Formality and Form

No one ever really taught me how to tie a necktie. I think it is one of those rites that a father or brother teaches a young man. By the time I had to wear my first tie, for a play no less, my father was presumed missing and my brother would have rather been forgotten. Moreover, there were never many occasions that warranted me wearing a tie.

I remember the first job interview I had that ever required one and I remember the tie that I ended up wearing. It is the only tie I owned at the time and the only one I still have now. An ex-boyfriend gave it to me, after I wore it to a party one night in order to make my shoddy clothes semi-formal. And I remember that he had to tie it for me. Anytime, formal wear was required I constantly depended on someone to tie them for me.

Eventually, through years of acting in period pieces and playing business men, I learned for myself how to tie one. I couldn’t tell you a Windsor knot from anything else, but in a pinch I can make it work. I always have to look in a mirror as I wrap it around twice, pull it up through the loop . When I am finished, reflected back at me, is an alternate Ben. A man-child from another universe who eats ivy and rows boats. For me, ties were something that I had always associated with money and affluence. Things constantly missing in my life.

Sometimes I feel we as people charge the inanimate with too much. We imbue power into things that shouldn’t have control over us. Last night, as I was dressing for my latest play, I glanced at myself in the mirror as I was cinching my navy blue tie. For a slight second, a fraction, I couldn’t breathe. I looked to my left and saw two other men, cast mates, fixing their ties; looked right and saw another cinching his in, surrounded by affluence. I choked.

How long? How long until they notice? I am an imposter.

And in an instant it was gone. I put on my suit jacket. Flattened my hair and turned to my cast. Ready, for the evening, to pretend to be someone else. Someone in a tie.

