new set of pills lead me to a more simple solution.

Diary of a Friday

2009-02-01T12:22:00.003-06:00

"Those rolls of hay now as black and as earthlike as the older bales that, at the other end of the droveway, had indeed, below their tattered plastic sheeting, turned to earth. Grass to hay to earth."
-V.S. Naipaul
The Enigma of Arrival

Thursday
I read those words today. Grass to hay to earth, like it really happens so simply. That's the version we tell children. Simple steps that can be taught through colorful happy images.

Goodbye Harry, you idiot. Today, I am excited. Excited for a second chance. I just started my first set, and I can already feel the difference. Today I started the Set of Pills. They have been calling me, willing me against those who think they know better. As if they were entitled to an opinion on the pain my body feels. Today I stand feeling renewed. There is energy in me that I haven’t felt in 14 months.

Hay to earth to full grown green grass.

2009-01-25T19:41:00.003-06:00

It was after the fourth day of school that Anna met the woman at the bus stop. It was late in the afternoon, just before the sun sunk below the cover of the tall buildings.

She sat next to the woman. Anna looked to her left, hoping that she would see a bus in the distance. Nothing. She looked at the face of the woman sitting next to her, but only for a brief moment. Sad, terribly sad.

"Are you ok?" Anna asked.

The woman unfroze and her expression warmed itself into a smile, "Oh, yes dear. It's nothing. I'm fine."

"You looked very sad. Are you sure you're ok?" Anna repeated.

The woman turned her head away and looked to her left, nothing. She turned back to Anna and said, "Yes, I'm fine. I'm a bit tired, and I've been waiting here a long time."

"I know how you feel! Every day after school’s out, I have to wait here for the bus. Then I have to wait 30 minutes for the bus to take me home. Waiting stinks," Anna whined.

"I'd say it depends on what you're waiting for. I’ve seen people wait for all kinds of things. Sometimes they are wonderful things,” the woman replied. “In Brazil, I’ve seen three generations of a family walking together towards one of the largest and most beautiful churches you can imagine. The grandparents, using canes to brace themselves step by step. Their children holding them up, helping them make the long walk to the giant wooden doors of the building. But even in this wonderful moment someone was waiting; the grandchildren, playfully hitting each other on the shoulders, impatiently waiting by the church entrance,” the woman said with a smile on her face.

The smile remained for a moment, then slowly dropped. Anna thought the woman looked terribly sad again, just like when they first met.

The woman continued, looking straight ahead, “But I’ve seen people waiting for one terrible thing. The one you should remember.”

“Waiting for what? What could be more terrible than this?” Anna interrupted.

“I have seen people waiting for nothing. Waiting for nothing because they believed there was no bus coming. They believed there was nothing to wait for, that nothing in life would reach them, and so, they were in no rush be there.”

2009-01-18T08:01:00.000-06:00

I had forgotten about that cold Christmas morning. I suppose it was in order to reassert my hope for my own future. I remember walking out of that frigid concrete hallway into the family room. I remember walking hand in hand with my mother, wearing thick socks and holding tight to Bumpy, my stuffed bear. I remember Marvin, her boyfriend, walking behind us, lumbering from foot to foot.

That early morning was sheltered by my excitement. It was the first year we had bought a Christmas tree, and it was the first year that our family room was lit up by all those little multicolored bulbs. Looking back at the one surviving picture of that morning, the tree looks less majestic. It’s barely taller than I was, had a few gaping empty spots, and underneath it, lay only a handful of presents wrapped in old newspaper. No, it wasn’t pretty but it was ours. If there is one thing I can say for my mother, it’s that she tried to give me a normal and happy childhood.

Much later, after we had each opened our presents my mother slowly walked up to me with a big but apologetic smile.

“Now Anna, it’s time for me to go to work,” my mother told me; her smile dropped as she saw my disappointment.

