Brand new stuff here, Compassers! Can I call you that? No? Alright, we'll find something soon then. Maybe scouts or something to that effect. Compass scouts. Probably not though. We don't want to make you all sound like you're children strangely eager to identify birds. We'll discuss this later.
Anywho... this letter I wrote while watching the news again. There was something about watching this story unfold live that inspired me. So here you go.
Note to self: Stop paying attention to the news and go outside and climb a tree or something. Go make friends.
-Anthony
-----------
August 19, 2010
Dear Sir,
You don't know me and most likely will never meet me but I have to say you added so much complexity to my evening. You have put me in a position where, in several occasions, I don't know whether to thank you whole-heartedly or call you a colossal idiot. I just don't know so we will start from the beginning.
Walking into the living room on my last day at home for a while, I found my father watching the news. Your situation almost immediately interrupted the story about how horrible the economy is because President Obama hates freedom or something like that (it was Fox News, my dad is somewhat conservative). So this is where the first "thank you" comes in. We all know that we are all short on cash right now. The last thing anyone needs is a stranger telling them how fucked they are, which is ironic because that was exactly what I thought about you when they put you on the screen.
My dad and I are very big fans of seeing people getting hurt. That may sound terrible but as long as it isn't either on of us or anyone we know, we can't look away. I know for a fact that we aren't alone on this. Everyone enjoys watching a good tazing or trampoline accident every once in a while. A lot of people watch Nascar purely to see wrecks or fistfights. Cage fighting is very popular right now. At one point in the past, it was policy for public executions to take place. I mean, not so much here in the United States but it was huge in Europe for a bit. People would show up like it was the fucking movies or something, grab a slushy and Sno-Caps and find a good seat. Seeing beheadings were like silly bands and beanie babies to these people. The Romans had a whole tournaments of people killing each other. Being stuck at home on a saturday when the gladiatorial fights were going on was the worst! Not just Americans but powerful countries with happy citizens like to see violence. So don't judge. It's just instinct.
So once we heard that there was live video of your white pickup truck being chased by five cop cars and two helicopters, my dad and I were giddy with anticipation. Through the television, we were electric vultures circling until the first smell of blood would throw our senses into a frenzy.
The worthless anchor guy had no information at all. We didn't know why you were running for the police, only that you were... and at an incredibly slow pace. Even at that speed, the cops couldn't do anything but follow because you had not done anything too illegal to warrant crazy-driving maneuvers. Yet. We speculated that you were some old woman who ran over a group of school children but you didn't know you did because of your 95-year-old dulled senses and your cataracts that had effectively turned your eyeballs into slimy crystals. So perhaps you had no idea that Dallas' finest were behind you. But we tossed this out because it sounded ridiculous. Plausible, but ridiculous.
Your speed seemed like you were creating a satire of all other car chases before you. You wanted to show your audience that you had the police by the balls, that you were in complete control of your world. That was a cool thought for a while and I want to thank you for that thought but something tells me that you had no intentions of this. I have no idea what was going through your mind other than the probability of getting raped in prison. Plus, driving like someone's grandparents on the way to bingo isn't really good television so my excitement for this died down quickly.
The channel eventually went back to their routine fear injections and told us that if we wanted to continue to watch, we could get live, continuous footage on the website. So we turned off the tv and went online. I grabbed a popsicle from the freezer while the laptop booted up. It was one of the last ones left. It was orange. I had already eaten all of the Bomb Pops fairly quickly and then moved on to the remaining hidden Flavor-Ice tubes that had roasted in the freezer for a month or so. Now it was time to move back to the simple orange popsicle. No horrible joke on the stick, no logo on the wrapper. It was the best popsicle of the hundreds throughout the summer. Perhaps the tazer anticipation electrocuted the air in the kitchen.
My sister joined my dad and I on the couch. As we watched you meander through the surprisingly empty Texas streets, my puppy attacked us for the popsicle because for some reason, he really likes frozen things. This works out well because this means our fridge produces dog treat at the touch of a button. I wish I could get that excited about ice cubs like he does. Anyway, there was absolutely no one on your side of the road and you managed to safely glide through every intersection you encountered. But your speed was beginning to kill my patience. Car chase music could have helped us both. The Budos Band is a good choice. Remember that for next time, that is if you ever make it out of jail for your soon-to-come finale.
Because there was no audio, we still had no clue why you were running. I thought maybe you could have been another crazy astronaut but then realized that you were in Dallas, not Houston. But then I started to think more along the lines of NASA and how people there don't go crazy, specifically the people who study dark matter. This is just the way my brain works. I've written papers about dark matter before and know that it composes a vast majority of outer space but no one has any fucking idea what it is and no one is anywhere near discovering that. That must be so discouraging for those scientists. To go home every single day with nothing to show for it. Sure, the paycheck may be cool but it must be defeating to make no progress. A dark matter researcher would be bound to do something crazy or illegal eventually. That was when the puppy finally grabbed my popsicle and I snapped out of this odd, internal and somewhat stupid rant. It turns out that all you did was steal that car and you may have robbed a bank or two with a knife. Then I laughed because somewhere, someone was watching the news saying, "Hey, that's my fucking truck!"
We kept watching, the house phone began to ring, and things got interesting. My dad got up to get the phone, my mom came down already on her cell phone, and you began to drive around in a suspiciously large parking lot. My phone rang. It was my friend Tim, just to sing part of the theme song to "Goldfinger" but it turns out that he was watching you, too. We hung up, my mom hung up, and you began to scheme. We watched. You picked up some speed and by the time we saw you smash through the fence, we all were cheering because you had done the dumbest or most liberating thing you had done in your life. You were driving onto Love Field's runways, an international airport. In a matter of a second, you turned community service on the side of the highway into water-boarding at Guantanamo Bay.
Well, maybe not that extreme but you don't fuck with airports and expect to get off easy.
This is the heart of my dilemma. Driving in a big, open, enclosed, concrete field has major disadvantages. One of of which is that cops are going to come after you at all angles, which they did. When you entered the runways, you gave away your freedom. You passed the control to the authorities. You were giving up and because you didn't really think about it, you will now end up with a severely harsher punishment. You gave the middle finger to our country's founders. "Fuck my freedom" you said, as the cops dragged you out of the truck and into your jail cell.
This is what I thought at first until I thought about it a little more. Perhaps it is the exact opposite. Your freedom exceeds everyone else's in that no law can restrict you from doing what you want. Paper philosophies mean nothing in comparison to the beating heart in your chest. Most people spend their lives saying they live free but only exercise it small, lethargic spurts. You got the camera's attention and lit the fuse of your destiny in less than an hour. When you were driving, you weren't running from the cops. You were expecting everyone else to hot-wire the closest car and follow you down the highway, flying-v formation, windows down and stereos blasting, passengers screaming with tears of joy from their sunroofs. A parade of the liberated driving towards the coast, where upon arrival, everyone would rejoice and live the rest of their lives in happiness.
But you just stole a car. And maybe robbed a bank. A renegade without context. Rebellion in mute. And now your freedom is gone.
I shut the laptop and my family and I met my grandmother for dinner at a barbecue place. I drove separately because I was meeting some friends afterwards. We had conversations about why they don't make strollers for people all ages, my sister's recent auditions, my journey back for my last year as an undergraduate student, stealing salt and pepper shakers, gambling, popsicles and sneaky puppies. On the way to my friends', I put on the perfect summer playlist that is composed of four albums:
"Paul's Boutique" by the Beastie Boys, "St. Elsewhere" by Gnarls Barkley, "Prolonging the Magic" by Cake, and "Long Tall Weekend" by They Might Be Giants.
