Friday, January 25, 2008
A short story for the people I knew, and the ones I didn't.
I should make t-shirts
He always had these great ideas for t-shirts. A moment in conversation would start something in his mind—you could see it. Someone would say something about … Extra Terrestrials! … and how if they are out there why don’t they contact us—and his eyes would flash and a little smile would spread across his lips and he would get this goofy look on his face hold his fingers like a phone and say something like: “Hey E.T., call me.” Then we would laugh and he would say: “I should put that on a t-shirt.” Anyway, he was always saying things like that. No matter where we were or what we were talking about, at some point you would hear him say: “I should put that on a t-shirt! I’d wear it all the time. I think it would make people laugh. Don’t you think it would make people laugh?” and we would all say yes—because it made us laugh. He was a great guy. So caught up in every moment that he wanted a t-shirt for them all. I think it was a great idea, and I wish he had actually made some, if he had I could wear one or two once in a while and laugh. Because that is exactly what he would’ve made them for. He loved to make people think about life and smile.
On the days we skipped class, we would walk around down town, and he would say “hello” and help all the old ladies, who had their little push cart full of groceries at 10:00 in the morning, and the other guys and I always hated it when he did that. It made us feel awkward. How the hell are you supposed to talk to old ladies anyway? I think it’s easier to avoid contact and pretend not to see the people I don’t know. But he wasn’t like that, and the old ladies, they really liked it, and they smiled. I bet they smiled all day long after he had said “hello” and asked them about their morning.
He sure was funny. He had this way of making me remember that I sometimes forgot how to live and just have fun. He was my best friend—he’d always say, “will you just stop! I get so bored when you try to be “cool”.” He made it seem so easy to be in a good mood; like it was so easy to not care what other people thought of him, but it was easy for him, everyone thought great things about him. But still, to this day I think there was something wrong with him. I mean, who do you know, who is that happy and nice to everybody all the time? When we would ask him what the hell his deal was; he would say, “I just like people more when they’re smiling, that’s all. It’s actually pretty selfish of me, if you took a minute to think about it.”
Anyway, that’s how he was. I’ve tried to avoid thinking about him, and I did for a long time. I probably haven’t laughed or been in a really good mood for just as long. But a while ago, the guys and I were at Perkins after a night of drinking and clubin’ and there were some younger kids from our school there. One of the girls said; “Hey, do you guys remember that really nice funny guy who died last year?”
The others said, “no.”
But she persisted, “Yes you do. Remember that kid who was killed by a drunk driver last year? He was funny; it’s too bad he had to die. He was a good guy.”
The guys and I became quiet, because we remembered. We all ordered our turkey clubs or mozzarella sticks or greasy chicken burgers, and called a cab home. The next day I put what that girl had said on a t-shirt. I think he would’ve wanted me too. And I brought it to the SADD/MADD organization, and we made a lot of them, and sold them, and used the money for the families like his. And I took one to his Mom. I hadn’t seen her since I saw her crying and clutching the casket before they lowered it forever into the ground. When she saw the t-shirt she cried again. But then she smiled. And I think he would’ve wanted it that way. He loved to make people think about life, and smile.
He always had these great ideas for t-shirts. A moment in conversation would start something in his mind—you could see it. Someone would say something about … Extra Terrestrials! … and how if they are out there why don’t they contact us—and his eyes would flash and a little smile would spread across his lips and he would get this goofy look on his face hold his fingers like a phone and say something like: “Hey E.T., call me.” Then we would laugh and he would say: “I should put that on a t-shirt.” Anyway, he was always saying things like that. No matter where we were or what we were talking about, at some point you would hear him say: “I should put that on a t-shirt! I’d wear it all the time. I think it would make people laugh. Don’t you think it would make people laugh?” and we would all say yes—because it made us laugh. He was a great guy. So caught up in every moment that he wanted a t-shirt for them all. I think it was a great idea, and I wish he had actually made some, if he had I could wear one or two once in a while and laugh. Because that is exactly what he would’ve made them for. He loved to make people think about life and smile.
On the days we skipped class, we would walk around down town, and he would say “hello” and help all the old ladies, who had their little push cart full of groceries at 10:00 in the morning, and the other guys and I always hated it when he did that. It made us feel awkward. How the hell are you supposed to talk to old ladies anyway? I think it’s easier to avoid contact and pretend not to see the people I don’t know. But he wasn’t like that, and the old ladies, they really liked it, and they smiled. I bet they smiled all day long after he had said “hello” and asked them about their morning.