Marjorie

It wasn’t until she had turned down her sheets and was already prepared for the cool, three-hundred-thirty-thread-count comfort of her linens that she realized she had forgotten to eat that day. By then, the thought of consumption was too tiring to actualize. Besides, she thought, I’m not even hungry. And I haven’t been all day. And I had three slices of cake yesterday, leftover from- and I’ve been meaning to lose weight- and the kitchen is all the way downstairs- and the prep time- the actual eating of whatever it is I might fix- and the clean-up and-and-and…
Marjorie Chambers was curled in bed before her thought was even finished. She would eat the next morning, she decided. A proper breakfast, as her mother used to say, Yes, a proper breakfast for Emily and me. Eggs…yes eggs, she continued thinking, even in the darkness of her room and the coziness of her king sized bed. And toast, no, muffins- what goes better with toast? What kind of eggs does Emily like? Maybe I should make pancakes? That would be safer. Shit, though, I’m terrible at pancakes. Mother always said you ruined the first one and that was the one for the cook- all of my pancakes are for the cook. And for that matter my eggs. Special K then. Yes, a normal cereal and juice. But fuck…we don’t have milk. At least I don’t think we do. I could go down and check- Yes and while I’m down there I could fix myself something to eat- but then it wouldn’t matter what I eat for breakfast- But Emily needs breakfast too. Did she eat today? Yes I made her dinner and why didn’t I eat then? Are there leftovers? Where was I when dinner- Right, cuz Mark called. Which reminds me, I have to call Mark tomorrow before eleven. Call Mark tomorrow before eleven. Call Mark- Call Mark- Call Mark- Mark- Mark- Mark- before eleven, before eleven- BEFORE eleven- tomorrow-tomorrow-tomorrow. Call Mark tomorrow before eleven.
Marjorie thought like this at nights before sleep, even when David was lying next to her. It was how she tricked herself into falling asleep. A nocturnal distraction. Eventually, like all her sleeps, her thoughts would sail into a black slate of calm and she would be sleeping. Never quite knowing the exact moment she drifted and only realizing she had fallen asleep when she finally awoke. Sometimes her body would catch itself right at the moment she was about to fall and she would have to start all over.
What to think about now? My black pants, non-pleated, look great with the pink dress shirt, but would the grey v-neck look nice over the button-down?
And so it would go until she was sleeping.
It was the forgetting that was beginning to worry Marjorie. Yesterday, she had forgotten to call Mark, her lawyer, about some paperwork. It was this oversight that made Mark call her today. He was irked that it had “slipped her mind”, he said, thinking she had forgotten willfully to delay his day even more. Marjorie wanted to tell him that this problem of hers, this syndrome, extended beyond phone calls. It started with the trivialities. The dry-cleaning, unplugging the coffee pot. More rapidly than not, it began to seep into more pivotal doings. She had missed Emily’s parent-teacher conference and stood-up her best friend Delilah for lunch…twice. While driving to work or returning home, she would miss a turn or turn too early (usually turning right into a neighborhood she knew was now out of her price bracket). Bills would pile on the table and her mailbox was full. Her answering machine stopped receiving incoming messages because Marjorie could never remember to check it when she got home and the tape had reached is capacity. Her cell phone was useless to her now because she always forgot to charge it in the evenings and that was of little import, because she rarely ever remembered to take it along with her when she would leave the house.
Her teeth went un-brushed for days. Her contacts would spend days in her eyes or days out of her eyes (those days turned driving into a bigger chore than it already was and could probably account for why she would miss her turns). One evening, Marjorie went so far as to place her contact lenses into their case, but never added the saline solution to keep them fresh. And now-
Now she was forgetting to eat.
There were steps of course. Gimmicks. Gimmicks to help her remember. One of her earliest memories of her father was a frayed red piece of yarn tied around his chubby, chapped index finger.
“Your mother tells me to bring more wood for the stove, and I don’t. So she ties this around my digit…to keep her feet warm. To remind me.” Marjorie remembers her father’s hands. She remembers the wood burning stove. The way the creosote would drip down through the cracks in the aluminum exhaust.
Childhood memories had tricked her. They left her brain when she didn’t need to remember her long-past nostalgias. They absconded so she wouldn’t miss them. She mourned their loss, but resigned herself to not really needing them. Those aren’t the memories that get her up in the morning. They aren’t the thoughts that pay the bills. They are not the baubles that pick her daughter up from school. These- THESE are essential; the bills, the daughter.
So Marjorie turned to rubber bands. Tying yarn around her finger would be something she copied from her mother (Dear God don’t let me end up like my mother!).
It was her thirteen year old daughter, Emily, who gave her the idea. She watched the adolescent launch band after band, marauding the household cat, Sinclair. Emily eventually tired of her pestering and turned to masochistic delight. Sliding the rubber band around her wrist, she began to snap it against the tender underside, where blue veins were visible. A small distance at first; hardly creating a sound. And then an inch from her wrist, produce a small, crisp smack and a light sting. Then two inches, smack smacking with vibrations and leaving concentric red lines. Finally, stretched to its threshold, three inches. Emily stared at the band not wanting to let it snap, but too curious to stop. She inhaled, sharply closed her eyes and let go.
“SSS,” she hissed, “Damn I’m smart. That hurt.”
Marjorie rolled her eyes, “Why do you do it if it hurts? And don’t say damn.”
“To see what it feels like, moth-er.” Emily retorted.
“Well remember that next time, before you give yourself a bruise.” Emily turned drolly to her mother using the all too common I-am-a-young-woman-of-unflappable-superiority look and dropped the rubber band to the kitchen table. Almost challenging her mother to pick it up.
“I’m gonna go watch TV,” Emily was out of the kitchen before her decree was even finished and that plain tan rubber band was around Marjorie’s wrist before her daughter had time to turn to channel two.
It was an easy enough way to remind herself of all the trivialities she needed to do. Light bill, phone bill- snap, snap, snap. Simple, every time I look at the rubber band I’ll think of the bills. And I will pay them. It was when she started wearing multiple rubber bands and color coding them, that Marjorie worried her rubber pneumatism might have become an obsession.
Tan was for bills. Red bands, the kind that bind newspapers, were work related tasks. Green bands, also commonly found on those small circulars that her alderman or local delivery boy would leave bound to her front doorknob, were for all things concerning Emily. When Marjorie had started her rubber trick, Emily had had green hair, so it was a natural connection. Emily’s hair had since gone from green to blue to dark natural brown and back to blue. Emily’s band was still green, because that was one less thing Marjorie had to keep track of. Blue bands, which Marjorie had to purchase from a local office supply store, were for all matters concerning Mark. Since the funeral, there had been documents to sign, fax, copy, file and compile.
Sad, she thought, that David doesn’t have a band. But I suppose I won’t forget…and if I did…maybe it is something that should be forgotten.
“So,” Marjorie said aloud, finally breaking the silence and stillness of her bedroom, “Should ‘reminding myself to eat’ be work related or Emily related? It isn’t Mark related, thank effing God, and it certainly isn’t a bill…” Marjorie paused. “How could I not have a rubber band for myself?”
Jesus Christ, did I really just say that out loud to my ceiling? Is that why it has that crack? Did I say too many stupid things to my ceiling? Did I unload too much bull-shit and now it can’t bear the weight of it all? Marjorie Chambers…Marjorie….you are going insane…and you need to sleep.
She began again, Breakfast for Emily, Breakfast for Emily, Breakfast for Emily…
Every night she would chant what is it she needed to do the next day just so she could remember. Program herself. Chanting over and over, until she would fall into that slate of calm.
I wonder, she thought seconds away from drifting into her slumber, Is this what happens to most people who grieve. Do they forget too?
Her body jerked and her head twitched into her pillow. Call Mark tomorrow, call mark tomorrow, Call Mark tomorrow…

Pop Culture Report 08/23/05

So…earlier this year I saw “Mysterious Skin” by Gregg Araki.

It is no secret I am an Araki fan. To those of you who don’t know his work (Doom Generation, Nowhere, Totally F*cked Up) he is an acquired taste. After seeing the movie and feeling my core thoroughly shook, I am now braving the book. It is not my custom to review a book before I finish it, but I can’t imagine this book disappointing me. While Heim, the author, could distinguish each character’s voice more (something that really irks me in writers) he more than compensates with some of the richest images. While his prose is not difficult, he describes things so perfectly and adamantly that it creates an exact image in my mind. He can humor and heartbreak into a single line of dialogue and keeps things at a breakneck speed, careening towards what I already know is a powerful climax.
I recommend this book, and the movie (it should be out on DVD soon) but I warn people…it is not for the faint of heart…while not bloody it is full of very stark images and, to quote the television, Adult Content.

