Suppose an old man lives in Manhattan. Suppose he has white hair, arthritis, flirts with senility, yet is still self-sufficient and capable enough to take walks. Suppose also that he enjoys smoking. Suppose, now, that he is walking around Union Square Park, takes a last drag of his cigarette, drops it to the ground to step it out. Suppose a gentle wind blows the smoking cylinder just beyond the reach of his slowly descending toe. Suppose he tries again but the same wind blows and his step is just as hampered by creaking joints. Suppose the man tries once more, sure of success, but is chagrined by the repetition of this slight failure. Suppose that his flirtation kicks in; he becomes fixated, obstinate.
Suppose the cigarette is rolled gently, slowly by the wind towards 14th street and the man follows stomping, obstinate, creaking slowly behind it. Suppose he follows it into the street at the intersection with Broadway, but the red hand is up. Suppose a car comes fast, swerves to the right and barrels into the people waiting on for the crosswalk. Suppose another car comes fast, swerves to the left and barrels into the people standing, waiting on the other side. Suppose the man does not notice the chaos, the broken bones, the people scattered on the sidewalk, the skid marks streaked with blood as he crosses the road safely. Suppose the wind perpendicularly changes direction, sending the cigarette and the old man Westward.
Suppose his path, constant and unstoppable, direct and determined, causes the abrupt stop of a pedestrian, a man. Suppose, behind him, a woman in a hurry bumps into this man, drops her things, gets angry. Suppose that during their argument they take a liking to each other, become lovers, move to Michigan, bear four children, one who becomes president. Suppose two other people bump into each other due to the old man: a youth who has never known his father, and a man who happens to be the youth’s father. Suppose they exchange polite “excuse me’s” and never see each other again. Suppose the old man, his cigarette since burnt out, but still undeterred, stomping, obstinate, comes across the path of a serial killer at large. Suppose the serial killer, who never steps out of the way for anyone, inexplicably does so at the last minute with a foggy realization that he has finally met a stronger will. Suppose in doing so, he trips over a dog, cripples it, causing a row with the dog-owner. Suppose they get into a fight and are taken in by a police officer who was just around the corner. Suppose the serial killer is identified, put in prison, finds religion, is executed. Suppose the police officer is promoted, becomes an alcoholic to deal with the pressure, beats his wife in drunken stupors. Suppose the dog happily continues his life, taking walks via dog-wheelchair. Suppose, still slowly stomping, obstinate, the old man follows the cigarette into the Hudson River.
Suppose this is just a metaphor. Suppose that it gets written as a story, published. Suppose many people read it, write in to the publisher, give their interpretation. Suppose a famous writer says it is a metaphor for someone who can’t end their story. Suppose another, more sophisticated writer suggests the metaphor is about writing, that it is a process of constant failure due to the limits of language and the inability of absolute expression. Suppose an artist says it is about the role of the artist in society, how they must attend to the unending task of self-expression no matter what happens in the world around them. Suppose a theologian proposes the old man represents God, the prime cause of all events in life. Suppose a preacher preaches to his congregation using this story as a morality tale on the wickedness of mankind, their eventual demise in the lake of fire. Suppose an atheist writes in, says the old man represents chaos and chance as the prime movers of a Godless world. Suppose a public health official claims it is about the dangers of second-hand smoke, or smoking in general, succeeds in banning it in public places. Suppose a historian says it is the symbol of man’s long march through history. Suppose a day-laborer says it is a satire on how you can never quite get ahead in life unless they raise minimum wage. Suppose a southerner says it reminds them of their Grampa. Suppose a Jungian psychologist claims the story is just a case of cryptomnesia, citing the myth of Sisyphus as the original source. Suppose violence breaks out between people and their interpretations, between organizations and their interpretations, between religions, nations. Suppose, in an effort to end the debate once and for all, a post-deconstructivist philosopher says that the story is a meta-metaphor, with the old man representing metaphor itself and the various encounters in the story symbolizing the very fluctuation of interpretation that was now occurring.