So you have thoroughly confused me in regards to what the hell you did and why you did it. But you taught me to enjoy my freedom regardless of what level it is at because we never know when it will all end. So thank you. Don't drop the soap.
Sincerely,
Anthony
Thursday, August 26, 2010
An Open Letter to Akihito, the Emperor of Japan
Apologies for not posting something immediately: I have been computerless for a while. However I did have my notebook that I have been sketching things down in like usual. At first, I began to write a heavy, personal piece scrutinizing my current self after analyzing my earlier childhood but after looking at the posts so far, I figured that perhaps something lighter was in order. That piece will come eventually, when it feels right. This week will not be so deep. I want you to smile. I want me to smile.
So in the spirit of this, I will make two posts tonight, both open letters. This first one some of you may have seen before but the second one is new. This one I wrote at the very beginning of this year as a pep-talk of sorts for the people of the world because it was the start of a new decade and all the news was talking about was the usual doom and gloom. Network news is the worst.
Oh, and keep in mind that this was written in January so try and remember the news references. It shouldn't be that difficult but if you need help, raise your hand and wait for me to come to your desk.
-Anthony
-------------
January 6, 2010
Dear Akihito,
Hi. My name is Anthony and I live in the United States of America, more specifically, Louisville, Kentucky. You may have heard of it. We produce baseball bats and we do that horse-racing-derby-thing every year. That's about it. But it's home and I like it.
I do not wish to be formal within this letter. Although I have great respect for you, your position, your lineage, and your country, you are not my leader and I am not your subject. All you are to me is another person on this planet. Earthen brethren. Another human being who eats and sleeps and struggles like the rest of us, and in that, we have our humanity in common. I will speak to you like I speak to everyone else because we are all born as equals. No offense, that's just how I feel.
To the point: I have a question. It's about Wii. Now before you get angry and have me killed, hear me out. I'll explain the problem, ask my question, and then explain why I came to you first. There is a good reason, I promise. It's not some racist joke. "Oh, all Japanese people know everything about technology, maybe this Akihito dude can help me." I'm better than that. Although, you probably own a Wii. Who wouldn't? Wii Tennis and Mario Kart are fun as shit; you should be proud it's from the country you rule. I would be.
Anyway, my sister got one for christmas this year and we hooked it up and everything and it looks all nice and shiny and stuff. Here's the problem. We connected it to the internet in our house and ever since then, it flashes blue constantly like its loading something. Sounds normal, right? Well, it does this while the machine is OFF. Here's the question: What the fuck is it doing and should I be concerned? Is it updating? Is it talking to other Wiis? Is it getting instructions from Mother Nintendo? It's obviously communicating with something somewhere.
I figured I should come to you for this instead of Nintendo. As somewhat of a nerd, I've seen my fair share of sci-fi movies where machines stage a revolt (e.g. "Terminator","Virus", "I Robot", "2001", even "G-Force" had some) and I thought that if Nintendo was planning something, they would just give me the runaround and then have the Wii murder me and my extended family that night while I slept. As a person in the highest position of power, if you were not aware of this, may this letter be a warning for whatever Nintendo is up to. If it's nothing, then great, no harm done. I'd rather be safe than sorry. If something is up and you are aware of it, or even implicated, I suppose there is nothing I can do to stop you. At least have the decency to let me know I'm right.
The whole thing has a huge Asimov-feel to it. The Wii just sits there with its brooding, plotting light, electrically mocking my mortality. If something does happen though, Hollywood predicts that Will Smith will take care of it. I'm not sure if i want the same person who wrote "Gettin' Jiggy With It" saving humanity.
But should I be concerned? You do not have to let me know your plans, just a simple "yes" or "no". I suppose the real question is should I buy some guns and hide somewhere in a mountain bunker? These are hard times, not just for America, but for the entire world. I don't have to tell you this, you are a leader. But America has been getting the shit end of the stick these past few years. Not to say we haven't instigated a little, but our morale is constantly under attack. As a citizen with no political say-so except once every four years, and granted, without Secret Service agents trained to take bullets for me, I feel scared sometimes. The followers of the world are open to every malicious infliction, and as long as people exist, there will be attacks. It sucks but that's what makes us human. Some people are out of their fucking minds and the rest of us have to stay suspicious and deal with it. Just look at these past few weeks for us. Yemen has it out for us for some reason and for some other strange reason, people recently really want to blow up planes. It really sucks. I haven't figured out whether or not these terrorists hate America or just Detroit's airport.
It hasn't even been a week into 2010 and already crazy shit has been happening. No one can agree on our health care program, Glenn Beck is chalking up pseudo-bravery in rednecks all across our country, CIA agents are being killed by double agents, yoga classes are breeding cults (whatever the fuck that means, I may have dreamed that), Google's making phones now, and according to CNN, apparently the g-spot is still a myth (http://www.cnn.com/2010/HEALTH/01/05/g.spot.sex.women/index.html). We don't even understand our own human bodies and we expect these same people to lead billions of people and dollars and handle a nuclear arsenal at the same time and keep their cool? Emperor, what is all this leading up to? What are we to expect from this year? How are you and the rest of the world leaders going to help us? And on top of everything, while me and the rest of the world silently panics, our Wiis knowingly laugh with that evil, blue light. It's too much.
Perhaps I'm just paranoid. Maybe this year will be a good year. No one really knows, anything can happen, perhaps good things. Maybe Detroit's airport will be shut down for a day because everyone felt like dancing. Maybe the Israelis and Palestinians will say "whatever" and stop fighting. Maybe the Wii is just downloading updates to make the games run smoother.
No one can see the future, no one can tell where things will end up. Fuck, we can't even see where our lives will take us in a week much less a whole year. I am a different person than who I was this time last year. We embrace change and deal with what we are given and grow from it, right? What else can we do? We have to stay optimistic and focus on what we can do, not worry about things out of our control. It takes a certain degree of "fuck it" but if it works, it works. So you know what? Bring on your Wiipocalypse, I'll be ready for it. We all will be ready for it. We all will be ready for anything.
You hear that, 2010? Do your worst. We can take it. That's what we do.
I digress.
This letter must be quite unorthodox in comparison to the usual letters a leader must receive. In first grade, my class and I wrote letters to President Clinton. We asked him stock, fluffy bullshit questions like "What's your favorite food?" and "What else did you want to be when you were growing up?" We didn't receive a personal response, only a generic poster with certain facts about him. "Did you know President Clinton plays the saxophone?" Shit like that. I think he said his favorite food was tacos. In retrospect, a vaginal joke could have been made then but
A) the whole Monica Lewinsky thing hadn't even happened yet and
B) I was like five and probably didn't know what a blow job was. The only thing I knew everything about then was Legos. That still might be mostly true today.
So what is your favorite food? Is it pizza? I hope not. If you weren't born into royalty, what would you have wanted to become? An astronaut? A race car driver? A sea monster? I wanted to be an astronaut and still do. It's not going to happen, I'm an english major. Not much of anything may happen with that degree. But one of the few goals I've set in my life is that I want to go to space. I'm dead serious. I'll make it happen somehow. What kind of music do you listen to? I don't know that much about Japanese music or culture for that matter. I have heard of the band Boredoms but something tells me that you don't enjoy them as much as I do.
Anyway, thank you for your time, good luck, and I'll see you somewhere out there in the world.