Here is what Amazon had to say about it:

From Publishers Weekly"The summer I was eight years old, five hours disappeared from my life"?so runs the catchy opening to Heim's impressive first novel. The speaker is Brian Lackey, now a troubled teenager, once an introverted kid growing up scared in the small town of Hutchinson, Kans. The reason for his memory lapse and his fear, as we and Brian learn during the course of the novel, turns out not to be the space aliens that he first suspects, but his molestation at the hands of his Little League coach. The key to Brian's reclamation of those lost hours is homosexual hustler Neil McCormick?the slugger on that Little League team and an accomplice to Brian's sexual abuse. Working its way over the course of a decade toward Brian and Neil's reunion, the narrative unfolds through chapters whose points of view alternate among Brian, Neil and a handful of their siblings and confidants. Heim makes numerous freshman mistakes, including a relatively static narrative, prominent characters who outlive their usefulness and occasional lapses in the writing. He also creates scenes of genuine beauty, however, and handles his complicated characters and delicate subject matter with calm assurance. Copyright 1995 Reed Business Information, Inc.--This text refers to an out of print or unavailable edition of this title.

So…the new Nickel Creek CD. Is it worth it? I say yes. Many of my friends are not Nickel Creek friends, Sarah…I expect to have you next to me at the concert, but they should be. They hear the words “bluegrass” or “country” and they cringe…and go listen to their Wilco album. But Sara Watkins Fiddle and Chris Thile’s mandolin defy genres. Sean Watkins isn’t bad either.

1. When in Rome (awesome opening track, love the build)
2. Somebody More Like You (catchy, great line about needing some as tall as you, Sean’s voice is smooth as always)
3. Jealous of the Moon (Chris sounds great, great chorus, top three songs)
4. Scotch & Chocolate (this instrumental track is like a steam engine, it starts out slow and steady and gets you home in record time…er…whut…anyway…its awesome)
5. Can’t Complain (amazing…top three for sure)
6. Tomorrow is a Long Time (every band has to cover this Dylan song at some point and letting Sara take lead is wise, simple and sweet)
7. Eveline (strongest harmonies on the Cd probably)
8. Stumptown (short sweet and amazing music)
9. Anthony (the production values on this track are awesome, tinny and scratched, Sara sounds great)
10. Best of Luck (Sara gets to rock out a little with the boys backing her up)
11. Doubting Thomas (Classic Nickel Creek song)
12. First and Last Waltz (the worst of the instrumental tracks, but its still great)
13. Helena (current favorite song on the CD…just awesome)
14. Why Should the Fire Die? (obligatory title track is anything but obligatory)
Overview – To say I love this CD would be an understatement. One of the best of the year. Please listen and enjoy their eclectic style.

Other Artists to look for:

Gregory Douglass – He’s just so goddamn cute isn’t he. His voice is amazing and his piano awesome. He may be a little too LITE FM for some people but he makes a pleasant diversion after listening to this guy:

Justin Tranter - Now he will definitely not be for everyone’s tastes…woo-boy. He calls his music Drama Pop. Some call it Death Pop. He’s sort of the imaginary offspring that would spring forth if Stephen Sondheim, Billy Corgan, and The Pansies had a baby.

Both can be found at planetout.com and Gregory has an awesome MySpace page. Justin has a website with streaming audio.
Songs to Listen for:

Gregory Douglass - Upside Down, Better Tomorrow, Wild World LIVE, Hold On Live
Justin Tranter – Gag Reflex, Fear of Frailty, Good Luck With Your Armageddon, Martyrs and Monsters

Logo Network: Not worth your time. Jeez-us tits.

Red Eye - Fun Fun Fun. Not very good. But this guy is nice:
She's pretty good too:

Until next time, enjoy!

