A storm at sea, tall waves capped in frothing white blades of foam. A lone ship, a little boat at best, climbs the swells and rides the slopes into the valleys. Darkness without breaks only in white-blue light for multiple seconds at a time as sharp, serpent-tongued lightning licks the ocean. Candlelight within the cabin illuminates the lone sailor as he sits stooped over a tall crate used this night as a writing desk. The candle hangs in an open lantern which dangled from a hook in the center of the cabin ceiling.
He has only one sheet of paper to write upon and that had stuck on the back to some unseen substance on the surface of the crate, unable to flip over. Other than the page and the pen which the sailor holds in his hand, a porcelain cup half full of cold coffee rests in the upper right corner of the crate wedged within a ninety-degree angle support beam of wood two inches thick, soon to slide with the next rise and fall of the sea to the opposite corner and splash a little more coffee onto the floor wet with the imposing sea.
The sailor writes small so as not to take up more room than necessary on his one page. He writes about himself, a subject he could never discuss aloud as all those around him claimed to know him. He forces the words at first but then they flow as though the pen had stabbed into his wrist and used his veins as its abundant source of warm ink to fill the page in his childish letters. But as the cup hits its barrier to the right of the crate for the thousandth time, the sailor reaches the end of the page. He has more to write, more to say to the world about the truth of him, but he cannot turn the page and has no other sheets.
He continues the narrative truth between the lines. Then, he reaches the bottom of the page as the cup crashes into the barrier to the left again. He writes more in the margins and meets with the edges of the page as well as the top and bottom. More truths of him, things none other than he has ever known, await telling. The crate will not absorb the ink, only the page.
No other options available, the sailor continues to write his truths by placing words between what already fills the page. He finds the paper full with more words inside, so he carries on by writing the new words atop the old.
Rising and falling, the cup slides from one side to the next without knowledge of the frustrations of the sailor, who continues in his plight to finally reveal himself to those who claim to know him. Soon, he finds the page black, not a speck of white remains. The ink bleeds onto the crate and spills over his lap onto the floor and the cup taps against the barrier again.
The sailor cries as he smears his wasted words to his skin and hurls the cup against the porthole. Coffee stains the rusted walls as the porcelain and glass fall in splinters to the floor, wet with salt water, coffee and ink.
The storm tears through the open hole, dousing the light and drowning the sailor’s scream, the words lost in the roar of the crashing waves.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Friday, December 21, 2007
Tojo and Gus - Part Two
“You thirsty, John? Come in and I’ll get you a soda from the fridge.”
John from work nodded as best he could in my neck brace, and walked stiffly toward the center of the room. The neck brace takes a bit of getting used to before one can move about normally, but until then it makes one look cautious and scared. He stopped directly beneath the ceiling fan.
I began to stand but halted with one hand on the arm rest and the other on my knee. I stopped before my weight shifted to my feet and looked up. I had located Tojo.
So as not to distract my doggie from his game, I sat frozen and stared up at him, not moving a muscle. I’ve known that Tojo was a very creative and resourceful dog, but I’ll be darned if I can figure out how he managed to scramble up the wall and climb out onto the ceiling fan. But there he was. Tojo crouched low on one of the blades like a stubby, hairless panther on a tree branch, looking down on his helpless prey.
My eyes darted from Tojo to John. His skin had practically turned a seasick green from anticipation. I had to suppress a giggle as I looked back up at Tojo, his lips parted in a canine grin, eyes firmly focused on his mark.
“What is it?” John from work asked, his voice positively trembling with excitement. “Gus, what’s going on?”
His eyes stayed on me, mine on Tojo, and Tojo’s trained on John. I could not speak or else distract my dog and spoil his surprise for John from work. But as a thick, foamy line of slobber began to drop slowly from Tojo’s snout, I knew the surprise would announce itself soon enough.
“Gus?”
John slowly followed my gaze and looked right into Tojo’s grinning face.
The scream that emanated from my friend bordered on the hysterical. I mean he did have a nice coat but the slobber probably would not stain, so why freak out? He screamed so loud that he frightened poor Tojo. Fortunately, I leapt out and caught Tojo as he fell, fangs first, at John from work’s head. John could not have caught him with the way he flailed about the living room, clearly still very upset about the drool that landed on his shoulder.
Tojo buried his face in my neck, growling and whimpering as he chewed on the scarf, trying so hard to nuzzle me so I could comfort him. John from work screamed odd combinations of prayers and profanities as he struggled to tear off the neck brace. I tried to consol him by saying if he rubbed some detergent and soaked the coat right away, it would probably come out in the wash.
“You’re crazy, Gus! You’re out-of-your-head nutzo!” He threw the neck brace to the floor and rushed out the door.
As I pried Tojo off my neck I thought aloud, “Poor guy. He really must love that coat.”
John from work nodded as best he could in my neck brace, and walked stiffly toward the center of the room. The neck brace takes a bit of getting used to before one can move about normally, but until then it makes one look cautious and scared. He stopped directly beneath the ceiling fan.
I began to stand but halted with one hand on the arm rest and the other on my knee. I stopped before my weight shifted to my feet and looked up. I had located Tojo.
So as not to distract my doggie from his game, I sat frozen and stared up at him, not moving a muscle. I’ve known that Tojo was a very creative and resourceful dog, but I’ll be darned if I can figure out how he managed to scramble up the wall and climb out onto the ceiling fan. But there he was. Tojo crouched low on one of the blades like a stubby, hairless panther on a tree branch, looking down on his helpless prey.