Sincerely,
Anthony Martino
So in the spirit of this, I will make two posts tonight, both open letters. This first one some of you may have seen before but the second one is new. This one I wrote at the very beginning of this year as a pep-talk of sorts for the people of the world because it was the start of a new decade and all the news was talking about was the usual doom and gloom. Network news is the worst.
Oh, and keep in mind that this was written in January so try and remember the news references. It shouldn't be that difficult but if you need help, raise your hand and wait for me to come to your desk.
-Anthony
-------------
January 6, 2010
Dear Akihito,
Hi. My name is Anthony and I live in the United States of America, more specifically, Louisville, Kentucky. You may have heard of it. We produce baseball bats and we do that horse-racing-derby-thing every year. That's about it. But it's home and I like it.
I do not wish to be formal within this letter. Although I have great respect for you, your position, your lineage, and your country, you are not my leader and I am not your subject. All you are to me is another person on this planet. Earthen brethren. Another human being who eats and sleeps and struggles like the rest of us, and in that, we have our humanity in common. I will speak to you like I speak to everyone else because we are all born as equals. No offense, that's just how I feel.
To the point: I have a question. It's about Wii. Now before you get angry and have me killed, hear me out. I'll explain the problem, ask my question, and then explain why I came to you first. There is a good reason, I promise. It's not some racist joke. "Oh, all Japanese people know everything about technology, maybe this Akihito dude can help me." I'm better than that. Although, you probably own a Wii. Who wouldn't? Wii Tennis and Mario Kart are fun as shit; you should be proud it's from the country you rule. I would be.
Anyway, my sister got one for christmas this year and we hooked it up and everything and it looks all nice and shiny and stuff. Here's the problem. We connected it to the internet in our house and ever since then, it flashes blue constantly like its loading something. Sounds normal, right? Well, it does this while the machine is OFF. Here's the question: What the fuck is it doing and should I be concerned? Is it updating? Is it talking to other Wiis? Is it getting instructions from Mother Nintendo? It's obviously communicating with something somewhere.
I figured I should come to you for this instead of Nintendo. As somewhat of a nerd, I've seen my fair share of sci-fi movies where machines stage a revolt (e.g. "Terminator","Virus", "I Robot", "2001", even "G-Force" had some) and I thought that if Nintendo was planning something, they would just give me the runaround and then have the Wii murder me and my extended family that night while I slept. As a person in the highest position of power, if you were not aware of this, may this letter be a warning for whatever Nintendo is up to. If it's nothing, then great, no harm done. I'd rather be safe than sorry. If something is up and you are aware of it, or even implicated, I suppose there is nothing I can do to stop you. At least have the decency to let me know I'm right.
The whole thing has a huge Asimov-feel to it. The Wii just sits there with its brooding, plotting light, electrically mocking my mortality. If something does happen though, Hollywood predicts that Will Smith will take care of it. I'm not sure if i want the same person who wrote "Gettin' Jiggy With It" saving humanity.
But should I be concerned? You do not have to let me know your plans, just a simple "yes" or "no". I suppose the real question is should I buy some guns and hide somewhere in a mountain bunker? These are hard times, not just for America, but for the entire world. I don't have to tell you this, you are a leader. But America has been getting the shit end of the stick these past few years. Not to say we haven't instigated a little, but our morale is constantly under attack. As a citizen with no political say-so except once every four years, and granted, without Secret Service agents trained to take bullets for me, I feel scared sometimes. The followers of the world are open to every malicious infliction, and as long as people exist, there will be attacks. It sucks but that's what makes us human. Some people are out of their fucking minds and the rest of us have to stay suspicious and deal with it. Just look at these past few weeks for us. Yemen has it out for us for some reason and for some other strange reason, people recently really want to blow up planes. It really sucks. I haven't figured out whether or not these terrorists hate America or just Detroit's airport.
It hasn't even been a week into 2010 and already crazy shit has been happening. No one can agree on our health care program, Glenn Beck is chalking up pseudo-bravery in rednecks all across our country, CIA agents are being killed by double agents, yoga classes are breeding cults (whatever the fuck that means, I may have dreamed that), Google's making phones now, and according to CNN, apparently the g-spot is still a myth (http://www.cnn.com/2010/HEALTH/01/05/g.spot.sex.women/index.html). We don't even understand our own human bodies and we expect these same people to lead billions of people and dollars and handle a nuclear arsenal at the same time and keep their cool? Emperor, what is all this leading up to? What are we to expect from this year? How are you and the rest of the world leaders going to help us? And on top of everything, while me and the rest of the world silently panics, our Wiis knowingly laugh with that evil, blue light. It's too much.
Perhaps I'm just paranoid. Maybe this year will be a good year. No one really knows, anything can happen, perhaps good things. Maybe Detroit's airport will be shut down for a day because everyone felt like dancing. Maybe the Israelis and Palestinians will say "whatever" and stop fighting. Maybe the Wii is just downloading updates to make the games run smoother.
No one can see the future, no one can tell where things will end up. Fuck, we can't even see where our lives will take us in a week much less a whole year. I am a different person than who I was this time last year. We embrace change and deal with what we are given and grow from it, right? What else can we do? We have to stay optimistic and focus on what we can do, not worry about things out of our control. It takes a certain degree of "fuck it" but if it works, it works. So you know what? Bring on your Wiipocalypse, I'll be ready for it. We all will be ready for it. We all will be ready for anything.
You hear that, 2010? Do your worst. We can take it. That's what we do.
I digress.
This letter must be quite unorthodox in comparison to the usual letters a leader must receive. In first grade, my class and I wrote letters to President Clinton. We asked him stock, fluffy bullshit questions like "What's your favorite food?" and "What else did you want to be when you were growing up?" We didn't receive a personal response, only a generic poster with certain facts about him. "Did you know President Clinton plays the saxophone?" Shit like that. I think he said his favorite food was tacos. In retrospect, a vaginal joke could have been made then but
A) the whole Monica Lewinsky thing hadn't even happened yet and
B) I was like five and probably didn't know what a blow job was. The only thing I knew everything about then was Legos. That still might be mostly true today.
So what is your favorite food? Is it pizza? I hope not. If you weren't born into royalty, what would you have wanted to become? An astronaut? A race car driver? A sea monster? I wanted to be an astronaut and still do. It's not going to happen, I'm an english major. Not much of anything may happen with that degree. But one of the few goals I've set in my life is that I want to go to space. I'm dead serious. I'll make it happen somehow. What kind of music do you listen to? I don't know that much about Japanese music or culture for that matter. I have heard of the band Boredoms but something tells me that you don't enjoy them as much as I do.
Anyway, thank you for your time, good luck, and I'll see you somewhere out there in the world.
Sincerely,
Anthony Martino
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Posters
The theme for this week is "moving." On Wednesday, I posted an essay about a book by John Steinbeck entitled Travels With Charley. Today, I am posting a song inspired by a comment my college roommate made in our last week as sophomores. Upon entering the room, he halted and stared at the empty walls that had, until a few hours before, been covered with my posters. "It's real," he said. "We're really leaving in a few days." A few months later, I wrote this song.
Down come the posters -
no more clinging to the wall.
They're starting out tomorrow,
a four hour drive ahead.
And though they wish to stay here,
if they don't move, summer's heat
will weld tape to wall.
It's too hot;
the windows are locked.
Close the door
and step out.
Finish the pie slice,
the evening's fallen asleep.
Night's casino revolution,
the last thing that you see.
But recent friends return home;
you'll see them soon
when another world has become cooled.
It's too hot;
the windows are locked.
Close the door
and step out.