Kyle's Mix 2

Overview: 2
Joe Purdy - I Love the Rain The Most
Simple, sweet. Pared down. “I love the rain the most…when it stops.” He has a unique and very expressive voice. Good wake up in the morning song. Smart opening song.
Jump Little Children – Mexico
Great band. Great lead vocals. Sweet song. Not their best song, but more than passable. Followed the first song well.
Kim Richey - A Place Called Home
What Kim lacks in vocal ability she more than makes up for it with expression and emotion. Once again a very simple, sweet song. Noticing a trend? Strong lyrics.
Bic Runga - The Be All and End All (live)
I love Bic and Kyle knows this. So nice to hear that live, she still keeps that same ethereal quality as when she is recorded. And she sounds great. What a great song choice. (I have to say at this point thought the energy of this mix is down. And I start to think. This is a lazy Saturday album.)
Gemma Hayes - Evening Sun
The same thing could be said about Gemma’s voice that was said of Kim’s voice. Except more. Her voice isn’t as strong, but her tone and emotion paint a gorgeous picture. Sadly the intro to this song sounds so similar to Bic’s song that if you aren’t paying attention you won’t know they’ve moved on. The variety on this mix isn’t as strong but the songs are stronger.
Jolie Holland - Sascha
After three similar songs Kyle knocks it out of this park. Jolie’s voice is haunting and the production on this tinny-standard sounding song are classic. A pleasant change without ruining the flow of the energy.
Ray LaMontagne - Jolene
No this isn’t the infamous Dolly Parton song or one of its many covers. This is another song about a girl named Jolene. It’s almost as haunting. Ray’s voice has that dusty raspy country feel, but the song still feels forced. But the fiddle in this song is gorgeous.
M Ward - HEre Comes the Sun Again
Simple, sweet. Not much else. Nice inclusion.
Eel - Railroad Man
I don’t know why, but this is one of my favs on the mix. Simple, alt-country chords, ambiguous lyrics. But I’ve always love the Eels and this song has a wonderful resolve.
Amos Lee – Colors
Nice choice to follow the Eels. His voice is gorgeous and very controlled. Simple, pared down. Stripped and beautiful. By this point the mix has found its voice. Easily one of my new fav tracks.
James Blunt - You're Beautiful
Great opening riff on this song. And his voice is mysterious and almost sexy. Very vulnerable song. This is honestly one of the best three song samples on a mix CD. Sappy for sure, but very moving.
Matt Pond PA – KC
Complete change in pace. Still has that same desolate quality, though. Some trite lyrics, but a heel-tapping song (no not toes). Awesome chorus.
Sufjan Stevens - Cashmir Pulaski Day
A very simple song for his boyish voice. Amazing use of the banjo. Sufjan is a whiz who, I feel, has as many hits as he does misses. But this track is a nice comedown after the last song.
Nada Surf - Paper Boats
Dreary song. But an okay Nada Surf song is better than coldplay any day.
Cary Brothers - Honestly
Sweet song. Starting to wrap things up and bring it back around. Wonderful lyrics. Simple guitar.
Kashmir - The Aftermath
Not the strongest song vocally, great build to song though. At this point in the CD I am ready to move to Wyoming and read Annie Proulx books. Killer chorus.
Lindy - Beautifully Undone
Great heartbreak song. Voice matches lyrics which complements the guitar. Strong little ditty.
Tom McRae - Second Law
Hate to say it, but the CD cut out on this one but the first four bars sounded cool and it might have been a great closing track. Can’t be for certain.

Overview-

The theme, both musically and emotionally is very apparent. (Whereas the first mix went all over). The flow was nice, although the energy of this mix never picked up. Not a good mix if you are feeling like cutting yourself. But a perfect mix for any other time of the day. A few songs in the middle were muddly but after the Eels song, Kyle hits it home. Bang-up job.

Kyle's CD Review Mix 1

K...so my Friend Kyle makes these awesome mix CD's for me and I promised him I would review them. So...since they are such great compilations I am sharing them here. That way if you know the bands or are interested in my taste you can find the tracks and share the love.

Mix 1
Josh Rouse - It's the Nighttime
-cool voice, like the country twang, strong opener…eases into mix…
Matt Costa - Cold December
one of the best tracks on the album, great voice, great bass line, great lyrics, great voice
Fruit Bats - The Wind That Blew My Heart Away
really dig digital effects in this one, brit influenced…good song to ride the train to
Of Montreal - Wraith Pinned to the Mist (And Other Games)
if elastica was less electronica and met the eighties and had a male vocal, this song is so catchy and bonus points for having Antartica in a song…
Simple Kid - Hello
at first listen it sounds like a song MTV would use for a commercial but never show the video of, but all in all strong track, somewhat over-produced but not in that Jessica Simpson way
Athlete - You Got the Style
I love Athlete…love them…so this was a treat…what a great song from them too, not their best but hits the mix almost in the middle and adds amazing variety, good for those soundtrack of your life moments
Bell X1 - Eve, The Apple of My Eye
Like Damien Rice/Coldplay-lite very sacchriney but the songs emotional core is very strong, cool chorus, but cheesy lyrics, good for when its raining
Butterfly Boucher - Another White Dash
I have a huge soft spot for this song. Great voice, great guitar in the background. Nice lyrics. All in all, an amazing pop song. Plus her name is Butterfly…no really it is. “Heart full of rubber bands…” Great.
The Fray - Cable Car
Very strong pop/rock song. My type of male voice. Needs a stronger bridge.
Michael Flynn - You're In Luck
Love it. Love it. Love it. Lyrically it sucks. But the build and the piano, with the harmonies. Love it. Love it. Nice use of repetition. One of my favs on the cd.
David Hopkins - Ginger Hair
Like this song. Gets a bit monotonous, but love the synths.
Patrick Park - Thunderbolt
Simple, nice folk song. Like David Gray meets James Taylor.
American Music Club - Patriot's Heart
Every now and then you need some AMC. Lyrically one of the best. Not to everyone’s tastes but I love it. Strong mood. Strong story. Not even one of their best tracks but still awesome.
The Frames - Sideways Down
I love the Frames. Ties with Costa for best on the album. Great build. Love the mixing of the voices. Great with stereo surround. Actually this one might win for best song. Love the violin. AAAAH. K…better now.
The Magnetic Fields - I thought you were my boyfriend
God they crack me up. What a great track…good electronic beat. Haunting vocal (as usual), witty self-observant. Lyrically simple.
Stars - Your ex-lover is dead
The Stars. The Stars. The Stars. What a great song. Okay…wait. Stars, best track. Frames, second best. Matt Costa, number three. This song, music, lyrics, voice, build mesh perfectly.
Ben Folds and Rufus Wainwright - Careless Whisper
What can you say? Both of their voices sound great. Everyone needs some George Michael…great ending song for a CD too.