I squeezed harder onto Bumpy’s chest, stretching the seams of her arms, ripping away the threads that had been three times repaired. I didn’t say a word, that was a product of my mother’s teaching, never talk back to an elder. I tried to send the message with my facial expression.

“You’ll be here with Marvin, it’ll be fun! Marvin you’ll keep her entertained right?” my mother quickly asked. Looking back, I think she must have been looking to transfer the blame or at least some moral support.

He shot back a look at her that I’ll never forget, one that I’ve seen in men since then. It’s a look of confusion, disinterest, annoyance, and worst of all, a hint of avoidance.

“Yeah well... There’s always TV right?” he stuttered out, unsure of the few syllables that buffoon was capable of producing.

I don’t remember the exact details after that. My mother left, I’m sure working to pay off humble but meaningful Christmas she had just given me. Marvin and I feigned some sense of togetherness and watched Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer up until Rudolf meets the Abominable Snowman, then I went to my room. It was imagination and hope that saved me through all those days alone. It seems like a hundred lifetimes ago, heck 300 lifetimes ago.

It wasn’t much later that I heard that man’s abrasive laugh. Deep and mocking of the world around him. He was on the phone with what must have been one of his fellow fools. I remember him laughing haughtily at his presumed mastery of his morally empty world and I remember what he said into that phone ruining what sense I had that my mother was doing things right.

“I’ll be over later and we’ll do it up right man. I’m over here at Gina’s house now,” he paused for the man on the other end, “Oh, she’s just another one of the many. I’m telling you, I’ve got girls all over the city. You want me to call one up for you? They all come running to me, all I have to do is call. I’ll prove it to you later tonight, you know I’m the man.”

2009-01-10T21:46:00.003-06:00

It was in her later years, lying in the hospital bed, that Anna began to recall these memories. She lay there without respite, her head braced firm, waiting to hear something, anything more than the agonizingly noncommittal, “We’re looking into it, but nothing is definite right now. Try to get some rest.”

Her recurring vision.

In her dreams she gently awoke in the familiar surroundings of her room. She was home, and she clung to youth in her small hands. Her myopic eyes limited by the time of night that seemed to claim darkness as permanent rather than a passing phase. Out of habit she would turn her head towards the outside facing window, hoping to let the clouded moonlight bring outline and shape to her room.

First, definition was given to the larger objects in her room. Lamp by her bedside, dresser across the room, and her toy chest where her stuffed penguin Puffy sat. Next was the definition of the trees outside, layered conspiratorially, jutting out their dying rotting branches which hung low in a disfigured pattern.

Through those trees and branches one is able to make out a number of figures. In her dreams she would prepare herself to see the worst. Her body would begin to shiver, frantic thoughts would search for a hidden escape, and her breaths, scattered and strained, became a luxury. She would create such a panic for herself, peering out into the woods and waiting, waiting for a figure that would never come. Often her mind and body would break down into an even greater darkness.

Was it so much better to prepare oneself for anything only to be petrified by nothing at all? She would wonder why should couldn't simply let go and recede into ignorance.

But then there were those times, when peering out into the twisted shapes framed by withered bark, that a figure did become clear. First distant, as if an illusion from a double mirrored image. Defined and at the same time cloaked in a darkness that seemed to collapse the shadows and blackness around it. She would close her eyes and wait. Open. Search the layers of trees again. Wait, that endless waiting she knew too well. Pull the covers ever tighter around her face, try to conceal her own figure. Search again, fixating on a single point in space, a howling shiver running down her spine as she saw the figure again, without any movement unto itself the figure able to cross layers of great distance.

In her dreams she would wait. She would wait, open her eyes once more, and once more see the figure ever closer, threatening to engulf her story in its gloom. An unfair game, conducted by a master of patience, that seemed to be able to repeat itself until the end of time. All she could do was wait.

There Are Mangoes in Those Meadows

2009-01-04T17:31:00.005-06:00

I asked mom how far we would have to go when we got off the train.

She told me that we would get on one more train and be there very soon.

I looked back at her and asked if she new how many stops?