The posters that I had hung in our dorm room were there for months. I had covered the walls with pictures of musicians and bands; they brought that white brick room some color and life. To my roommate and I, those posters helped make our dorm room our home. When they were gone, we were no longer in our safe space on the campus of Elmira College -- we were guests, transitory beings that would be gone within a few days.
It's a humbling experience, packing up all of your belongings every nine months to move somewhere else. Every poster, every trinket, every book and pen -- even your bedspread reinforces your existence. These things matter because they contain a bit of your essence, your uniqueness. To think that you can put them all in boxes and load them in a car, leaving behind a barren shell of a home -- you question whether who we are and the things we do can have any permanence when you see how simple it is to cleanse a place of yourself.
But this song is not just about the idea that we can disappear with ease. It's about the necessity of leaving when it's time. If I had tried to stay in that room over the summer or into the next year, I would have been attempting to recreate the past. What a hideous idea that is. The discoveries I made in the 2006-2007 school year were the discoveries of that year and they set me up for things I would learn the next year. To grow, to explore, to challenge ourselves in an unfamiliar land -- that is what living is all about. So onward we go, never staying in one place longer than we need to, seeking new ideas and relationships with others in a quest to become better human beings.
-Paul
Down come the posters -
no more clinging to the wall.
They're starting out tomorrow,
a four hour drive ahead.
And though they wish to stay here,
if they don't move, summer's heat
will weld tape to wall.
It's too hot;
the windows are locked.
Close the door
and step out.
Finish the pie slice,
the evening's fallen asleep.
Night's casino revolution,
the last thing that you see.
But recent friends return home;
you'll see them soon
when another world has become cooled.
It's too hot;
the windows are locked.
Close the door
and step out.
The posters that I had hung in our dorm room were there for months. I had covered the walls with pictures of musicians and bands; they brought that white brick room some color and life. To my roommate and I, those posters helped make our dorm room our home. When they were gone, we were no longer in our safe space on the campus of Elmira College -- we were guests, transitory beings that would be gone within a few days.
It's a humbling experience, packing up all of your belongings every nine months to move somewhere else. Every poster, every trinket, every book and pen -- even your bedspread reinforces your existence. These things matter because they contain a bit of your essence, your uniqueness. To think that you can put them all in boxes and load them in a car, leaving behind a barren shell of a home -- you question whether who we are and the things we do can have any permanence when you see how simple it is to cleanse a place of yourself.
But this song is not just about the idea that we can disappear with ease. It's about the necessity of leaving when it's time. If I had tried to stay in that room over the summer or into the next year, I would have been attempting to recreate the past. What a hideous idea that is. The discoveries I made in the 2006-2007 school year were the discoveries of that year and they set me up for things I would learn the next year. To grow, to explore, to challenge ourselves in an unfamiliar land -- that is what living is all about. So onward we go, never staying in one place longer than we need to, seeking new ideas and relationships with others in a quest to become better human beings.
-Paul
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
The Constant Search: Steinbeck's Journey in Travels With Charley
This past Sunday, I changed homes -- just like I have in every late August for the past five years. I moved to Manchester, New Hampshire where I'll be serving with an incredible national service organization for the next ten months. To be certain, I relocated to ease my daily commute. But I think there is something to be said for the American fascination with movement and its influence on my desire to be in a new city. Below is an essay I have previously posted elsewhere on the internet. Consider it a teaser for this week's song, a foundation for my investigation of the American devotion to constant exploration and travel.
There are few things as fundamental to the American experience as the desire to move. We are a nation of travelers seeking new worlds. From the conquest of people in the first three hundred years of European settlement or immigrants searching for a better life in a more familiar world already formed, the United States has grown because of our restlessness. But not everyone can uproot themselves and start a new life somewhere else. The road trip is an attempt to quench the thirst for new experiences and locales without losing the home you have.
But a journey for the journey's sake is an indulgence. If you're going simply to escape, you aren't creating anything. It is only by describing your experience that the road trip is made worthwhile. Songwriters like Bruce Springsteen have spent their musical careers trying to explain the lure of the road. Authors from Kerouac to the present tell about their travels in cars. This motif stretches back at least as far as Mark Twain's Huck Finn, who traveled on the Mississippi to escape his father and the trappings of civilization.
Telling others about your experiences helps you reflect on how you've grown in the time you were away. A symbiotic relationship, road trips and personal development support each other. This has held true for me. The desire to explore the United States drove me and my brother to take four road trips in the past five years.
But I write today not about my own explorations, but about those of John Steinbeck. His road trip detailed in Travels With Charley is designed with a different purpose in mind than simple escape. The year is 1960, twenty-three years after the release of his classics Of Mice and Men and The Grapes of Wrath, and Steinbeck feels he has lost touch with the American voice. Though the sounds of America vary from region to region, populated by hearts and minds from many backgrounds, the American voice when considered in totality is distinct from that of those found in the European countries. For a man who once eloquently portrayed the American human being in realistic terms, it is essential that he rediscover the words of his people.
But "people" is a loose term when considering Steinbeck's companion, his poodle -- the Charley from the title. A fuzzy dog may not be the best copilot in the minds of some, but for Steinbeck Charley serves as an excellent conversationalist. The ability to communicate with a creature from another species is something that only a few possess. Consider Chewbacca, Han Solo's right-hand-Wookie from Star Wars, American film director George Lucas' 1977 classic. Speaking from experience, having another person beside you makes the journey survivable. There are some scary times that Steinbeck encounters on the road. A tire explodes, forcing the author to the side of the road in order to fix it in the middle of a rainstorm. Charley suffers from abdominal problems, and the duo also suffers from poor directions and end up lost. For a man driving solo, this could be a disaster. With a friend in the passenger seat, it's an adventure; obstacles are mere challenges to overcome together.
An important part of the book is found toward the end, when Steinbeck is passing through the South. 1960 was an election year and the buzzword of change floated through the air, an environment that reemerged two years ago. We know now that John Kennedy would be elected and integration would occur, but people back then, much like today, didn't know what the new day would bring. Change -- like the road trip -- can be a frightening thing because of the uncertainty of it. And when people are scared, they tend to lash out at those they deem responsible for their discomfort. In 1960, these targets were the young black children who were the guinea pigs in experiments designed to achieve social equality. What's worse is that this anger was not challenged, with logic and respect, but was instead supported and cheered on by the terrified crowd at a New Orleans school.
Steinbeck ends the book at home, though he declares his journey to have ended in Virginia. Some journeys, he said, end early while others continue on long after the vehicle has stopped. Though Steinbeck's journey in his camper truck Rocinante came to an early end, the desire to keep moving continued. Americans will continue taking to the roadways -- whether by car, hovercraft or whatever new form of travel comes along. There is an excitement beckoning us from the other corners of our country and we will seek them out.
But I must reiterate that the road trip taken for its own sake is a selfish act. To live without contemplation is to live as a tree; there is no reason to move if you aren't illuminated by it. Discovering the interconnectedness of all beings is a worthy goal. I believe the path to social equality will be lengthy and full of flat tires, stomach pains and wrong directions. But we will have our own Charleys, the fuzzy dog in the copilot's seat who helps reassure us that we will survive, that though the travel be rough it is one we must make. Those of us who choose to walk will march on the path that thousands have taken before and will take in the future, connecting us eternally to our American identity.
Check back Saturday for a post featuring a song with this theme of movement and journey. Until then, share this blog with your friends and submit something!
-Paul
There are few things as fundamental to the American experience as the desire to move. We are a nation of travelers seeking new worlds. From the conquest of people in the first three hundred years of European settlement or immigrants searching for a better life in a more familiar world already formed, the United States has grown because of our restlessness. But not everyone can uproot themselves and start a new life somewhere else. The road trip is an attempt to quench the thirst for new experiences and locales without losing the home you have.