Overview:
Strong mix. Weighs down a bit in the middle, but picks up for some strong variety. Good job Kyle. I will review number 2 next.

T.G.I.F. (That guy is fucked)

I have made it an art really, my ability to be tardy. What is amazing though is that regardless of how late I am running I can always manage to find time to stop for donuts and a vitamin water. This morning after exiting the train, (immediately after running up an escalator, running over a small Asian woman, catching my foot in the turnstile and then falling up the stairs leading to open air) I stumbled by the Jewel-Osco and could smell the fresh Krispy Cremes. It was clear to me:

Being fired is worth a chocolate-frosted, cream-filled donut.

At the little Krispy Cream cubicle, I opted for two donuts, after all…It was Friday. I ran out of the store, wallet, keys and phone still in my hand, deciding to eat my donuts on the way. As I crossed Rush, almost to work (and the donuts long since eaten), I ran to the trash-can to dispose of my evidence. If I was going to be late, then the higher-ups need not know the little details.

Sometimes, especially early in the morning, my brain has this habit of ceasing to function. Motor skills lessen and I usually go from five sense down to two (sight and hearing always leaving me first). I wouldn’t call it a condition, just stupidity. As I went to throw away my donut bag I switched it into my already full hand and exchanged it with my phone. Phone in left hand along with discman, keys and wallet and donut bag in right. I was planning on a walk-by dumping. One of those smooth vignettes that another passerby would see and say, “What a smooth and cool individual.”

Walk walk walk. Throw the bag and go. I made it across Rush street when I realized that my right hand was completely empty. My stomach clenched and dropped to the pavement. My right hand shot into my right pocket looking for my wallet and keys. Nothing…gone. Without thinking I dropped my discman and phone to the ground, a lousy move on my part as my phone is already temperamental after having had a bath in a class of Jack and Coke, and shoved my left hand into my pocket. No keys, no wallet. I stopped, turned and saw the black steel trash can across the street.

Oh my god. No no no no no no no no. Shit no shit no shit no. Why? Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?

I began to dart across Rush again right as a blaring fire-truck screamed by. (Again, my sense of hearing was gone and tunnel vision was in full effect.) After the truck had passed I bounded across. Right at the top of the trash can was my Krispy Cream bag. I picked it up and dropped it to the ground, thinking…It’s not littering if I pick it up when I am done. Thankfully, right underneath the bag was my wallet. I grabbed it, perused it for slime or gunk and shoved it in my pocket.

Curious, my phone pocket is empty. Maybe its in-

I bounded back across Rush street, looking for a firetruck this time. The coast was clear. My phone and discman, thankfully, were still sitting on the ground where I had dropped them.

Bounding back across Rush, hopefully this time to find my keys. I peered into the trash can and saw nothing.

Panic. Dread. And slight nausea.

In the time it had taken me to run across the street for my phone someone had thrown away a half eaten pizza.

Who eats pizza at nine o clock in the morning? Where can I get this pizza? I should have gotten pizza. Although I couldn't quite sneak that into work.

I picked up my donut bag from the ground and slipped it over my hand like a glove. Carefully, gingerly I slid the half eaten pizza to the side. And I saw them. My keys. Or at least the top of my Jewel Savers Card that is attached to my keys.

Remember when I said my brain doesn't function in the morning? I reached for keys with my hand, my donut-bag-gloved hand. Essentially a mitten. Minus the thumb. A hand muzzle. Havging no opposable anything I only managed to hit the Jewel saver card and knock the keys even further down into the trash can.

This is not happening. This is not my life. I need to be drunk right now.

I knew what needed to happen.

The donut mitten needs to come off...










Who thinks that? I am the only person in the world who has probably ever thought that phrase.

I don't want to disgust people with the gory details, but I did manage to get the keys out of the trash can. Just picture an olympic swimmer doing the butterfly on his way to gold, and then picture the utter opposite of that. The latter is what I looked like at that moment. Afterwards I needed to wash my hand, severely. I threw my keys in my bookbag, because they needed to be washed and tied my button down shirt around my waist. Oh, in order to reach my keys I had to push into the trash can elbow deep. Rather than rolling up my sleeves, I just took off my shirt. I turned around ready to cross Rush again, when I noticed...

What the fuck are those people staring at? Haven't they ever seen a slightly maniacal, slightly hung-over twenty-four year dig through a garbage can in downtown Chicago?