Suppose the United Nations, based on this last analysis, holds a summit meeting to discuss the effects of metaphor on society, finds it the cause of all human disagreements, enacts a worldwide ban of its use. Suppose this breach of free speech angers and mobilizes the masses. Suppose the revolution comes, excels and extinguishes the world’s petroleum supply, hastens the effects of global warming. Suppose the polar ice caps melt and other such catastrophes wipe out 90% of human life. Suppose a thousand years after the waters have receded the surviving clans of humans, now developed into a multitude of nations, come across the last remaining scrap of papyrus that holds the story of the old man and the cigarette. Suppose they manage to transcribe the text into the newly formed language of the newly formed world, conclude that though the previous civilization used primitive language and had an underdeveloped sense of metaphor, the “cigarette” artifact merits further study. Suppose their engineers and historians discover how cigarettes were made and they become a popular commodity. Suppose an old man walking in a park takes his first drag ever, finds it disgusting, drops it to the ground to step it out. Suppose he has white hair, arthritis, flirts with senility. Suppose a gentle breeze begins to blow...
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
On the Diabolical Machinations of Happenstance, or: Why All Klutzes Should Be Masochists
Never fear! There are many ways to ruin your day. Just consider all the legs of furniture, door jambs, curbs, and slight changes in sidewalk elevation that afford the opportunity to stub your toe, to stumble in front of a pretty girl or group of strangers, to catch yourself with an unseductive twist of the hips, an alarmed flail of arms, doe-eyed surprise, or horse hoof clomping feet straining to reach your center of gravity.
Witness and relish the immediate act of jettison, as if what you were carrying were held in highest contempt and belonged scattered on the floor in pieces or blowing loosely out of order soaking up puddles like a janitorial public service. Reflect with horrid delight as a slightly-higher-than-normal-pitched, wordless, garbled expression or yelp involuntarily escapes your throat, which, despite your best attempts at post-crisis nonchalance, renders all hope of sustaining or regaining some semblance of human dignity as futile as trying to pass your toe through legs of furniture, door jambs, curbs, and slight changes in sidewalk elevation.
But do not despair! For when you arrive safe at home behind the walls of anonymity, just remember that as the pretty girl and a few select good Samaritans from the crowd of strangers helped you gather your flotsam, and while you were excruciatingly trying to maintain that façade of composure, walking with that half-concealed limp and grimaced smile, all humans within eye-contact, capable of rudimentary memory retention, and disposed with at least a half-decent sense of humor were replaying your inadvertent interpretive dance in their heads, and may do so ad infinitum for the rest of their lives.
Witness and relish the immediate act of jettison, as if what you were carrying were held in highest contempt and belonged scattered on the floor in pieces or blowing loosely out of order soaking up puddles like a janitorial public service. Reflect with horrid delight as a slightly-higher-than-normal-pitched, wordless, garbled expression or yelp involuntarily escapes your throat, which, despite your best attempts at post-crisis nonchalance, renders all hope of sustaining or regaining some semblance of human dignity as futile as trying to pass your toe through legs of furniture, door jambs, curbs, and slight changes in sidewalk elevation.
But do not despair! For when you arrive safe at home behind the walls of anonymity, just remember that as the pretty girl and a few select good Samaritans from the crowd of strangers helped you gather your flotsam, and while you were excruciatingly trying to maintain that façade of composure, walking with that half-concealed limp and grimaced smile, all humans within eye-contact, capable of rudimentary memory retention, and disposed with at least a half-decent sense of humor were replaying your inadvertent interpretive dance in their heads, and may do so ad infinitum for the rest of their lives.
Upon encountering the question
Quick feet flicked through leaves and grass and stung dull thuds on dry, pressed ground. A tree was falling in the woods and he wanted to hear it. But for how far and fast he’d have to run, time and gravity seemed unconcerned.