But a journey for the journey's sake is an indulgence. If you're going simply to escape, you aren't creating anything. It is only by describing your experience that the road trip is made worthwhile. Songwriters like Bruce Springsteen have spent their musical careers trying to explain the lure of the road. Authors from Kerouac to the present tell about their travels in cars. This motif stretches back at least as far as Mark Twain's Huck Finn, who traveled on the Mississippi to escape his father and the trappings of civilization.
Telling others about your experiences helps you reflect on how you've grown in the time you were away. A symbiotic relationship, road trips and personal development support each other. This has held true for me. The desire to explore the United States drove me and my brother to take four road trips in the past five years.
But I write today not about my own explorations, but about those of John Steinbeck. His road trip detailed in Travels With Charley is designed with a different purpose in mind than simple escape. The year is 1960, twenty-three years after the release of his classics Of Mice and Men and The Grapes of Wrath, and Steinbeck feels he has lost touch with the American voice. Though the sounds of America vary from region to region, populated by hearts and minds from many backgrounds, the American voice when considered in totality is distinct from that of those found in the European countries. For a man who once eloquently portrayed the American human being in realistic terms, it is essential that he rediscover the words of his people.
But "people" is a loose term when considering Steinbeck's companion, his poodle -- the Charley from the title. A fuzzy dog may not be the best copilot in the minds of some, but for Steinbeck Charley serves as an excellent conversationalist. The ability to communicate with a creature from another species is something that only a few possess. Consider Chewbacca, Han Solo's right-hand-Wookie from Star Wars, American film director George Lucas' 1977 classic. Speaking from experience, having another person beside you makes the journey survivable. There are some scary times that Steinbeck encounters on the road. A tire explodes, forcing the author to the side of the road in order to fix it in the middle of a rainstorm. Charley suffers from abdominal problems, and the duo also suffers from poor directions and end up lost. For a man driving solo, this could be a disaster. With a friend in the passenger seat, it's an adventure; obstacles are mere challenges to overcome together.
An important part of the book is found toward the end, when Steinbeck is passing through the South. 1960 was an election year and the buzzword of change floated through the air, an environment that reemerged two years ago. We know now that John Kennedy would be elected and integration would occur, but people back then, much like today, didn't know what the new day would bring. Change -- like the road trip -- can be a frightening thing because of the uncertainty of it. And when people are scared, they tend to lash out at those they deem responsible for their discomfort. In 1960, these targets were the young black children who were the guinea pigs in experiments designed to achieve social equality. What's worse is that this anger was not challenged, with logic and respect, but was instead supported and cheered on by the terrified crowd at a New Orleans school.
Steinbeck ends the book at home, though he declares his journey to have ended in Virginia. Some journeys, he said, end early while others continue on long after the vehicle has stopped. Though Steinbeck's journey in his camper truck Rocinante came to an early end, the desire to keep moving continued. Americans will continue taking to the roadways -- whether by car, hovercraft or whatever new form of travel comes along. There is an excitement beckoning us from the other corners of our country and we will seek them out.
But I must reiterate that the road trip taken for its own sake is a selfish act. To live without contemplation is to live as a tree; there is no reason to move if you aren't illuminated by it. Discovering the interconnectedness of all beings is a worthy goal. I believe the path to social equality will be lengthy and full of flat tires, stomach pains and wrong directions. But we will have our own Charleys, the fuzzy dog in the copilot's seat who helps reassure us that we will survive, that though the travel be rough it is one we must make. Those of us who choose to walk will march on the path that thousands have taken before and will take in the future, connecting us eternally to our American identity.
Check back Saturday for a post featuring a song with this theme of movement and journey. Until then, share this blog with your friends and submit something!
-Paul
Saturday, August 14, 2010
The Process
If you take any art classes or spend any time in art school you'll most likely hear a lot about process or "THE process" or "MY process." It comes up a lot. Some people are very strict about their process and anything that messes it up will result in poor results. I have never been one for a set way of doing things. I have tendencies and habits while making art but I think a lot of what I make is sporadic, but there are certain steps I take when I'm working on a project. I figured I'd use this post to shed a little light on that.
For me, a large part of my process is mental. Obviously I can't show you that but I can assure you that I am thinking of and looking at things all the time in relevance to making art. Sometimes I don't see people, houses, cars, or trees, I see shapes and colors and the way things are put together. I don't necessarily make everything I say into a piece of art, but I try to take notes in my mind of all these things.
When I do decide on a topic, it's normally never too far out of my mind, and it changes a lot. Sometimes I'll talk myself out of something or think of a better idea. As I detailed in previous posts, a lot of what goes into a finished piece is experimentation and sketching. It helps you plan, sharpens your eyes, hands and mind, and opens you up to things you didn't think of on your own.
I've always had an interest in "grungy" things. I tried (and loved) painting on street signs, something I'm going to try and get back into. I really like graffiti and made a few paintings of that. And as you can tell from my first post, abandoned things really capture my interest. I am not sure why. It probably gives off the vibe of being lonely and depressed a lot which is certainly not the case. A main reason why I think this subject interests me is because of memories. They are proof of human existence and were at one time useful, happy, vibrant, bustling places. Now they are abandoned and their original purpose is lost. They do not really serve a purpose anymore. That fact I think really catches me but again I'm not sure why.
I did a few paintings about Chernobyl (most notably, Mechanical Graveyard, although that may be from Pripyat). Since I didn't want to exhaust a subject but wanted something similar, I did some research. I found plenty sources of inspiration and useful images that I will undoubtedly use, but the one that I was most interested in was San Zhi, Taiwan.
It contains this otherworldly quality, which may be another reason why I'm so interested in this subject. These are images that you certainly won't find in normal circumstances. It looks futuristic but ancient at the same time. The pod city that was abandoned due to hauntings looks too good not to draw or paint. So I started with a few sketches.
These are just pencils with some colored pens. They are also only three pictures from what seems like a ton of opportunities so I'm definitely going to throw down a few more and draw a couple larger ones and color them with markers before I bust out the paints. There is a lot to this to explore visually and I am pretty excited about where it could go.
That does it for my week. Next time I hope to have some paintings done. I have at least six or seven more sketch books so there will be more posts on that and I will definitely make a post about identity and portraits, which is another subject I paint a lot. So keep checking back to see what Paul gives us next week and Anthony and Luke after him. Thanks for the support so far and spread the word as much as possible, use the submission link on the side, and comment! I would love to talk about things that come up in our work with others. It's one of the reasons we started this. Thanks again!
For me, a large part of my process is mental. Obviously I can't show you that but I can assure you that I am thinking of and looking at things all the time in relevance to making art. Sometimes I don't see people, houses, cars, or trees, I see shapes and colors and the way things are put together. I don't necessarily make everything I say into a piece of art, but I try to take notes in my mind of all these things.
When I do decide on a topic, it's normally never too far out of my mind, and it changes a lot. Sometimes I'll talk myself out of something or think of a better idea. As I detailed in previous posts, a lot of what goes into a finished piece is experimentation and sketching. It helps you plan, sharpens your eyes, hands and mind, and opens you up to things you didn't think of on your own.