Then I saw. Strewn all around the trash can was refuse. Refuse that I had knocked out of the garbage can. Food, gunk, litter, cups, and someones sunglasses. On top of this pile was my donut bag. I picked it up between two fingers, with my dirty hand, and dropped it into the trash can.

There, at least I didn't litter.

Zeitgeist

"As for Coupland's work-in-progress, it will be a sequel to Microserfs entitled jPod. Allusions to the ubiquitous iPod aside, jPod is actually the name of a corner of an office housing 6 employees whose last names begin with a J. Coupland says that this novel will essentially be about "corporate intrusion into private memory." Heady stuff. But the passage he read came off a bit light-weight and a bit forced. It was a scene in which the 6 employees discuss McDonald's, and in particular Ronald McDonald, and in particular Ronald McDonald's sex-life. They decide that they should each compose and read to the group a "love letter" to Ronald. Then we hear the letters, and they were amusing to a point, and I suppose they do reveal a bit about the individual characters, and the passage seemed to go off well with the audience. But the whole thing came off a bit jokey. And once the whole unusual premise was set, even a bit obvious."Read the complete post here at The Millions (A Blog About Books).

Now...to be honest...I LOVED "Hey Nostradamus!", but "Eleanor Rigby" was way too pat by the end. "Microserfs", far from being my favorite Coupland, still is up on my list. Will he emerge victorious? Will it be better than "Girlfriend In a Coma"? Is he losing his touch? Does anyone know what I'm talking about? Only time will tell.

Speaking of Fires Dying...

The new Nickel Creek Album is out!!! How exciting!!! Huh? Okay just me.

What's in the box? What's in the box?

It stared back at us in that way that only inanimate objects can. It was a temptress and an intimidator at the same time. When the car would shake it would leap forward, as if taunting us. Threatening to spill to the floor and unleash its awful secret. Anonymous. Unclaimed. Dangerous. And tacky.

My roommate and I, Sarah, were taking the train to Lakeview to meet some friends at a bar. We entered an almost empty car at Western and settled into single seats. It was halfway through our conversation about the joys of alcohol and codependency when I noticed it.
“Hey Sarah, do you see that?”
“See what?”
Across from our single seats in another single was a small tote bag. It was striped, teal and magenta, and had a white corded drawstring. It seemed to be packed full, though of what I couldn’t tell. The train veered and the bag bounced a little, scooting it towards the edge of the seat.
“That bag.”
“That bag?”
“That bag over there.”
“I’m trying not to.”
Sarah stole a glance over to the seat and then directly back out at me. Her eyes widened, complementing my strange smile. Our silence was painful yet obvious. Sarah and I, along with countless other people residing in this fair city of Chicago, rely solely on public transportation. Sarah sold her car for convenience and I am legally not allowed to drive in the fifty states (although Kentucky might be questionable). At least twice every day, if not more, I am in transit. Red lines to brown lines to numbered buses. When they talked of cuts, I began emergency rerouting plans. Free transfers to green lines and back home on the blue line.

Without it, I can only imagine a post-apocalyptic metropolis where the downtown car-less go underground into the now abandoned transit tunnels, growing pale from lack of Vitamin D and coming out at night to attack those with cars, the Automated, in order to salvage the cars for hopes of building better trains for the future. They call themselves the Bidpedals. Those of us on the north side, take to the now abandoned elevated tracks, living in abandoned el cars and gain uncanny climbing and scaling abilities, allowing us to obtain food, kill intruders and locomote without ever touching the ground. We would name ourselves the Simnoids, combination simian and humanoid. Bleak indeed.
“It’s probably just a bag. Right? Like someone’s laundry bag?” Sarah asked.
“Right.”
In light of recent global events, I don’t know if Sarah was trying more to convince me or herself.
“It’s just a bag.”
The train stopped at the next stop and a group of about seven or eight boarded. As the volume grew, so did our anxiety.
“Isn’t this one of those things?” Sarah asked.
“One of those things?” I replied.
“One of those things we’re supposed to report.”
“Oh, I think so,” I replied and turned back around to face out.
“Ben?”
“Yes?”
“Then shouldn’t we report it?”
“Now?”
“I don’t know.”
I turned back out to face Sarah and see that her eyes had not narrowed at all and she certainly could discern that my nervous smile remained plastered.
“Well,” I said, “We are almost there. Maybe we should wait.”
“Yeah, maybe. But maybe if we wait…”
“I mean, I guess I would have to press the button. And they would stop the train. I mean everyone would be mad. I don’t want to be “that” guy.”

Amazing really, that even when faced with either a potential disaster or the chance to be a hero, I am more concerned with public opinion and saving face. What, iIf the train were about to explode or become inundated with viral spores at least I could maybe make two more friends before losing limbs or bleeding out of my eyes?

