I watched 53 movies this summer. At least. Some sucked. Some were amazing. Some were forgettable and some said something important. Here are my awards for movies this summer (not all were released this summer, or even this decade). You may be surprised.
Best Comedy:
Guess Who?
Best Drama:
Life as a House
Best Political Commentary:
Good Morning Vietnam
Best Documentary:
The Story of the Weeping Camel
Best Classic:
Gentleman's Agreement
Best Romance:
Love Actually
Best Film with an Overtly Religious Message:
Saved!
Best Indie:
Garden State
Best Foreign:
Lagaan
Best Actress(es):
Cate Blanchett
For: The Aviator
Natalie Portman
For: Garden State
(Gwynyth Paltrow should get a nod for Shakespeare in Love, but this is getting long)
Best Actor(s):
Johnny Depp
For: Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, Finding Neverland, Pirates of the Carribean, What's Eating Gilbert Grape and Chocolat
Leonardo DiCaprio
For: What's Eating Gilbert Grape
Best Narrator:
Morgan Freeman (he just has the voice for it)
Lifetime Achievement Award:
Morgan Freeman
(Can you name a bad movie this guy has been in? Shawshank Redemption, Driving Miss Daisy, Million Dollar Baby, Amistad, High Crimes, Se7en)
Best Soundtrack:
Moulin Rouge, Amadeus
Best Cinematography (ie Most Beautiful Film):
Out of Africa
Best Picture:
Shakespeare in Love
So, there's my awards. There were many great movies this summer, so it was hard to choose a couple times (that's also why there were two actresses and two actors). I almost included movies I saw this Spring, which would have added When Harry Met Sally, Finding Neverland, Good Will Hunting and Hotel Rwanda into the mix, completely changing everything.
Please feel free to disagree. Or agree if you like.
September 30, 2005
September 29, 2005
there's a signpost up ahead
Tucked safely into my warm home again, out of the flailing rain, I am occupied with these thoughts: How wet my socks are, and how nice it is to own a raincoat. How oddly dogs eat, and how no matter how much we personify them, they still eat wholeheartedly like dogs. How harmonic the smells of decay and life are on the fingertips of a September wind. How a cold rain on a warm night is a perfect time for a walk, and how taking my off my hood and letting the rain soak my hair makes me smile like a kid again. How idyllic it is to pick up the cat and tuck her safely inside my raincoat, her purr muted against my chest. How the tension of muscles, even in an inquisitive cat, is a sign of vitality. How much I want to write about these things that don't matter, but do matter so much still; how they shouldn't be the last words to a chronic patient, but should nonetheless dot an invalid's life; it's these moments we savor in this life, but to end on these notes, to take them with us... no, that would be like going to Disneyland for the express purpose of reading the guidebook. These are only signs, only reminders of where we're going, of whom we're going to; and so we should repeat them to each other, for encouragement, but only till just before the end of the journey. At the end, we won't need cats wrapped in raincoats, for will see our destination with our own eyes.
September 28, 2005
must we beach our coracles no more?
"He studied the sign on the deli window.
I - L - E - D. E - E - F - F - O - C. Then, on the other side of the glass, there was Pooh, passing between two parked cars. And now Pan, hands on his hips two stories above the street, looking for an open window. Snoopy tore past with Linus' blanket and Toad bowled through traffic in a Jalopy. All his childhood playmates, for these past years phantoms hiding behind doors and lounging in shop windows at Christmastime, were out again, eager to play again. Or were they always there? He looked away, watching the leaves float about in his tea, wondering what little Piglet, peering from beneath the table, could possibly want with him."
I - L - E - D. E - E - F - F - O - C. Then, on the other side of the glass, there was Pooh, passing between two parked cars. And now Pan, hands on his hips two stories above the street, looking for an open window. Snoopy tore past with Linus' blanket and Toad bowled through traffic in a Jalopy. All his childhood playmates, for these past years phantoms hiding behind doors and lounging in shop windows at Christmastime, were out again, eager to play again. Or were they always there? He looked away, watching the leaves float about in his tea, wondering what little Piglet, peering from beneath the table, could possibly want with him."
September 27, 2005
to address the luck of the Irish
Vision without action is a daydream.
Action without vision is a nightmare.
- Japanese Proverb
Action without vision is a nightmare.
- Japanese Proverb
September 25, 2005
Listening to bears
Again, by no means an excuse. Andrea's Oktoberfest story will be done before Oktoberfest is over. There's just been a lot going on here recently and I've hardly been at home for two days. I'll try to finish it in the morning, or after work.
And now Amber has upped the challenge with Lego. Thanks Amber.
This story was inspired by Krystle, who told me if I wanted someone to listen to me, I should go talk to a bear. But don't take that the way it sounds. She's nicer than that.
------
[ Begin in the Yukon territory. Find the smallest river, like a wrinkle in a forehead of pine needles. Look at the hairline of the forest. I sit there, on a leftover stump, on the side of a hill, me, and a bear.]