I've always had an interest in "grungy" things. I tried (and loved) painting on street signs, something I'm going to try and get back into. I really like graffiti and made a few paintings of that. And as you can tell from my first post, abandoned things really capture my interest. I am not sure why. It probably gives off the vibe of being lonely and depressed a lot which is certainly not the case. A main reason why I think this subject interests me is because of memories. They are proof of human existence and were at one time useful, happy, vibrant, bustling places. Now they are abandoned and their original purpose is lost. They do not really serve a purpose anymore. That fact I think really catches me but again I'm not sure why.
I did a few paintings about Chernobyl (most notably, Mechanical Graveyard, although that may be from Pripyat). Since I didn't want to exhaust a subject but wanted something similar, I did some research. I found plenty sources of inspiration and useful images that I will undoubtedly use, but the one that I was most interested in was San Zhi, Taiwan.
It contains this otherworldly quality, which may be another reason why I'm so interested in this subject. These are images that you certainly won't find in normal circumstances. It looks futuristic but ancient at the same time. The pod city that was abandoned due to hauntings looks too good not to draw or paint. So I started with a few sketches.
These are just pencils with some colored pens. They are also only three pictures from what seems like a ton of opportunities so I'm definitely going to throw down a few more and draw a couple larger ones and color them with markers before I bust out the paints. There is a lot to this to explore visually and I am pretty excited about where it could go.
That does it for my week. Next time I hope to have some paintings done. I have at least six or seven more sketch books so there will be more posts on that and I will definitely make a post about identity and portraits, which is another subject I paint a lot. So keep checking back to see what Paul gives us next week and Anthony and Luke after him. Thanks for the support so far and spread the word as much as possible, use the submission link on the side, and comment! I would love to talk about things that come up in our work with others. It's one of the reasons we started this. Thanks again!
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Mastering Markers
Alright, this will be a lengthy post, I only started with a few, then I kept remembering more drawings that I had that dealt with markers so it grew.
Sketching for a month straight can get somewhat boring. Granted, it helps you very much, especially when the sketching is done straight from observation, but sometimes a little color helps. I had a couple color pens in NY that helped, but soon I got my hands on a set of prismacolor markers. They're supposed to be the best around. I don't know much about that because I'm not a marker afficianado. They are a way to add color to sketches and drawings without breaking out paints. Colored pencils aren't really my thing either. I haven't done much with them and I ended up being so busy in NY that I didn't have as much time as I would've liked using them.
I started small with a few drawings at the botanical gardens. I've never been a big fan of landscapes or just pictures of nature but it never hurts to use some things you aren't very comfortable with. I ended up with a pretty nice set of little drawings for the day. Most of these were done in pencil on site and then I colored them in back at the loft.
One of my favorite places in NYC is the Museum of Natural History. I've always loved animals and this is a perfect place to draw them because of the models. It's almost like having a live animal pose for you, without the threat of trampling, mauling, or death. As with the botanical gardens, I used pencil while I was there and filled in the color later from memory.
The biggest thing with drawing from life is that you'll have to make sacrifices with color. Unless you have a huge set of markers, you won't be able to match colors perfectly. Which is fine for me because I love messing around with unnatural colors. For most of these I didn't stray too far but I think once I get better at actually drawing with the markers, I'll experiment with those.
I've only done four larger drawings with the markers. The first was the view from the loft into DUMBO. The sun made awesome colors which didn't really translate to the drawing but it was more for practice than anything. It was mainly an experiment of filling in color. Should I use crosshatch? Should I use solid bands of color? Do different textures work?
Being so close to the waters and a brand new park they built by the Brooklyn Bride, we spent a lot of time there. I was always fascinated with the water and old docks and random logs in the water, I sketched them several times and eventually made a drawing of one old dock. They have taken all the top boards off of it so it's a collection of these logs poking out of the water, they were so fascinating for reasons I still can't explain.
Recently I drew a picture of Walt from Breaking Bad. This is a phenomenal show and I often draw whatever happens to be fresh in my mind. I watched a lot of Breaking Bad last month so I sat down and threw this on paper to see if I could learn anything. I tried coloring the back of thicker paper and letting the marker bleed through to fill in his skin, hoping that would add more of a blended feel and not just solid chunks of color. For the most part, it worked, but there is definite tweeking to be done.
Probably my most successful piece with markers was this drawing of the singer from Passion Pit. This was also done with some colored pens, which helped with the line work and they were also colors that I didn't have with the markers. I think using a mix of lines and chunks of colors really helped in this one. Too often with this markers I try to cover up everything with color instead of merely suggesting it.
Using the markers are much easier because there is very little set up. There are drawbacks in color range and blending, but for adding color to sketches they do just fine. They are great for intense, graphic images that focus more on shapes and themes rather than ability to recreate real life.
Sketching for a month straight can get somewhat boring. Granted, it helps you very much, especially when the sketching is done straight from observation, but sometimes a little color helps. I had a couple color pens in NY that helped, but soon I got my hands on a set of prismacolor markers. They're supposed to be the best around. I don't know much about that because I'm not a marker afficianado. They are a way to add color to sketches and drawings without breaking out paints. Colored pencils aren't really my thing either. I haven't done much with them and I ended up being so busy in NY that I didn't have as much time as I would've liked using them.
I started small with a few drawings at the botanical gardens. I've never been a big fan of landscapes or just pictures of nature but it never hurts to use some things you aren't very comfortable with. I ended up with a pretty nice set of little drawings for the day. Most of these were done in pencil on site and then I colored them in back at the loft.
One of my favorite places in NYC is the Museum of Natural History. I've always loved animals and this is a perfect place to draw them because of the models. It's almost like having a live animal pose for you, without the threat of trampling, mauling, or death. As with the botanical gardens, I used pencil while I was there and filled in the color later from memory.
The biggest thing with drawing from life is that you'll have to make sacrifices with color. Unless you have a huge set of markers, you won't be able to match colors perfectly. Which is fine for me because I love messing around with unnatural colors. For most of these I didn't stray too far but I think once I get better at actually drawing with the markers, I'll experiment with those.
I've only done four larger drawings with the markers. The first was the view from the loft into DUMBO. The sun made awesome colors which didn't really translate to the drawing but it was more for practice than anything. It was mainly an experiment of filling in color. Should I use crosshatch? Should I use solid bands of color? Do different textures work?
Being so close to the waters and a brand new park they built by the Brooklyn Bride, we spent a lot of time there. I was always fascinated with the water and old docks and random logs in the water, I sketched them several times and eventually made a drawing of one old dock. They have taken all the top boards off of it so it's a collection of these logs poking out of the water, they were so fascinating for reasons I still can't explain.
Recently I drew a picture of Walt from Breaking Bad. This is a phenomenal show and I often draw whatever happens to be fresh in my mind. I watched a lot of Breaking Bad last month so I sat down and threw this on paper to see if I could learn anything. I tried coloring the back of thicker paper and letting the marker bleed through to fill in his skin, hoping that would add more of a blended feel and not just solid chunks of color. For the most part, it worked, but there is definite tweeking to be done.
Probably my most successful piece with markers was this drawing of the singer from Passion Pit. This was also done with some colored pens, which helped with the line work and they were also colors that I didn't have with the markers. I think using a mix of lines and chunks of colors really helped in this one. Too often with this markers I try to cover up everything with color instead of merely suggesting it.
Using the markers are much easier because there is very little set up. There are drawbacks in color range and blending, but for adding color to sketches they do just fine. They are great for intense, graphic images that focus more on shapes and themes rather than ability to recreate real life.
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Sketches!
I was fortunate enough to be part of a very unique course at Elmira. My painting professor, Marc Dennis, designed a course where he takes 7 or 8 students to NYC to live in DUMBO for a month, which is the neighborhood in Brooklyn underneath the Brooklyn and Manhattan bridge. It's an amazing trip and I cannot explain enough how valuable it was. I was even lucky enough to go on it my sophomore year as well.