My mom laughed and told me Anna, I don’t know how many stops. Someone told me that it was almost 300.

300 stops! I couldn’t wait that long. I’d waited so long for today. My mother told me that once school was finished we could go to the city. Today was the day that I got to see the penguins at the zoo. I’d waited so long and now she was telling me that I might have to wait 300 stops.

300 stops as the train bumped along into the city. The cows, then cars, then houses and I became more and more anxious to see the tall buildings. The tall buildings meant that I would finally get to the monkeys, giraffes, and my favorite, the penguins.

I started thinking about the penguins. I thought about their funny little feet and how they look so cute when they shuffle from side to side. I thought about them sliding on their bellies across the ice. I thought about how funny they look in suits. I thought how nice it might be to go see them in their home. But then I thought about how cold it must be where they live. My mother might not like that, she said every winter she thinks about home in Hong Kong. She says Hong Kong is always warm. No winter coats, no runny nose, and no snow.

I asked her what she thought the first time she saw snow. I was happy to see something new. Was she also happy to see snow? Did she make a snowman? Did she go sledding?

She smiled at me, and she told me that the first time she saw snow she felt cold.

2008-12-28T15:20:00.011-06:00

It was the mornings that David hated most. A debilitating weakness permeated throughout his entire body and had replaced the sense of adventure that ran through him as a child. His enmity was not a typical disgust with leaving the comfort of a warm bed, it was cultured from the scraping and stealing of his spirit to seize the day. He tried going to sleep early, he visited the doctor to ask for sleeping pills, he had even tried completely changing his sleep schedule by taking a night job. It was one year two months and eighteen days ago, and he could not rest.

It was morning his small kitchen. The room was in shadows, poorly lit by an underpowered light bulb, and accented by brownish fake wood paneling. Beams of sunlight peaked through the slits in the eastward facing window. It was a room of contrast, the sunlight playing foil to an otherwise drab scene.

“Khe Sanh, I remember that lasting for months,” she said as she dropped a slice of garlic in the skillet.

“That was a different fight,” David said laying out two plates, fork on the left, knife on the right. His posture stood strong but his head limped to his right.

There was silence that lasted dangerously long, finally broken by the crackling and popping of heated oil.

“What did you feel, when you saw them coming out of the ground?” she asked.

David looked up at her with a vacant stare, focusing on no part of her body, rather a fixed point beyond her that seemed to flare out in infinite directions.

“I felt like I was going to die,” he said dispassionately.

David sat down slowly in his chair. He ran his thumb across his left hand as if healing a wound, “I remember my mother always told me to have hope. Have hope that dad will return home, have hope for our town, have hope for my safety. She said a man is not broken until his regrets take the place of his dreams.”

His mouth twitched to one side, squeezing his cheek and eye together, “I feel as if I am rushing towards a bottomless regret. Sometimes I wonder if I am already there.”

2008-12-21T16:32:00.001-06:00

“We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special news bulletin. Soviet authorities have issued orders prohibiting the distribution of supplies from the Soviet zone to the Western sectors of Berlin today, thereby...”

David set the radio’s nob to off with a let-down and disinterested sigh. He looked outside and observed that the rain had stopped. This was a golden opportunity in a week that had seen nothing but cloudy skies and pouring thunderstorms. He was going to make the most of the day's gift.

David walked outside and admired the sunshine of June, this was a day to visit the creek and catch crawdads or look for turtles. David began walking with a delighted pace and stroll - along the winding path from his house, up the radio tower hill, down to the dusty and unfinished State Road 119, and around the old church grounds. As he approached the seemingly ancient wooden bridge he stopped at the sound of muffled voices. They were coming from underneath the bridge and were a mixture of crying and a sarcastic laughter.

“First you broke me bicycle because you’re too stoo-pid to look across the street when your dumb self wants to walk, then you break my rule of staying out of my sight. What do you have to say to that Sam? Or is it Stoopid Sam?” boiled from a boy not much older than David. “Paul, hold him down for me. Time for a lesson Sam.”