Bears are perhaps the most intimidating animal. Lions roar, but there's a reason that things we are afraid of "bear" down on us. When a bear charges all you'll hear is the crunch of earth beneath her paws. The feeling is the same as when all the junk on the top shelf of the closet tumbles down on top of you. You can't stop it. You know that much and so you cover your face and wait for the impact. You know it will hurt, but if pain is inevitable it's not really pain, because there was no better option. Bears really are painful creatures.
And yet I sat on a tree stump and looked one in the eye. Sometimes when people stop listening, we have to talk to our worst enemies. I had come to the forest to get some time alone, and found myself hating it all the more. I got exactly what I wanted, but didn't want it anymore. Which is why I had come to the forest in the first place. I always got everything I wanted, but didn't want what I got. I felt like a man reaching in his pocket for something he forgot was there, only to bring out a diamond and be disappointed because it wasn't the thing he couldn't remember. I knew my life was an errant ship, floating only because it was so attached to the icebergs that punctured its sides. I needed a week to clear my head. A week with no inputs, no new information, nothing to confuse me. A week to find myself and clean me out.
And yet I was talking to a bear. My hands rested on my chin. My breathing was steady. My eyes calmly surveyed the scene. I should have been scared, but for once I knew exactly what I wanted, and I was about to get it. A bear. Six feet away from me. Getting nearer, quickly. Finally, someone running towards me. Perhaps they will find me interesting, charming, entertaining. How do you talk to a bear?
"In my left hand is a hole, and my right hand is open wide. But the breath that flows in my left hand doesn't leave through my right hand. It's stopped at a big intersection in my chest. Like a cartoon hose with a kink in it. It's getting bigger and blocking more breath. Pretty soon it could choke all the air out of me. Or it could pop. Either way, a disaster. But since it's deep inside me, half way between my hands, I can't exactly unkink it myself. My ribcage gets in the way."
People stereotype bears. They think they're all dirty, all bulletproof and that every bear has fish breath. It's just not true. The bear I talked to at the hairline of the forest had breath that smelled like strawberry jam.
So that's how I arrived here. The kink in my heart is gone, but so is everything else. God, you fixed me alright. The breath enters in one hand and flows out the other. So, even though I think there were gentler options, thanks for sending the bear. It wasn't a very professional surgery, but when people don't offer any hope, sometimes a bear will do.
And now Amber has upped the challenge with Lego. Thanks Amber.
This story was inspired by Krystle, who told me if I wanted someone to listen to me, I should go talk to a bear. But don't take that the way it sounds. She's nicer than that.
------
[ Begin in the Yukon territory. Find the smallest river, like a wrinkle in a forehead of pine needles. Look at the hairline of the forest. I sit there, on a leftover stump, on the side of a hill, me, and a bear.]
Bears are perhaps the most intimidating animal. Lions roar, but there's a reason that things we are afraid of "bear" down on us. When a bear charges all you'll hear is the crunch of earth beneath her paws. The feeling is the same as when all the junk on the top shelf of the closet tumbles down on top of you. You can't stop it. You know that much and so you cover your face and wait for the impact. You know it will hurt, but if pain is inevitable it's not really pain, because there was no better option. Bears really are painful creatures.
And yet I sat on a tree stump and looked one in the eye. Sometimes when people stop listening, we have to talk to our worst enemies. I had come to the forest to get some time alone, and found myself hating it all the more. I got exactly what I wanted, but didn't want it anymore. Which is why I had come to the forest in the first place. I always got everything I wanted, but didn't want what I got. I felt like a man reaching in his pocket for something he forgot was there, only to bring out a diamond and be disappointed because it wasn't the thing he couldn't remember. I knew my life was an errant ship, floating only because it was so attached to the icebergs that punctured its sides. I needed a week to clear my head. A week with no inputs, no new information, nothing to confuse me. A week to find myself and clean me out.
And yet I was talking to a bear. My hands rested on my chin. My breathing was steady. My eyes calmly surveyed the scene. I should have been scared, but for once I knew exactly what I wanted, and I was about to get it. A bear. Six feet away from me. Getting nearer, quickly. Finally, someone running towards me. Perhaps they will find me interesting, charming, entertaining. How do you talk to a bear?
"In my left hand is a hole, and my right hand is open wide. But the breath that flows in my left hand doesn't leave through my right hand. It's stopped at a big intersection in my chest. Like a cartoon hose with a kink in it. It's getting bigger and blocking more breath. Pretty soon it could choke all the air out of me. Or it could pop. Either way, a disaster. But since it's deep inside me, half way between my hands, I can't exactly unkink it myself. My ribcage gets in the way."
People stereotype bears. They think they're all dirty, all bulletproof and that every bear has fish breath. It's just not true. The bear I talked to at the hairline of the forest had breath that smelled like strawberry jam.