Concrete, sidewalk, crosswalk, curb had eventually become rock, leaf, log, frog. Each footstep spanned a distance, leaped an image, and linked a word by an association of motion too fast and fleeting not to be crystallized in a progression of comprehension. And yet, that tree would soon be falling and that question still would linger.
Saliva was setting when he arrived, viscid-thick around his tongue, while sunlit streams hung silent from the trees still tall and standing. Within the stasis illuminated by those thousand dappled beams flapped wild, scattered insect wings, unfurling downy feathers, pine dust ruffles floating subtle, and dung spores airborn and fungal.
He doubled over, hands on knees, spat and panted heavy. The gob he hocked was steeped in detritus well before it hit the ground, swirled muddy, sunk silent.
Concrete, sidewalk, crosswalk, curb had eventually become rock, leaf, log, frog. Each footstep spanned a distance, leaped an image, and linked a word by an association of motion too fast and fleeting not to be crystallized in a progression of comprehension. And yet, that tree would soon be falling and that question still would linger.
Saliva was setting when he arrived, viscid-thick around his tongue, while sunlit streams hung silent from the trees still tall and standing. Within the stasis illuminated by those thousand dappled beams flapped wild, scattered insect wings, unfurling downy feathers, pine dust ruffles floating subtle, and dung spores airborn and fungal.
He doubled over, hands on knees, spat and panted heavy. The gob he hocked was steeped in detritus well before it hit the ground, swirled muddy, sunk silent.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
25 RECONTINUOUS THINGS ABOUT ME:
1) to find out what is required, what transpires
2) by and from the sticky-sweet womb-tomb
3) besides a landless expanse of potato shells
4) besides an expanse of potatoless land
5) besides a shell-less collapse of landless potatos
6) besides a potato-shelled existence under land
7) by repeated movements of my hand
8) holding a knife, a scalpel, a scraper
9) downward and out with quick swipes
10) to watch potato skin spliced
11) to watch potato skin shave off
12) to watch peels of potato skin shift and fall
13) to watch peels of potato skin piloting to the ground
14) and collect, all in a heap, grey and brown
15) to be consumed by the very land it came from
16) a concentrated effort must be established
17) in which it will be necessary to utilize various methods of accentuation
18) and to repeat and remember, when necessary
19) the pattern that led to the first swipe, the first peeled portion of potato
20) which, in essence, is the model for each subsequent flay
21) attended to with a rugged sleepiness
22) and willingness not to discuss or divulge the secrets to anyone in the immediate vicinity
23) until the sound that emminates from the muscles moving and swiping at the potato
24) sounds like that which comes from between the letters, words, and lines (and their very white and whiteless space)
25) I love potatos
2) by and from the sticky-sweet womb-tomb
3) besides a landless expanse of potato shells
4) besides an expanse of potatoless land
5) besides a shell-less collapse of landless potatos
6) besides a potato-shelled existence under land
7) by repeated movements of my hand
8) holding a knife, a scalpel, a scraper
9) downward and out with quick swipes
10) to watch potato skin spliced
11) to watch potato skin shave off
12) to watch peels of potato skin shift and fall
13) to watch peels of potato skin piloting to the ground
14) and collect, all in a heap, grey and brown
15) to be consumed by the very land it came from
16) a concentrated effort must be established
17) in which it will be necessary to utilize various methods of accentuation
18) and to repeat and remember, when necessary
19) the pattern that led to the first swipe, the first peeled portion of potato
20) which, in essence, is the model for each subsequent flay
21) attended to with a rugged sleepiness
22) and willingness not to discuss or divulge the secrets to anyone in the immediate vicinity
23) until the sound that emminates from the muscles moving and swiping at the potato
24) sounds like that which comes from between the letters, words, and lines (and their very white and whiteless space)
25) I love potatos
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Parable of the Moldy Situation
Into the mist, the forest of illumination waits with hundreds of tree tentacles reaching out to the sun, to the matter in the sky. Fuel for fire and figs drop on harmless grassy blades bending in the wind, bent to the will of their rising heads. Gravity pressing down so things can come up. It always happens this way and most of the time without starting the stopwatch.