Luckily, Sarah agreed with me.
“No, we wouldn’t want to do that.”
We were silent for what seemed like ages. I don’t know what Sarah was thinking in those moments, but I’m sure it was something profound. Me, on the other was thinking about how drunk I could tonight and still be able to make it to work alright. I am tempted to call it a defense mechanism. A way to distract my thoughts from something potentially dangerous. Truthfully though, I think I am just an alcoholic.
Sarah’s headed twitched and she spoke:
“It’s just someone’s bag right?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said, “someone just left it there during rush hour or something.”
“Right, it’s just a bag.”
I knew what I needed to do.
“Do you want me to go check it out?”
“Yes. Just go poke it.”
The rational side of me kept telling myself, It’s nothing. It’s a bag. It’s trash. If it’s valuable you can keep it.

But as I made my way over to the bag the morbid side of me took over.

If its anthrax will I die immediately? How does one die from anthrax? I really should watch the news more often. Weren’t they saying there were some trademarks to look for if you come upon a mysterious package. What are they? I should start reading the paper.
I sat down in the seat next to bag and began reaching my hand out towards it.

What if its something dead. Oh my god. What if someone killed their cat and threw it in a bag and left it on the el. How awful, how disgusting, and how could I do that without Sarah noticing?
As my hand touched the top of the bag and I curled my fingers around the drawstring my morbidity increased ten-fold.

What if…what if it’s a baby. Oh my god. It’s a baby. Someone left there baby on the train. God I hate babies. Why is everyone having children?

I opened the top of the bag and something black and brown poked its way out. I looked over to Sarah.
“What is it?” she implored.
It’s a paw. It’s a limb. It’s a baby.
“I think,” I started.
It’s a bomb. It’s anthrax. What does anthrax look like? I really have to start watching the news.
“A pair of flip-flops.”
“What?”
“It’s a pair of flip-flops. Um…some baby clothes. A bottle of baby formula. Some books. And some other stuff.”
“Oh.”
“At least I think it’s baby formula.”
I looked to Sarah with a “what now?” face.
She called up to the front of the car.
“Is this anyone’s bag. Does this bag belong to anyone. This bag. It’s a bag. Is it yours?”
“What bag?” A surly man replied.
“This bag,” I said, as I lifted it up to show him.
“No, it’s not. It’s not yours?”
“No,” Sarah said.
“No!” I yelled. “Not out bag. This isn’t ours. Not our bag.” If there was a secret bomb at the bottom of this bag, I wanted to make sure that I could be absolved of guilt.
“Then whose is it?”
The three of us looked at each other with mild concern. The surly gentleman soon lost interest and Sarah and I turned back to each other.
“I suppose we could take it down to the CTA worker when we get off.” I offered.
“Ooh, like a lost-and-found.”
“Yeah.”
We arrived at out destination and I trudged slowly down the stairs towards the exit. Dread weighed me down and I wasn’t sure why.

I’ve seen what’s in the bag. It isn’t ticking. Some woman foolishly left it on the train while trying to juggle her child and her purse. Silly woman. She should have left the child. Why am I so concerned?

We reached the little cubicle where the CTA worker resides.
“Excuse me sir. We found this bag on the train. I think some woman must have left it. Do you have like a lost and found?”
He didn’t say a word. He just stared at the bag. Then at our faces. Then back to the bag. Waiting, I guess, to see if it moved or if noxious fumes would start tumbling out.
“It’s mostly just baby clothes and some other stuff.”
He eyes darted at me.
I couldn’t tell if his look was saying:
You stupid kids. What are you doing picking up an unmarked bag and walking around with it on public transportation?
Or
Oh my god. What are you handing me. This is what you wanted me to do, isn’t it? You look so unassuming. That’s how they get you. Terrorists.
Or
What do these dumb-ass kids care if some stupid woman left her bag on the train. What are they, boy scouts? Mormons? I have better things to do with my time, like not giving people directions or closing down every ticket station but one.
I couldn’t be sure what the look said, but I am sure it was one of the three. Maybe all of them.
After staring at the bag for some time, he slowly reached out for it.
“Thanks.” He said quickly and Sarah and I were on our way.
When I exited the CTA station my stomach unclenched.
Yes. I’m alive. It was nothing. It was just a stupid bag. I don’t have to start watching the news now. Bonus.
I felt stupid mostly. Of course it wasn’t a bomb, it wasn’t a biological weapon. I had just let months upon months of color-coded terror alerts and security dogs with sniffing dogs and TV press junkets (okay so I do sometimes watch the news) cloud my mind with perhaps the strongest weapon of all. Paranoia.
On the train ride back home that night, the same worker was still stationed there. He nodded as we passed, without recognition. His night, like mine, continued on without skipping a beat.

Why should I let the fire die?