So that's how I arrived here. The kink in my heart is gone, but so is everything else. God, you fixed me alright. The breath enters in one hand and flows out the other. So, even though I think there were gentler options, thanks for sending the bear. It wasn't a very professional surgery, but when people don't offer any hope, sometimes a bear will do.
September 23, 2005
and this is by no means an excuse
In the meantime, check out the only site listed under the "Inspiration" folder in my bookmarks: gapingvoid.com's "how to be creative"
The guy says a lot of truth.
You'll like it. It'll inspire you. If you're of the inspirable type.
The guy says a lot of truth.
You'll like it. It'll inspire you. If you're of the inspirable type.
September 19, 2005
The story is coming, and so is something else. But first, two questions:
How many of you know of babies who laugh a lot? Yea me too.
How many of you know of babies who watch Comedy Central? Hmm... maybe there's something to be learned there. And this was one of the most profound things I discovered tonight at the School of the Spirit.
Ok, hold your horses, just another short while and the story and the something else will be here. I'm already half way through both of them. It may be a couple more days though, cause I'm going over to Whitworth for two days, beginning tomorrow. Which doesn't mean I can't blog, only I'll be analog a lot of the time.
Much love and lots of cheerios! Wow, I sound like a Danish cupcake.
How many of you know of babies who laugh a lot? Yea me too.
How many of you know of babies who watch Comedy Central? Hmm... maybe there's something to be learned there. And this was one of the most profound things I discovered tonight at the School of the Spirit.
Ok, hold your horses, just another short while and the story and the something else will be here. I'm already half way through both of them. It may be a couple more days though, cause I'm going over to Whitworth for two days, beginning tomorrow. Which doesn't mean I can't blog, only I'll be analog a lot of the time.
Much love and lots of cheerios! Wow, I sound like a Danish cupcake.
September 17, 2005
September 11, 2005
Story one: The biggest game of all
Every now and then, there is a game so huge, the world holds its collective breath to watch. Devyn Aud was holding his breath. He had searched eBay, Craigslist, the Times and even gone to the stadium to search for a scalper. The lady at the ticket window was not moved by his tears. "Honey, if there's no tickets, I can't sell them to you." Sound logic, but Devyn Aud was not in a reasonable mood. He put his sweaty palms to the glass and leaned his head in. "I... need... tickets... to THIS game." It was a huge game. The Ticket Witch closed the window. Devyn closed his eyes.
"You do want a ticket, though, right man?" Devyn's eyes snapped open. He peeled his face off the glass and turned, slowly, calmly, so as to avoid frightening the voice. A cocked blue hat mocked his passion. The thin guy in the windbreaker put his hands in his jacket pockets. "Yes..." Devyn finally answered. "Do you have --" Devyn looked down the street. "Do you have... tickets?" Cocked mocking hat smiled like the cheshire cat. Devyn nearly expected him to fade away. Devyn closed his eyes. "How many tickets do you need, man?" The man was still there, hands in his pockets, wide smile and mocked cocking hat. Devyn bumbled, "Four, no five I mean three at least, but if you only have one I still want it." The man in blue drew his hands from his pockets. He held a wad of money in one hand, and two tickets in the other. "Do you want both of them, man?" Devyn nodded. But his eyes were on the wad of cash. Either the man had sold a lot of tickets, or this was going to hurt. "How much?" Devyn half said, half choked. He reached for his wallet. "One-fitty," the mocking cocking man in blue laughed. And still he didn't disappear. "Each or for two?" The wad of cash said, "Too much old man? I can find someone else who wants them." Devyn shook his head. "No, I want them." The three hundred dollars exchanged hands. Devyn held his palm up for the tickets, like a dusty farmer who senses rain. The tickets were in the air, in his hand, grasped by his fingers. He stared at them. He had them. The man in blue laughed a cheshire laugh and sauntered away. Devyn extended his hand into the sky and inhaled a shout. He had his tickets.
I know you all expected something to go wrong. The scalper may have given him bad tickets, or perhaps Devyn would have dropped them during the hand off, or maybe the man in blue would have drawn a gun and asked for the tickets back. Scalping is a lot like dealing drugs. But none of those things happened. Instead Devyn pointed his tickets at the sky just in time for your average, streetcorner raven to fly by and pluck them from his fingers. That's just happened, so let's watch his reaction.
His eyes were closed again. The raven was a block away. "I have my tickets!" Devyn praised himself. He peeked one eye open, just to see them again, at the end of his fingers, fluttering in the wind. The sky was gray, and felt like snow. And the only thing in his fingers was carelessness and perhaps a bit of a childhood insult, "Butterfingers."
But when it comes to football, one must think on one's feet and quickly too. Devyn jumped into an athletic stance and sized up the situation. This was not about three hundred dollars lost, or even tickets to the big game. This was now primal -- this was man against nature. Devyn looked to his left, then to his right. He pivoted on his right foot and bolted down the block like Michael Johnson in the hundred meters. His muscles were twitching, his knees were tweaking and his fat was bouncing like a washing machine. But he was light on his feet, quick, powerful -- a machine. If a Hummer had been in his way, he would have hit it like a tackle hits a kicker in the fourth quarter. Nothing could stop him. He was a monster.