Nearby, an eagle-hawk chants his lore and wisdom to the jungle monkey who sits listening but really just wants to ruffle his feathers. The serpent leans against a rake, smoking a cigarette. There is a light in his eyes that gleams beyond his sunglasses. The eagle-hawk spies the smoke rising and flies away to protect his eyes. The serpent apologizes and lights another cigarette.
Stern and hardy, lean and bold, Typewriter the Magnificent takes a vacation (to the south seas! on a skiff!). Alone and lonely he begins to record what he sees. Waves, clouds, sun, sky. He records all, understanding nothing. He is interrupted by the Great Whale. It lifts its head and blasts a fountain of questions to the sun. The sun replies with the same answer as before and before. The Great Whale, seeming satisfied, takes back to the underwaves without another groan. Typewriter the Magnificent, stenographer extraordinaire, records all, understanding nothing.
Blood beats behind the horizon, pulsing with the distant sun arches. Eventually dusk fades to night and the stars resume their shining. They blink and bounce their harmonies to the world below. We sit and wonder why we can't keep one in our pocket for the next time we run out of wine and the jungle monkey has a handful of feathers.
Nearby, an eagle-hawk chants his lore and wisdom to the jungle monkey who sits listening but really just wants to ruffle his feathers. The serpent leans against a rake, smoking a cigarette. There is a light in his eyes that gleams beyond his sunglasses. The eagle-hawk spies the smoke rising and flies away to protect his eyes. The serpent apologizes and lights another cigarette.
Stern and hardy, lean and bold, Typewriter the Magnificent takes a vacation (to the south seas! on a skiff!). Alone and lonely he begins to record what he sees. Waves, clouds, sun, sky. He records all, understanding nothing. He is interrupted by the Great Whale. It lifts its head and blasts a fountain of questions to the sun. The sun replies with the same answer as before and before. The Great Whale, seeming satisfied, takes back to the underwaves without another groan. Typewriter the Magnificent, stenographer extraordinaire, records all, understanding nothing.
Blood beats behind the horizon, pulsing with the distant sun arches. Eventually dusk fades to night and the stars resume their shining. They blink and bounce their harmonies to the world below. We sit and wonder why we can't keep one in our pocket for the next time we run out of wine and the jungle monkey has a handful of feathers.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Another Deluge
gangrene debris floating through the flood. be wary of the minotaur, he's peddling a new brand of acupuncture and doesn't take kindly to loiterers. you grab here and there for any article that floats or that gives shade. your raft is made up of hair driers, wine corks, and tennis rackets - held together by rubber bands and twisty ties. for good measure you have brought aboard a cymbal and a loom, and at least you picked up that copy of the Odyssey that, after it has dried off, will provide for good kindling. the shake shimmy of the waves makes bunches of the same items collect together in amoeba pudding cup fields and condom algae scales. but for the sky, there is no dome structure in sight.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Short Story (Quite Short)
Misled overfed tired of bed Harry the Harpooner puts on his buckskin and painted mask and sallies outside. Never knowing more than an empty horizon and a beer at bedtime he works on loosening the knot that is hampering the sails. Titans are out in force today and gales grip pinch divot the wave matter. Orange peels float across the stern bow but never counterclockwise. Harry fends off fatigue under the noontime shade of an uprooted banana tree and sings ditties to his cable man Rick the Stick. Counter to popular belief, Rick was not a child genius, he merely had a natural ability to gesture like a retired Swede. Baldness came with evening and the two were ready to quit their diet when a loud crash was heard port side. Rivulets ringed rosy wine stains through woodgrain clothes. Totem poles toppled and the sun cut itself in half. Panic would have overtaken them if there were not stars in the sky. Their compass blade beseeched them for a new scrivener to buccaneer with. Scabbard or no, it was a long day.
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