I believe in superstition, supernatural, ethereal, and ghostly. It is rooted in me. Or rather I think it roots me. What it comes down to, I think, is a need for me to feel, because I rarely believe in god, that there is something unseen in this world working for me and against me. There is that spark. Ghosts, spirits, dreams, and breezes. I would like to think they all come from the same place.
From a very young age I knew how to read people’s palms and cast stones. My brother and my mother taught me to interpret runes and I had my first deck of Tarot cards (willed to me by mother) by the time I was ten.
I believed, foolishly or not, that from the time I was
nine until twelvethat a ghost, a spirit, a specter, followed me around. Creeping in room corners, black and formless. Knocking over glasses of juice and making the hairs on the back of my dog’s neck stand on edge. He never growled or hunkered down, unless it was around.
I remember the first time I met my friend Kate’s mother. I entered her front door and from the kitchen I heard:
“Kate who is with you.?”
“Just a friend mother.”
“He’s the one.”
“Mother.”
I turned to Kate and laughed.
“She thinks we’re dating.”
“Oh god no.”
“It’s him isn’t it? The one on the other side of the bridge.” Her voice lilted from the kitchen.
“Ben, I should have warned you about my mother.”
Kate’s mother entered, fiery red hair, paint on her cheek and a crooked smile. She looked like what I would imagine my mother would have if she had ever gone to college.
“Oh my god, this IS him. He is the one.” She gave me a hug, both arms and surprisingly firm. “Oh…oh my god. He was your brother. Twins. Two lives ago.”
“Jesus, mother. He’s a guest.” Kate stamped her foot and plopped down on her living room couch.
“I’m Ben,” I said, “And I’m really confused.”
“Last week- god, you’re energy is so blue- last week I did a spirit journey for my Katie. She reached a bridge that she couldn’t cross on her own. And there you appeared, on the other side, helping her across. She won’t know you for long, but she needs you right now.”
Kate had turned her attention to the television and clicked her tongue crisply.
“Goodness,” she said, “You must have no clue what I am talking about, do you?”
“Actually,” I laughed. “I do. I’ve never done…the…uh…journeys. But I’ve been around people who…er…journeyed.”
“Of course you have,” she beamed. “Promise. Whatever you do. You will keep it.”
“Keep it?”
“The light. Your light.”
“Oh…yeah. Sure thing.”
My light, as she put it. Constantly got in the way. If my mother was throwing cards for friends, I wasn’t allowed to be in the room. It “interfered” with their energy. I remember once, going with a friend to a tarot reading at a shop. The lady asked me politely to leave the room. My friend objected, but I told her it was okay and that I understood.
Kate and I never spoke again after high school. Her mother was right, Kate needed me then, but wouldn’t need me later. And I don’t feel regret, and I don’t feel as if I’ve lost someone. Kate’s mother assured me I would meet Kate again. I assumed, for her, that meant in another life.
The acute thing is. I never accepted it all as gospel. Part of me doubted it. My light. A connection. Stories, myths, hymns are a part of my family history. Apparitions warning my grandmother. People talking to my aunt at night who were never there. When she passed, she would visit my mother, who had always believed. But when she would speak of Lady visiting her, she would make it seem like it was a mind’s trick.
“Vicky said the funniest thing last night. In my dream that is.” Behind a half smile, with a dip in her voice.
My father, whose family had more history than I, wouldn’t hear of it. I suppose that is where my doubt came from. And after he left, his doubt remained, and became my doubt.
At a young age, I remembered my dreams with frequency and I could control every action and thing I said. Some dreams though, went along their own course. I came to learn they were warnings, or predictions. A tremor shook southern
Indianawhen I was nine. All of my friends and family knew it was coming, because I told them. When my cousin cut his hand in the playground on a broken coke bottle, I knew to have the tissue ready. And when my friend from high school was diagnosed with leukemia, I was prepared and the majority of my shock had already passed. I recall my friend, Sarah, smacked me the day we learned. Saying that my dream had made it come sooner. Others refused to talk to me for days.
It was events like these that made me reticent to explore my connections. Now when friends move into new apartments, I don’t like helping them unpack, for fear of ruining their joy with stories of what happened in their place before they were there. When my pals ask me to throw cards or read palms, I hesitate, I don’t want to be the bearer of bad news, and worse still I don’t want to underwhelm them. It is so easy to be skeptical.
Over the years, my connection waned. I stopped remembering my dreams, save two or three annually. Lights stopped going off on their own, and when the phone rang I couldn’t tell who was calling. Brooms would fall and company wouldn’t come. I stopped counting the birds in the sky and didn’t care when they landed. The lighted had faded, but I would learn, that it would never leave me.
Still prone to intuitive feelings and occasional flashes, I was nearing the graduation of my college years. I had a dream. That I remembered. I was out to dinner with my friends. Twenty of them, at least, from all corners of my life. When the bill came they all pulled out their wallets and I waved them away with a move of my hand.
“But Ben,” asked Lara, “How can you afford to pay for all of this?”
“From my inheritance,” I replied. “He left a little something for me. And now I give it to you.”
I woke in the morning and immediately wrote my dream down in my diary. I called a few friends to tell them of my dream and asked for their interpretations.
A week later, on the day of my college graduation, my father died.
And now, I miss it. My connection, that light. I want to dream in color again. I want to feel things, the bad and the good, that made me feel connected. If the only time the light returns, is when something awful happens I would rather go dark or shine at 100 watts.
And I am not sure how to go about it. How to reclaim “the fire”. Maybe as you get older, it leaves, and there is no choice. But I refuse to doubt anymore. I don’t expect anyone to believe me either. I don’t expect them to believe in it. I just hope that they believe, that I believe.