He reached the corner, panting like a V12 at ten thousand feet. He leaned against the light post and waited for the light to change. Even Randy Moss needs to rest once in a while. The light changed and the raven was just across the street in a tree, waiting for the show down. "Cocky bird," Devyn thought to himself, "But he's never gone head to head against the Audacious Aud." It wasn't much of a pep talk but contenders don't need pep talks. He chugged across the street, sweat streaming behind him like froth from a boat. He was at the tree, and now the raven was about to meet the "Audacious Aud". Devyn reached for the low branches and started to climb. The raven bedded down for the night. Devyn swung his sweaty hamstrings like wrecking balls until he had enough momentum to gain the first branch. It was an unparalleled victory. "OOO who's afraid of the Aud!" Devyn crowed to himself. Peter Pan would have felt his exorbitant cockiness far inadequate to compete with Devyn Aud. It had been a while since Devyn had honestly considered his strengths and weaknesses. Like since high school.
The raven had estimated him though, and by the time Devyn had breached the second branch, during the moment his lovehandles got stuck on two branches Devyn was sure he could fit between -- by that moment, the Raven had left. He was in the next tree and Devyn was stuck. But when a man wants tickets to the game, he wants tickets to the game. He clambered down and made for the second tree. He was limping a bit now, and his chest was starting to hurt.
He tried the wrecking ball swing again, and nearly made it. Nearly. He laid flat on the pavement, his face staring up the tree at the raven. The raven cawed loudly, and that's when Devyn realized just how many ravens there are downtown.
But never fear, I'm a kind writer, and I know in these dire times, everyone needs a happy ending once in a while. So here you go:
There may be thousands of ravens per city block in every city in the world, but in this particular city block there was only one. And this particular raven had just dropped two tickets to the big game. Devyn stared into the heavens and heard the clouds split. Rain fell like it does in the movies, glass balls filled with lightning. The lightning lit more than the rain though. It sillouhetted the tree, and the raven, and it highlighted two scraps of paper floating like feathers between the drops of lightning. Devyn smiled: his tickets were returning to him. It had all been worth it. He was a machine, a monster, unstoppable. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
It was there, on the sidewalk, that five teenage guys discovered him. His body was stiff, blue and chilling to the touch, but upon his chest rested two tickets to the big game. One of the guys, visiting from Oklahoma, saw it as a sign. He plucked the tickets from Devyn's chest and handed one to his friend, Matt. The two went to the biggest game of the season: the Seahawks' first ever Superbowl appearance. And though the Seahawks lost, like they usually do, this story still has a happy ending. You see sometimes it's not winning that matters. It didn't matter who won the big game, only that there was a big game at all, and that both teams showed up to compete. And so it is with Devyn Aud. He may have lost the tickets, and his life, but at least he was a monster, a machine, a madman, unstoppable, on his way out.
"You do want a ticket, though, right man?" Devyn's eyes snapped open. He peeled his face off the glass and turned, slowly, calmly, so as to avoid frightening the voice. A cocked blue hat mocked his passion. The thin guy in the windbreaker put his hands in his jacket pockets. "Yes..." Devyn finally answered. "Do you have --" Devyn looked down the street. "Do you have... tickets?" Cocked mocking hat smiled like the cheshire cat. Devyn nearly expected him to fade away. Devyn closed his eyes. "How many tickets do you need, man?" The man was still there, hands in his pockets, wide smile and mocked cocking hat. Devyn bumbled, "Four, no five I mean three at least, but if you only have one I still want it." The man in blue drew his hands from his pockets. He held a wad of money in one hand, and two tickets in the other. "Do you want both of them, man?" Devyn nodded. But his eyes were on the wad of cash. Either the man had sold a lot of tickets, or this was going to hurt. "How much?" Devyn half said, half choked. He reached for his wallet. "One-fitty," the mocking cocking man in blue laughed. And still he didn't disappear. "Each or for two?" The wad of cash said, "Too much old man? I can find someone else who wants them." Devyn shook his head. "No, I want them." The three hundred dollars exchanged hands. Devyn held his palm up for the tickets, like a dusty farmer who senses rain. The tickets were in the air, in his hand, grasped by his fingers. He stared at them. He had them. The man in blue laughed a cheshire laugh and sauntered away. Devyn extended his hand into the sky and inhaled a shout. He had his tickets.
I know you all expected something to go wrong. The scalper may have given him bad tickets, or perhaps Devyn would have dropped them during the hand off, or maybe the man in blue would have drawn a gun and asked for the tickets back. Scalping is a lot like dealing drugs. But none of those things happened. Instead Devyn pointed his tickets at the sky just in time for your average, streetcorner raven to fly by and pluck them from his fingers. That's just happened, so let's watch his reaction.