He sure was funny. He had this way of making me remember that I sometimes forgot how to live and just have fun. He was my best friend—he’d always say, “will you just stop! I get so bored when you try to be “cool”.” He made it seem so easy to be in a good mood; like it was so easy to not care what other people thought of him, but it was easy for him, everyone thought great things about him. But still, to this day I think there was something wrong with him. I mean, who do you know, who is that happy and nice to everybody all the time? When we would ask him what the hell his deal was; he would say, “I just like people more when they’re smiling, that’s all. It’s actually pretty selfish of me, if you took a minute to think about it.”
Anyway, that’s how he was. I’ve tried to avoid thinking about him, and I did for a long time. I probably haven’t laughed or been in a really good mood for just as long. But a while ago, the guys and I were at Perkins after a night of drinking and clubin’ and there were some younger kids from our school there. One of the girls said; “Hey, do you guys remember that really nice funny guy who died last year?”
The others said, “no.”
But she persisted, “Yes you do. Remember that kid who was killed by a drunk driver last year? He was funny; it’s too bad he had to die. He was a good guy.”
The guys and I became quiet, because we remembered. We all ordered our turkey clubs or mozzarella sticks or greasy chicken burgers, and called a cab home. The next day I put what that girl had said on a t-shirt. I think he would’ve wanted me too. And I brought it to the SADD/MADD organization, and we made a lot of them, and sold them, and used the money for the families like his. And I took one to his Mom. I hadn’t seen her since I saw her crying and clutching the casket before they lowered it forever into the ground. When she saw the t-shirt she cried again. But then she smiled. And I think he would’ve wanted it that way. He loved to make people think about life, and smile.
REMEMBR THE KIDS WHO WERE KILLED BY DRUNK DRIVERS LAST YEAR?
IT'S TOO BAD THEY HAD TO DIE.
THEY WERE GOOD KIDS.
KEEP OUR GOOD KIDS ALIVE.
DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE.
KEEP OUR GOOD KIDS ALIVE.
DON'T DRINK AND DRIVE.
Growing Younger - Duluth observations 10/27/07
The city is growing younger--yet I feel it's innocence slipping away. Even the Lake retreats. Experts say, "Its never been so low." It makes you wonder where its going, but its waves still crash on the rocky shore, and the sun still shines warmth between the canal lighthouses, so at least there's that.
So much can change in just one summer: Friendships, living locations, tuition, and what I used to see as a wonderful oasis of classic creativity and life can be destroyed by "economic boosting" construction. Though the shoreline landscape changes in the direction of tall metallic monstrosities, the early morning people are the same as they ever were. They still stand facing the rising sun as it emerges from Superiors depths, shilouetted on the rocks, small dark hooded figures, hands deep in their pockets, fingers grasping at a warmth they know can come only from themselves. But I notice in the background of these familiar figures, poetic as they stand, an ever increasing number of glistening spandex and headphones reflect and flash the rising sun, bouncing metallic figures as they jog, backs to the lake, faces watching the shoreline.
I've missed Duluth. I miss the Duluth that was old and forgotten. Like a wonderful secret of fascinating people, old small business, nature mixing with civilization, and, of course, Lake Superior. I've watched it change. I've watched over sized condo complexes, after beating down environmentalists and political activists petitioning for the smaller picture, steal the lake and the sun from those small businesses and from that 18th century Gothic clock/bell tower. That classic building used to admire the lake and absorb the light and heat from the sun. Its sandy brick blending with the forested hillside. Now, fifteen-story-high buildings block it from sight.
Imposing single panned windows and chrome casing reflect the suns light and heat right back, bright and accosting to all that look at it, as if it didn't want or need the gift. I wonder at its purpose. Why sit behind a window to see the beauty of the lake when you can come and sit next to it and hear the waves crash, feel the spray sting your face and in the winter freeze to your face? Why not feel the cold and the heat as it is, and let the sun warm your face as the wind chills it? Why force it into a limited frame of a window pane--like an animated painting--where you can't touch it, you can't taste it, you can't feel it on your skin?
Pictures and paintings are for memories--windows into the past as a reflection of what once was--but has long sense gone. What if in our urgency and greed to capture the beauty of the world we prematurely turn it into a memory? What good will all those windows be when there is nothing left to look out too? All the windows will then need to be replaced by big LCD screens and they will have to show animated paintings of what used to be. A memory you can no longer touch. Not even if you wanted too. And all I know of that beautiful and hidden bell tower from this vantage is the faint sound of the bong-dong calling out the hour over the ever growing hummm of speeding SUV's.