This latest trip was much different than the first, however. First, we had a blog. You can read it at http://ecnycart10.blogspot.com/ . The second major difference, was what work we were responsible for. My first trip, we had to paint and sketch. We were given traveling easels and allowed a mini shopping spree for supplies and we made paintings in the loft we lived in. This time, however, he only wanted us to sketch. We had to sketch on the Subway during the first trip, but this time we had to fill 2 mini sketchbooks a week. If we finished those two, we could draw whatever we wanted. So needless to say, I have a nice collection from that trip. We wanted to make sketching posts for the blog, but we never got around to it. There were trips to various museums and attractions where we could just draw all day, so I have more drawings from there.
Sketching is incredibly important. It keeps you sharp, helps you observe better and it retains memories. However, these sketches never really see the light of day. Granted, they're not really supposed to. They aren't always incredibly private, but they are practice, full of mistakes and experiments. I thought I would post some of them anyways because some are good, some are interesting and it might be something worth looking at.
These are only from one tiny book (about wallet size). So there is plenty more, but I'm going to save them for later posts. Maybe I'll categorize them for posts or find something more interesting for them. I also sketch regularly so the collection grows all the time.
These are from the Met, the park and the loft we lived in. Some are detailed little sketches, some are quick studies. There's even one with markers, but I'll explain that more later in the week. Keep checking back during the week for more posts. There will definitely be 2 or 3 more this week. And if you're new, make sure to read the past posts from Anthony and Luke who really stepped it up the past 2 weeks.
This latest trip was much different than the first, however. First, we had a blog. You can read it at http://ecnycart10.blogspot.com/ . The second major difference, was what work we were responsible for. My first trip, we had to paint and sketch. We were given traveling easels and allowed a mini shopping spree for supplies and we made paintings in the loft we lived in. This time, however, he only wanted us to sketch. We had to sketch on the Subway during the first trip, but this time we had to fill 2 mini sketchbooks a week. If we finished those two, we could draw whatever we wanted. So needless to say, I have a nice collection from that trip. We wanted to make sketching posts for the blog, but we never got around to it. There were trips to various museums and attractions where we could just draw all day, so I have more drawings from there.
Sketching is incredibly important. It keeps you sharp, helps you observe better and it retains memories. However, these sketches never really see the light of day. Granted, they're not really supposed to. They aren't always incredibly private, but they are practice, full of mistakes and experiments. I thought I would post some of them anyways because some are good, some are interesting and it might be something worth looking at.
These are only from one tiny book (about wallet size). So there is plenty more, but I'm going to save them for later posts. Maybe I'll categorize them for posts or find something more interesting for them. I also sketch regularly so the collection grows all the time.
These are from the Met, the park and the loft we lived in. Some are detailed little sketches, some are quick studies. There's even one with markers, but I'll explain that more later in the week. Keep checking back during the week for more posts. There will definitely be 2 or 3 more this week. And if you're new, make sure to read the past posts from Anthony and Luke who really stepped it up the past 2 weeks.
Thursday, August 5, 2010
Goodbye
I want to thank all of my friends again for their support and help. Many of you have listened to my ramblings and confessions on the last few days and how hard they have been and without you, I could not have done it. With that said, I have a few things to share with everyone, I hope you read them and enjoy them. As Paul said to me, The Compass was made to be a celebration of human life and creativity, and my Grandmother deserves to be celebrated. A special thanks to Paul for that.First, my mother, three aunts, and two uncles asked me to write my grandmother's obituary. As my mother said, it was a "labor of love" It's simple and heartfelt, and it will be in local papers tomorrow, for any of you who live in my area. From a writing standpoint, its like getting published in the worst way possible. Without further ado, here is her Obituary, for those of you who knew her, and those who didn't.
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Catherine “Kit” Bane of Elizabeth, PA returned home to her heavenly father on August 4, 2010, she was 87 years old. Catherine passed away surrounded by family in Jefferson Hospital. She was preceded in death by her beloved husband Robert Thomas Bane and 2 grand children.
She is survived by a thriving and devoted family; foremost, her four loving daughters: Patty Bales and husband Corbin of Lordstown OH, Marion Lewis, with whom she resided, Roberta Bashioum and husband Richard of West Newton, and Kathy See and husband Raymond of Belle Vernon, as well as her adored sons, Robert T. Bane Jr and wife Jenny of Fallowfield Township and Dennis Bane and his wife Crystal of Fredricksburg VA. An astounding 26 grandchildren, 50 great grandchildren, and 4 great, great grand children also survive her. She was enormously and undeniably loved by each and every one of them.
Catherine was born in Chaleroi PA on Augsust 19, 1922. She spent the majority of her life an active member of the local area. She worked for 30 years at K-Mart in Pleasant Hills as a sales associate, as she was always a very sociable woman. In addition, Catherine was very spiritual as she was deeply committed to her Catholic faith and her church. She often taught Sunday school classes and volunteered baked goods for numerous church related events. In her spare time, she thoroughly enjoyed cooking numerous treats and playing bingo with her beloved daughters and other family members weekly. In addition to the great mourning of her extensive family, Catherine will be sorely missed by her furry friends, Sweetheart and Princess. –Luke
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Finally, to end this post, a piece I wrote for her. It wrote itself, after I left her hospital room it was on the tip of my tongue, and has been until it all spilled out on paper roughly an hour ago. Its just as much for my mother and my family as it is for her. I understand many of you never had the chance to meet or hear of my grandmother, but as far as the post is concerned, her husband, my grandfather died many many years ago before my birth, before even my mother married my father. Needless to say,my gram has been waiting a long time in hopes of seeing him again, and now, in my words, she can.
I hope you guys enjoy it...
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A Reunion
It was as if she were gliding across the field, not walking. She felt light, airy, and relaxed. She let her free hand brush against the tall standing grass and chuckled as the wheat brushed against her bare legs. She held her suitcase against her hip and pulled up the base of her sundress as she took long, reaching steps through the endless field of gold. She lifted a hand above her brow, searching with her auburn eyes and all of the sudden, she saw him. The excitement that filled her spilled out like waves over a dam. Her heart thumped and her mind raced with all the things she had forgotten to say. She took off in a sprint, suitcase bouncing behind her and hand waving high in the air. She felt the wind in her hair and the sun on her shoulders and she could not remember a finer moment. She cherished the feeling, drinking it in as his beaming face came closer and closer to her own. In three quick steps she dropped her bag and dove into his open arms, planting a kiss that Clark Gable would admire on his smirking lips. And he held her, and it was perfect. They stood like that, a wonderful moment in time, for what could have been an eternity. Her hands found his, searching his palms for the lines, ridges, and calluses she knew so well. He smelled faintly of sweet tobacco, just as she remembered. She ran her fingertips through his soft hair and their eyes met, both running with tears of joy, and he whispered to her, “How ya been Jess?”