His eyes were closed again. The raven was a block away. "I have my tickets!" Devyn praised himself. He peeked one eye open, just to see them again, at the end of his fingers, fluttering in the wind. The sky was gray, and felt like snow. And the only thing in his fingers was carelessness and perhaps a bit of a childhood insult, "Butterfingers."
But when it comes to football, one must think on one's feet and quickly too. Devyn jumped into an athletic stance and sized up the situation. This was not about three hundred dollars lost, or even tickets to the big game. This was now primal -- this was man against nature. Devyn looked to his left, then to his right. He pivoted on his right foot and bolted down the block like Michael Johnson in the hundred meters. His muscles were twitching, his knees were tweaking and his fat was bouncing like a washing machine. But he was light on his feet, quick, powerful -- a machine. If a Hummer had been in his way, he would have hit it like a tackle hits a kicker in the fourth quarter. Nothing could stop him. He was a monster.
He reached the corner, panting like a V12 at ten thousand feet. He leaned against the light post and waited for the light to change. Even Randy Moss needs to rest once in a while. The light changed and the raven was just across the street in a tree, waiting for the show down. "Cocky bird," Devyn thought to himself, "But he's never gone head to head against the Audacious Aud." It wasn't much of a pep talk but contenders don't need pep talks. He chugged across the street, sweat streaming behind him like froth from a boat. He was at the tree, and now the raven was about to meet the "Audacious Aud". Devyn reached for the low branches and started to climb. The raven bedded down for the night. Devyn swung his sweaty hamstrings like wrecking balls until he had enough momentum to gain the first branch. It was an unparalleled victory. "OOO who's afraid of the Aud!" Devyn crowed to himself. Peter Pan would have felt his exorbitant cockiness far inadequate to compete with Devyn Aud. It had been a while since Devyn had honestly considered his strengths and weaknesses. Like since high school.
The raven had estimated him though, and by the time Devyn had breached the second branch, during the moment his lovehandles got stuck on two branches Devyn was sure he could fit between -- by that moment, the Raven had left. He was in the next tree and Devyn was stuck. But when a man wants tickets to the game, he wants tickets to the game. He clambered down and made for the second tree. He was limping a bit now, and his chest was starting to hurt.
He tried the wrecking ball swing again, and nearly made it. Nearly. He laid flat on the pavement, his face staring up the tree at the raven. The raven cawed loudly, and that's when Devyn realized just how many ravens there are downtown.
But never fear, I'm a kind writer, and I know in these dire times, everyone needs a happy ending once in a while. So here you go:
There may be thousands of ravens per city block in every city in the world, but in this particular city block there was only one. And this particular raven had just dropped two tickets to the big game. Devyn stared into the heavens and heard the clouds split. Rain fell like it does in the movies, glass balls filled with lightning. The lightning lit more than the rain though. It sillouhetted the tree, and the raven, and it highlighted two scraps of paper floating like feathers between the drops of lightning. Devyn smiled: his tickets were returning to him. It had all been worth it. He was a machine, a monster, unstoppable. He closed his eyes and inhaled.
It was there, on the sidewalk, that five teenage guys discovered him. His body was stiff, blue and chilling to the touch, but upon his chest rested two tickets to the big game. One of the guys, visiting from Oklahoma, saw it as a sign. He plucked the tickets from Devyn's chest and handed one to his friend, Matt. The two went to the biggest game of the season: the Seahawks' first ever Superbowl appearance. And though the Seahawks lost, like they usually do, this story still has a happy ending. You see sometimes it's not winning that matters. It didn't matter who won the big game, only that there was a big game at all, and that both teams showed up to compete. And so it is with Devyn Aud. He may have lost the tickets, and his life, but at least he was a monster, a machine, a madman, unstoppable, on his way out.
September 9, 2005
let's try something new
The oneword.com thing has inspired me. What if we had a bit more time and could convert it to story? Let's try. This will take two though. I'd like all you commenters out there to get your comments ready. I'm going to write a story, impromptu, no editing, ad-libed and improv'd, and I'm going to write it based on your input.
So here's what I want from you:
Then I'll write a story and post it!
Yay! This will be fun!
So here's what I want from you:
- A name. Any name. Male or female. Something not boring though. Something with a connotation, perhaps.
- A villian. Not necessarily a Cluny the Scourge, or Philip Tempest, or Sauron, but just an antagonist.
- An object of desire. Something passionate or platonic. Anything that someone might possibly want.
Then I'll write a story and post it!
Yay! This will be fun!
September 6, 2005
A manifest
In my head are:
I'll wait with you.
- A cobalt house against a monotone cobalt sky
- A piece of velcro, rolled and unrolled in dirty fingers
- Lots of sunglasses and rainy days
I'll wait with you.
September 1, 2005
These colorful prison walls
The hardest part of writing is choosing the correct environment. The music, the posture, the lighting, the time, the level of silence. Do you write better when it snows out? With tea in one hand? Hemmingway wrote standing up. Capote lying down. Do you let your uncomfortable chair or your droopy eyes stop you from writing? Do you want to be a writer, or to write? To be is imprisoned is to be restrained. Do your whims and fancies restrain your writing? What if, just once, all the variables were perfect. Then could you write?