David stepped back, away from responsibility, stepping into a large puddle that caused a splash that echoed in the hills around them.

The boy pinning the victim down looked up at David instantly, “Hey. Hey you!” he shouted in an accusatory tone, “Who the hell you think you are?”

David didn’t know what to do, his feet were motionless.

“Well?” questioned the boy, releasing his grip from the first victim, “Or do you want some of this too?”

The boy began lumbering towards David with a raised fist that screamed, “Yes, I am insane and will make you know it.”

David ran. He ran away from the church, away from the state road, and away from the radio tower, David ran in a confused haste filled with guilt and anger in himself for not standing firm. He ran until his breaths were rocketing out and slamming back into his chest with equal force. He ran until his foot slammed hard against stone obscured in the muddy ground. His stomach slammed hard into the ground in front of him.

Shaking his head and cradling his stomach in pain, David planted a hand down and began to rotate to a sitting position. The world around him the world seemed brighter, but his world was shadowed. He looked up experimentally and as he looked up he froze. Leaning over him in a manner that completely obscured the sunlight, was an old man with veiny hands and fingers that seemed to fracture out into nine different directions.

The old man looked down at David, young, weak, and infinitely small. David looked back at the man, who now seemed to have less a face than a rotting canvas on which a face could be painted.

The old man’s mouth did not move but David heard a hacking and coughing as if the man had swallowed a dying ember. David, still digging into the dirt with his hands, tried to slowly pull himself backwards.

The words that came next were as clear to David as a creek bed illuminated by radiating daylight. David again did not see the man’s mouth move, but out came the words, “What’s the rush boy? Take your time.” There was a long consumptive breath, as if the old man’s next words were killing him with repetition, “I know where you are going, and you’re already there.”

2008-12-13T21:39:00.002-06:00

David Zimmerman was a well mannered boy, that was for sure. But he was a boy of three parents, his mother at the core, the crackling broadcasts of The Shadow playing a supporting role, and the rolling wooded expanse outside of Greensburg as the background character. He liked adventure and he liked being alone, and these attributes surely didn’t fit well with those who came from the city proper.

Unbeknownst to him, he mortified his mother on more than one occasion. When he was 8, his mother had over a number of who’s who of the community for the Wives of Service Men club. As snacks were being served, David ran into the house covered head to toe in a thick mud paste from the nearby creek.

“Mom, I got one, I really did this time!” he said as his face, surrounded with the glow of success, melted into a bashful horror. Thinking not of his grimy appearance, for David was a boy of order, he was more ashamed of being so rude in front of a group of women whom he had never introduced himself to. Forcing his feet to move against the shame, David walked towards the group of women, most bewildered at this creek-child, and extended a hand still slick and slimy with mud.

“Hello mam, my name is David Zimmerman,” he said in a tone of respect and honor.

There was a brief cessation of time in the room. David’s mother, jaw gaping open, desperately hoping for something to save the situation from her assuredly quick social death. That boy is doing more damage than he realizes she thought, feeling a love yet frustration that only a parent endures.

“Charmed,” said the first woman, feigning towards a handshake much like a man would feed a hungry tiger.

Later that year, David’s mom changed. David didn’t understand it completely, but he knew that the joy in her had left. It seemed like every day she would age a year. Each night before bed she would tell him to pray for his father.

“Hold on. You and I must hold on,” she would tell David in sporadic and shattered syllables. “They’re looking for him,” she said as tears slid down her cheeks, “you and I. We must hold on to hope that they will find him David, we must pray.”

Time is of the essence

2008-12-09T19:54:00.008-06:00

"Hold on," he shouted above the hum of the diesel engine. "You're already here. Take your time."

The old man reacted, slowing his shuffling feet through the slush and snow, he grabbed onto the metal pole, and hoisted himself in.

Had he of known that an ocean of memories was about to be sent through his brain, he would have thought twice before taking that final step.