When she opened her eyes again, she felt so very tired. She was in a dim room with soft music. Noises hummed around her and everything seemed quite far away. She realized she was in a hospital bed surrounding by machines. For a moment, she felt fear and panic at these new unfamiliar surroundings, but it did not last. She looked up and found Tommy standing next to her, he reached out his hand and took hers and looked at her reassuringly, telling her everything was going to be okay with his eyes. Just like that, she relaxed. She ignored the room and her whereabouts and instead focused on those around her. They came like a magnificent slideshow, an epic parade of love. One after another, all of those wonderful souls she had just so recently reminisced about came to fruition, and both her and her Thomas beheld them. There were no words for her, they weren’t necessary. She spoke to them each with her heart and her warm eyes. As more people filled the cold empty space that was just an ordinary hospital room, it transformed. They filled it and her with warmth, light, and comfort. When it seemed that there was possibly no more love to be had even in the entire world than she now possessed in her small bed, they all came to her together. As they entered, her sweet husband lifted her into his arms. They gathered about her and him, they’re hearts swelling, all outstretching, and lifting her with him. She shed the machines, the bed and her clothes and lifted up, completely free from her mortal coil. As Tommy pulled her up she felt the sublimity and pure perfection of this moment, and she could not help but cry. He bathed her in light and she focused on his face, smooth, handsome, and young…
-Luke
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
A Tough Wednesday
Today at 11:30 AM, an amazing woman, my grandmother, Catherine Bane passed away. She got very sick out of the blue the day I left for my family vacation which was Saturday. We left Boston last evening around 6PM, cutting our trip understandably short, and set a course straight for the hospital arriving just after 6 AM. It just feels strange putting up a post without letting you, my friends and loved ones, know of her. A special thanks to those of you who have been helping me through the past few days. I'm working on a few things for my grandma, and I may be sharing them here in the future.
Here is a story I wrote recently, I hope you all enjoy it.
Flowers
It was decided. She would cook the last piece of bologna she had on the stove and be done with it. The thin meat crackled, popping like gunshots through the trenches of San Mercliz. She mindlessly fingered her last chunk of the bread she pilfered from Marty’s. She would eat now, that was what mattered, tomorrow was another story entirely. She sat on her cot while she watched her frugal feast slowly brown. She must have looked like a joke, she thought, crammed in her miniscule flat, barely enough room for her, the cot, and the stove. She again felt the familiar shame and embarrassment that plagued what was left of her life. She straightened her back, pushing the bottom of her tattered negligee between her thighs. Her long brown hair fell over her shoulders, its beauty a stark contrast to her emaciating frame. She picked the meat out of the pan and made quick work of the last of her food. Her eyes flicked from her meal to Robert’s watch. She had only a few minutes left. She cleaned up as best as she could; tying back her hair and brushing her cheeks with an old comb in the mirror, giving them the illusion of color. She fell back into her modest bed and waited. Ever punctual, her eight o’clock entered. He glanced at her carelessly, with vague interest, like a boy recognizing an old forgotten plaything. Without a word, he dropped a handful of coins on the stove and then his trousers on the floor. His hands grabbed her; they were cold, hungry, and unfeeling. He reeked of bourbon and tobacco, the stench radiating from his body in a warm, sick cloud. She let her mind travel. As always, she thought of her Robert. His rough, calloused hands and just how impossibly gentle they felt when up against her skin. His sad, blue eyes, seeing and craving ever inch of her. He was her grate love, her “one and only”, as he always whispered to her while holding her body against his in their beautiful mahogany bed. She was so impossibly lucky…and she knew it. Mr. Bourbon breath was finished and gone, but her fantasy wasn’t. She fell asleep, tired and used, holding onto his ghost.
She was panicked, how could she have miscounted? With last night’s take she should have had exactly enough. Her eyes welled up with tears as she recounted her money again and again as she approached Mary’s Store. Checking the pocket of the roustabout wrapped around her, she moaned a great sigh of relief. The last two quarters were wedged in its pocket. She was breathing much easier when she entered the shop. She perused the aisles like a duchess, clutching her fortune tightly to her breast. Her eyes danced across the loaves of beautiful bread and the fresh cuts of meat hanging over the deli window. She pictured great feasts at parties full of many well dressed guests. She brushed the tips of her fingers along the beautiful fabrics displayed on the shelf in front of her, imagining dresses, curtains, and bedspreads. She dreamt of fine linen sheets and the most beautiful brassieres money could buy. Finally she stopped and reached for the best bouquet. It wasn’t perfect in the least. These roses were barely relatives of the beautiful ones she knew they sold in New York City by the dozen, but they did their best intimidation. As she pushed every last piece of money over the counter to a boy of only 16 or 17, her stomach moaned a protest, but its bootless cries were not heeded by its owner.
She did not cry, she remained stoic as she walked the rows of identical markers. She found Robert’s easily and slipped to her knees before his earthly resting place. She brushed the fallen leaves off of his façade and smiled at him. He had bought her roses. With his meager military pay, he had somehow managed to save enough to buy her the most beautiful bouquet of roses in the middle of Time square to boot. It was the first and last time she ever saw the city, she never had any need to go back. How she remembered those perfect flowers! She had clutched them tight in her hand as He kissed her goodbye. . His smile, so big and hopeful, as his boat left the harbor. He had given her roses when he had nothing to his name, and now, for the fifth year since God had taken him from her, she would return his great kindness. She laid down next to her Robert, resting her hand on his stone and the other on his flowers, listening for his voice and yearning for her past.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
The Lottery Ticket
How tragic, how very desperate it appears. Each second that passes
is another moment of disappointment. Sure, on the surface it may seem
small, even miniscule. But it is rejection in its finest sense.
It starts with an investment, a small wager; laying a piece of your self
and your hard work on the line. After that, after you have it in your
hand, you possess a certain high, a few brief seconds of Shangrila.
For in these few moments spent chiselling away at whatever shit coats
that card, you could be rich. In one turn of the wrist, that piece
of paper becomes your god. It holds the supreme power to provide for
you, to reward you, or to destroy you. Each lash of the coin across the
card's surface is a diving stab from a desperate Hector, fighting
his certain fate in the face of the brutal Achilles. Ripe with blind
confidence and adrenaline, you push forward, silencing the doubtful
voices in your mind. Hope wains, and disappointment fills the visage.
With a final, worthless dash of the hand, your bible is rubbed raw.
Little remains of that person you were only moments ago. Hector
receives his death wound and bleeds out under the Greek blade, taking
your dreams of wealth and happiness with him. Your adventure ends
where it began, but now you are empty handed. Just like that, you're
broken and brimming with disillusionment. Eyes glazed and mind wandering
you do not know where it went wrong. You invited the guests and set
the table but now you're eating dinner alone. The world of course
does not stop turning for you. You get rid of the evidence as fast
as possible, glancing about in some strange sense of embarrassment as
the card slips from your fingers. Now there is only regret...
regret and maybe a pretzel from the food court.
Westward Bound
After sitting back and watching three weeks of posts, I have to say....I'm impressed. Tim kicked us off with a a nice amount of honesty and a pledge of sorts for what was to come. Then came Paul, our spiritual leader of sorts when it comes to this majestic forum, and he did not disappoint with his introductory post that gave us a sweet taste of some fancy new Riley. Finally, Anthony "The South" Martino fired us up with his customary wit and deep reflections. You all make me proud. You fill me with inspiration, joy, and excitement. Today the four of us head west, we expand our minds and ideas as the country once expanded from coast to coast. Our friendships demand a manifest destiny as we are all born with the right to claim this whole country, this entire spectrum of art, creation, and life. Let's just hope we don't committ mass genocide towards the native peoples of our minds. Maybe they're our subconscious? Yeah, I'lll get back to you on that, this metaphor is already out of hand. In short, I end the first cycle of the compass, and I'm excited to do it. The circle is complete, and I hope this compass's dial spins for eternity.
Like Anth, I'm going to put up three pieces, the first is "The Lottery Ticket" the others...I've yet to decide or possibly write...lets be excited.
-Luke
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