-----------------
The wardens released the prisoners early this year, before the snow had properly melted from the sidewalks. Under orders from the courts, all prisoners in ________ must be given a day of freedom. The intent, according to the city, is to ensure no criminal forgets the pain of his sacrifice. Was that TV or that little girl or that joint worth it? Can a uppercut possibly compensate for 23 hours a day locked in a cage? No, nothing is worth prison. I would know.
The snow was the color of an Oreo milkshake, but it clung tightly to winter. It was the sort of snow that twists knees and breaks ankles: hard on the outside, soft on the inside, like freezer-burned ice cream. The prisoners stood in the street at the end of the prison drive, in a line like expectant school children all sure they'll be picked last.
It was as if the road with its two yellow stripes was the line, and on the other side was the underdog. Do you join his side? Will your risk it out in that world? One crossed. He didn't look both ways. The snow was his insurance. The twenty something convicts and the guards at the gate watched; would he survive? This ritual is repeated every year. One always risks it alone. Freedom is that important to him. The hazard of the road, which is trafficked when the snow melts, doesn't deter him. Neither do the stares from the free people -- perhaps even the stare of the shop owner he robbed. But the village people are kind this one day of the year; the prisoners are to be pitied. They greet the lone adventurer with politeness and condescension. He says little; this year he says nothing. His arms hang limp at his sides and he is hunched like an elderly man who has forgotten why he crossed the street. What does a convict do with his day off? His hair is speckled gray, like the dirty snow. Perhaps he has forgotten. The younger prisoners silently inch their way across the street. One, then another make their way into the pub. They finger the dirty cash in their pockets. They're self-conscious, and everyone watches their hands move about beneath their jeans. The next few make their way to the theatre, and another group goes to the grocery store. The town begins to bustle again, carefully. No one wants to slip on the snow.
I watch from my window. I've drawn the curtains back, and their black forms are stark against the white sidewalks. It is a large window, one I had installed following my accident. I wheel up and down the length of the window, to get a different perspective on the world outside. It is my only view of the world, because the other windows are too high. I am content with it though. I couldn't go outside anyway, even if I had an immune system. The snow would wreak havoc on a wheelchair. Darn near impassable. I'd get stuck and then I'd be cold as well as look the idiot. Like the old man. He stood there, looking at the snow. He held his breath, then hyperventilated for a few seconds. He must have been recently transfered here. If this was his first glimpse of freedom in years, no wonder he gasped. If I could walk again, after these thirty years, I'd probably gasp too. But I don't want to walk. Not if it was only for a day.
At first I got all the therapy I could, to try to walk again. It crushed me every time my noodle legs shriveled up on the shiny hospital floor. Hospital floors are shiny, to trick people into thinking they are clean. It makes people think being in a hospital isn't that bad. It's a lie. Hospitals smell like death. There is no worse place a living man could dwell. When I fell, I would only want to walk all the more, so I could leave that place sooner. I was adamant that I would walk. My failure depressed me. It was only when I gave up on recovery, and accepted my movable prison, that my spirit recovered. It became where I wanted to be.
The old man is comfortable in his prison. It is what he has accepted. To have freedom, to walk away from his prison permanently would please him more. But to walk away, carrying the obligation with him; that is not worth it. It's like putting a vacation on a credit card. If you can't afford it, it's not a vacation. It'd be better to accept reality and learn to love where you are, sans vacation. You wouldn't enjoy the vacation anyway.
He turned, probably with these thoughts on his mind, and shuffled back to the prison side. To my side. The guards heckled him of course. They always bother those who go back early. Those free men take liberty for granted. They can't comprehend how comforting and stable prison is, once you adjust to it. Once you accept it. I'm happy here. It's where I want to be. You see, then, that it's not really a prison. And that man, hunched and heckled, he with his speckled hair is the freest of those convicts, though he never takes his day away from prison. Because he's not in prison, inside those walls. I think if you could ask him, through that smudged glass and tinny voicebox, I think he'd tell you it's better to accept your lot, and live.
-----------------
The wardens released the prisoners early this year, before the snow had properly melted from the sidewalks. Under orders from the courts, all prisoners in ________ must be given a day of freedom. The intent, according to the city, is to ensure no criminal forgets the pain of his sacrifice. Was that TV or that little girl or that joint worth it? Can a uppercut possibly compensate for 23 hours a day locked in a cage? No, nothing is worth prison. I would know.
The snow was the color of an Oreo milkshake, but it clung tightly to winter. It was the sort of snow that twists knees and breaks ankles: hard on the outside, soft on the inside, like freezer-burned ice cream. The prisoners stood in the street at the end of the prison drive, in a line like expectant school children all sure they'll be picked last.