So much can change in just one summer: Friendships, living locations, tuition, and what I used to see as a wonderful oasis of classic creativity and life can be destroyed by "economic boosting" construction. Though the shoreline landscape changes in the direction of tall metallic monstrosities, the early morning people are the same as they ever were. They still stand facing the rising sun as it emerges from Superiors depths, shilouetted on the rocks, small dark hooded figures, hands deep in their pockets, fingers grasping at a warmth they know can come only from themselves. But I notice in the background of these familiar figures, poetic as they stand, an ever increasing number of glistening spandex and headphones reflect and flash the rising sun, bouncing metallic figures as they jog, backs to the lake, faces watching the shoreline.
I've missed Duluth. I miss the Duluth that was old and forgotten. Like a wonderful secret of fascinating people, old small business, nature mixing with civilization, and, of course, Lake Superior. I've watched it change. I've watched over sized condo complexes, after beating down environmentalists and political activists petitioning for the smaller picture, steal the lake and the sun from those small businesses and from that 18th century Gothic clock/bell tower. That classic building used to admire the lake and absorb the light and heat from the sun. Its sandy brick blending with the forested hillside. Now, fifteen-story-high buildings block it from sight.
Imposing single panned windows and chrome casing reflect the suns light and heat right back, bright and accosting to all that look at it, as if it didn't want or need the gift. I wonder at its purpose. Why sit behind a window to see the beauty of the lake when you can come and sit next to it and hear the waves crash, feel the spray sting your face and in the winter freeze to your face? Why not feel the cold and the heat as it is, and let the sun warm your face as the wind chills it? Why force it into a limited frame of a window pane--like an animated painting--where you can't touch it, you can't taste it, you can't feel it on your skin?
Pictures and paintings are for memories--windows into the past as a reflection of what once was--but has long sense gone. What if in our urgency and greed to capture the beauty of the world we prematurely turn it into a memory? What good will all those windows be when there is nothing left to look out too? All the windows will then need to be replaced by big LCD screens and they will have to show animated paintings of what used to be. A memory you can no longer touch. Not even if you wanted too. And all I know of that beautiful and hidden bell tower from this vantage is the faint sound of the bong-dong calling out the hour over the ever growing hummm of speeding SUV's.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
The Tasty Pine Bush - Lake Superior 5/3/2007
I have discovered that most everything is powerless against the will and might of the wind. Everything eventually is moved or worn down by that invisible force. Birds, water, hair, even people move when the wind blows with strength and purpose. Scent also moves with the wind—I realize that statement may seem a bit redundant, everyone knows that smell moves with the wind—but it may hold a different meaning when I say that when sent is moved with the wind; so too does taste.
My lunch today outside on the grass next to the sapping pine bushes was not as I expected it to be. I noticed that as I opened my mouth to welcome my succulent sandwich, the wind would push the scent, and by consequence the taste, from my mouth and replace it with the sappy stench of the sticky droplets of the pine bush next to me. Oddly enough, the taste of that pine bush has a familiar texture of a PB&J sandwich; evidence of the fact that you learn something new every day.
You may think that these circumstances would qualify as a bad lunching experience. But I hardly see it that way, after all I learned a great deal. I discovered the taste of pine bush sap without having to actually lick those glistening drops off of pointy needles, and an appreciation and understanding of the wind was gained.
For what it’s worth the bush did try to protect me against the wind as much as it could and in return—in this spring season—I tasted its sappy hormones on my sandwich. I listened to its stiff needles clack and tick against one another. I watched droplets of sap glisten and shake in the sun while listening to the wind ravish the shore with the waters of Lake Superior—all the while my hair was only gently blowing as I sat in the protection of that tasty pine bush. And the sun was able to warm my face and body, and the wind couldn’t chill me, but it moved me to write this.
My lunch today outside on the grass next to the sapping pine bushes was not as I expected it to be. I noticed that as I opened my mouth to welcome my succulent sandwich, the wind would push the scent, and by consequence the taste, from my mouth and replace it with the sappy stench of the sticky droplets of the pine bush next to me. Oddly enough, the taste of that pine bush has a familiar texture of a PB&J sandwich; evidence of the fact that you learn something new every day.
You may think that these circumstances would qualify as a bad lunching experience. But I hardly see it that way, after all I learned a great deal. I discovered the taste of pine bush sap without having to actually lick those glistening drops off of pointy needles, and an appreciation and understanding of the wind was gained.
For what it’s worth the bush did try to protect me against the wind as much as it could and in return—in this spring season—I tasted its sappy hormones on my sandwich. I listened to its stiff needles clack and tick against one another. I watched droplets of sap glisten and shake in the sun while listening to the wind ravish the shore with the waters of Lake Superior—all the while my hair was only gently blowing as I sat in the protection of that tasty pine bush. And the sun was able to warm my face and body, and the wind couldn’t chill me, but it moved me to write this.
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