It was as if the road with its two yellow stripes was the line, and on the other side was the underdog. Do you join his side? Will your risk it out in that world? One crossed. He didn't look both ways. The snow was his insurance. The twenty something convicts and the guards at the gate watched; would he survive? This ritual is repeated every year. One always risks it alone. Freedom is that important to him. The hazard of the road, which is trafficked when the snow melts, doesn't deter him. Neither do the stares from the free people -- perhaps even the stare of the shop owner he robbed. But the village people are kind this one day of the year; the prisoners are to be pitied. They greet the lone adventurer with politeness and condescension. He says little; this year he says nothing. His arms hang limp at his sides and he is hunched like an elderly man who has forgotten why he crossed the street. What does a convict do with his day off? His hair is speckled gray, like the dirty snow. Perhaps he has forgotten. The younger prisoners silently inch their way across the street. One, then another make their way into the pub. They finger the dirty cash in their pockets. They're self-conscious, and everyone watches their hands move about beneath their jeans. The next few make their way to the theatre, and another group goes to the grocery store. The town begins to bustle again, carefully. No one wants to slip on the snow.
I watch from my window. I've drawn the curtains back, and their black forms are stark against the white sidewalks. It is a large window, one I had installed following my accident. I wheel up and down the length of the window, to get a different perspective on the world outside. It is my only view of the world, because the other windows are too high. I am content with it though. I couldn't go outside anyway, even if I had an immune system. The snow would wreak havoc on a wheelchair. Darn near impassable. I'd get stuck and then I'd be cold as well as look the idiot. Like the old man. He stood there, looking at the snow. He held his breath, then hyperventilated for a few seconds. He must have been recently transfered here. If this was his first glimpse of freedom in years, no wonder he gasped. If I could walk again, after these thirty years, I'd probably gasp too. But I don't want to walk. Not if it was only for a day.
At first I got all the therapy I could, to try to walk again. It crushed me every time my noodle legs shriveled up on the shiny hospital floor. Hospital floors are shiny, to trick people into thinking they are clean. It makes people think being in a hospital isn't that bad. It's a lie. Hospitals smell like death. There is no worse place a living man could dwell. When I fell, I would only want to walk all the more, so I could leave that place sooner. I was adamant that I would walk. My failure depressed me. It was only when I gave up on recovery, and accepted my movable prison, that my spirit recovered. It became where I wanted to be.
The old man is comfortable in his prison. It is what he has accepted. To have freedom, to walk away from his prison permanently would please him more. But to walk away, carrying the obligation with him; that is not worth it. It's like putting a vacation on a credit card. If you can't afford it, it's not a vacation. It'd be better to accept reality and learn to love where you are, sans vacation. You wouldn't enjoy the vacation anyway.
He turned, probably with these thoughts on his mind, and shuffled back to the prison side. To my side. The guards heckled him of course. They always bother those who go back early. Those free men take liberty for granted. They can't comprehend how comforting and stable prison is, once you adjust to it. Once you accept it. I'm happy here. It's where I want to be. You see, then, that it's not really a prison. And that man, hunched and heckled, he with his speckled hair is the freest of those convicts, though he never takes his day away from prison. Because he's not in prison, inside those walls. I think if you could ask him, through that smudged glass and tinny voicebox, I think he'd tell you it's better to accept your lot, and live.
The feeling of rain
The bravest leaves, still green and clinging to the trees, not yellow like the ones on the ground, shimmered like a windchime in a tornado. The yellow leaves, a crushed poultice for the cracked earth, tremored like china in a cabinet when a train passes.
The river, though now it was a mudflow, popped and burbled as if the frogs were feeding. Poosh they hopped and ploop they bellyflopped in the mud. But there were no frogs jumping; even the hardiest had buried themselves in the mud. The horses stamped in the silt and snorted dust weakly. They had lost their lustre; their ribs were washboards covered with Apaloosa or Palamino. Their hooves were cracked like old pottery, caked in the dust of Vesuvius. Their fur, and the wolves, dogs, cats, and camels, too -- all their fur bristled and they panted in fear. Their dry tongues hung limp, hopeless. The animals all watched the ridge, Mabhannatan, the highest ridge of all the mountains that circled the valley. The ridge shook too, and avalanches slammed down the side and puffed into the lower ridges like powdered sugar.
Bahavata'a and I watched the ridge too. He tied a knot on a saddle, as his horse pawed the ground. His trembling fingers dropped the rope. He fumbled to find it, and his eyes never left the ridge, where the Sun stood. The Sun reached down and drew a golden line along the crest; "This line you shall not pass," he said. Hands on his hips, the Sun guarded our valley from all clouds; a giant dictator baking his charges.
Many valleys away, at the same time, upon another high ridge, God laughed at the sun. And then he yelled. The leaves stood up straight, on the ground, on the trees, in the air; the river jumped out of its clothes; Bahavata'a dove to the ground and hid his ears. God's voice sounded to us a trumpet blast signaling a charge. God yelled, and the stampede began. From valley to ridge the roar rose, shaking the sky. The wolves ran-slunk away, tripping over themselves in their rush. The horses reared up and pawed the air. Bahavata'a held his rope tightly, but his horse broke free.
The stampede came on, and though the sun stood firm, the approaching army kicked up such clouds that the sky grew dim. The line on the ridge faltered like a mirage, and then blinked out. The Sun shone for a final moment. He held his hands out as if to stop a speeding train; and then he disappeared, trampled beneath the hooves.
Black horses with lightning for manes and thunder for breath, breached the ridge like a river consuming a dam. The sun shone and the next moment horses covered the sky. They hurtled down the ridge, tumbling and cavorting, a solid river of white water. When they had covered the sky and all the land was dark, the horses exploded and diamonds replaced the oxygen -- the rain had come, and everything else disappeared.
I pulled my raincoat tight around me and hunched to avoid the rain, but it soaked through my layers and soggied me. I looked at Bahavata'a; he was braver than I. He was not hiding from the rain. He stood leaned back on his hips with his face bent towards the sky. Rain formed gulleys in his skin and ran off like waterfalls. I had my bottled water to drink, but he, he opened his mouth wide and swallowed the rain whole. God had yelled, and the horses would be fat again. The river would run and the frogs would hop. Bahavata'a ran about like a child, back and forth between me and his horse, wild, pumping his arms twice for every step. He danced, jumping, his knees reaching his chest. And he yelled, back to God, "HALAL! HALAL! HALAL!" He screamed and laughed. He thrust his hands into the rain and caught it in his palms. He opened his mouth and drank God. The tree, with its green-not-yellow leaves, followed Bahavata'a and stretched its branches into the air, like a castaway on the beach thanking his rescuer.
The river, though now it was a mudflow, popped and burbled as if the frogs were feeding. Poosh they hopped and ploop they bellyflopped in the mud. But there were no frogs jumping; even the hardiest had buried themselves in the mud. The horses stamped in the silt and snorted dust weakly. They had lost their lustre; their ribs were washboards covered with Apaloosa or Palamino. Their hooves were cracked like old pottery, caked in the dust of Vesuvius. Their fur, and the wolves, dogs, cats, and camels, too -- all their fur bristled and they panted in fear. Their dry tongues hung limp, hopeless. The animals all watched the ridge, Mabhannatan, the highest ridge of all the mountains that circled the valley. The ridge shook too, and avalanches slammed down the side and puffed into the lower ridges like powdered sugar.
Bahavata'a and I watched the ridge too. He tied a knot on a saddle, as his horse pawed the ground. His trembling fingers dropped the rope. He fumbled to find it, and his eyes never left the ridge, where the Sun stood. The Sun reached down and drew a golden line along the crest; "This line you shall not pass," he said. Hands on his hips, the Sun guarded our valley from all clouds; a giant dictator baking his charges.
Many valleys away, at the same time, upon another high ridge, God laughed at the sun. And then he yelled. The leaves stood up straight, on the ground, on the trees, in the air; the river jumped out of its clothes; Bahavata'a dove to the ground and hid his ears. God's voice sounded to us a trumpet blast signaling a charge. God yelled, and the stampede began. From valley to ridge the roar rose, shaking the sky. The wolves ran-slunk away, tripping over themselves in their rush. The horses reared up and pawed the air. Bahavata'a held his rope tightly, but his horse broke free.
The stampede came on, and though the sun stood firm, the approaching army kicked up such clouds that the sky grew dim. The line on the ridge faltered like a mirage, and then blinked out. The Sun shone for a final moment. He held his hands out as if to stop a speeding train; and then he disappeared, trampled beneath the hooves.
Black horses with lightning for manes and thunder for breath, breached the ridge like a river consuming a dam. The sun shone and the next moment horses covered the sky. They hurtled down the ridge, tumbling and cavorting, a solid river of white water. When they had covered the sky and all the land was dark, the horses exploded and diamonds replaced the oxygen -- the rain had come, and everything else disappeared.
I pulled my raincoat tight around me and hunched to avoid the rain, but it soaked through my layers and soggied me. I looked at Bahavata'a; he was braver than I. He was not hiding from the rain. He stood leaned back on his hips with his face bent towards the sky. Rain formed gulleys in his skin and ran off like waterfalls. I had my bottled water to drink, but he, he opened his mouth wide and swallowed the rain whole. God had yelled, and the horses would be fat again. The river would run and the frogs would hop. Bahavata'a ran about like a child, back and forth between me and his horse, wild, pumping his arms twice for every step. He danced, jumping, his knees reaching his chest. And he yelled, back to God, "HALAL! HALAL! HALAL!" He screamed and laughed. He thrust his hands into the rain and caught it in his palms. He opened his mouth and drank God. The tree, with its green-not-yellow leaves, followed Bahavata'a and stretched its branches into the air, like a castaway on the beach thanking his rescuer.
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