My eyes darted from Tojo to John. His skin had practically turned a seasick green from anticipation. I had to suppress a giggle as I looked back up at Tojo, his lips parted in a canine grin, eyes firmly focused on his mark.
“What is it?” John from work asked, his voice positively trembling with excitement. “Gus, what’s going on?”
His eyes stayed on me, mine on Tojo, and Tojo’s trained on John. I could not speak or else distract my dog and spoil his surprise for John from work. But as a thick, foamy line of slobber began to drop slowly from Tojo’s snout, I knew the surprise would announce itself soon enough.
“Gus?”
John slowly followed my gaze and looked right into Tojo’s grinning face.
The scream that emanated from my friend bordered on the hysterical. I mean he did have a nice coat but the slobber probably would not stain, so why freak out? He screamed so loud that he frightened poor Tojo. Fortunately, I leapt out and caught Tojo as he fell, fangs first, at John from work’s head. John could not have caught him with the way he flailed about the living room, clearly still very upset about the drool that landed on his shoulder.
Tojo buried his face in my neck, growling and whimpering as he chewed on the scarf, trying so hard to nuzzle me so I could comfort him. John from work screamed odd combinations of prayers and profanities as he struggled to tear off the neck brace. I tried to consol him by saying if he rubbed some detergent and soaked the coat right away, it would probably come out in the wash.
“You’re crazy, Gus! You’re out-of-your-head nutzo!” He threw the neck brace to the floor and rushed out the door.
As I pried Tojo off my neck I thought aloud, “Poor guy. He really must love that coat.”
Tojo and Gus - Part One
A secret love exists only as an unhealthy love. So why should I hide the fact that I love my dog? Always faithful, trustworthy and resourceful; my dog never lets me down. No matter what, he remains my best friend. My little Tojo will always wait hidden just beneath the couch, knowing that sooner or later my feet will have to lower. That means he’ll have another opportunity to play Trojan War, me as Achilles and he as the arrow that struck Achilles’ heel. Method actor defines Tojo as he rips the flesh, aiming to completely sever the tendon. He’d put Marlon Brando to shame, sweet puppy.
Tojo likes to play Sniper when I get home from work. I would call it Hide and Go Seek except that I never get to hide first. I also never get to seek. I simply walk into one of the rooms of our tiny apartment and he leaps out at me, fangs bared, eyes ablaze, froth oozing from the corners of his mouth. He never attacks from the same place twice. One day he’ll charge out from beneath the bed, and the next he’ll be waiting behind the door. Once or twice he has leapt at me from the bookshelf or from atop the refrigerator.
I’ve begun to leave a plastic neck brace outside my front door that I adorn upon my return to keep his foamy slobber from seeping down my shirt when he goes for the jugular. He’s so cute when he gets frustrated. His little body shakes all over and he gives this odd kind of howl. Then he’ll do a few awkward back flips and go hide under the couch. I can see his glowing eyes watch me from the darkness, unblinking. He never takes them off me; he loves me so much.
Tojo actually came with the couch that the previous tenant left in the apartment. At first I thought he might have been some kind of rat or possum until I heard him bark. Then I realized that the poor thing must have a bad case of mange and lost all his fur, which can’t be good for him. He shakes and sneezes a lot. I brought him a blanket my first day there and he playfully tore at my fingers, severing one when I fed him some hotdogs. My fault, but who really needs the top of their pinky? It was only after I’d stayed in the place for a few weeks that he came out and started playing his games with me. Most of them are alright and fun but I do not care too much for his version of Burglar Alarm.
Apparently, Burglar Alarm is a game that we can only play at 2:45am. It goes like this: I lie in bed, fast asleep, and Tojo comes into the room. As stealthy as a jungle beast he crawls up my dresser and quietly takes aim. Then, once he has judged his distance, Tojo leaps onto the bed, howling and snarling like a mad banshee, gnawing my knees through the sheets, raising the alarm of the pretend burglar at the window. We played this game for three weeks solid. Since then, I’ve started closing my bedroom door at night.
John from work came over a few days ago. He wanted to see the new place and meet my new dog. He seemed confused by my neck brace which I wrapped around his throat, but, when I wrapped a thick wool scarf around my own neck, he must have overcome his confusion for he asked instead about my dog.
“What kind of dog is Toe-Poe, Gus,” he asked as I hunted in my pockets for my keys.
“Tojo,” I corrected gently, “is a…. He’s …um.” I did not know what Tojo was. So I guessed. “He’s a pug, I think. But there might be something else mixed in there too.”
John from work nodded as I pulled out my keys and fit the appropriate one in the lock. It turned with a loud, rusty click. The fast scraping sound of claws on linoleum told me that Tojo headed off for another game of Sniper. I paused just to give him time. I knew he’d want to impress our guest.
I dramatically opened the door and gestured that John from work go in first.
He looked at me, his eyes big, and his mouth partially open. I could tell he had grown quite excited by the way he paled and started to sweat.
“Go on, man,” I said. “Tojo will announce himself when he’s ready.”
John from work shook his head and suggested that I go in first. How polite of John, I thought, not wanting to hog all the fun. So I walked in and set my bag down by the foot of the couch, nonchalantly checking under it for Tojo, and sat down comfortably when I saw nothing there but dust and his blanket. I tried to keep my appearance casual as I scanned the room for clues as to Tojo’s whereabouts, but found none.
John stood timidly at the door, still outside. I suppose he wondered what to do about wiping his boots off before he came in. I do not have a door mat.
“Don’t worry about wiping you feet or anything,” I said. “If you track anything of interest into the room Tojo’ll lick it up later.”
Still outside, John from work pointed toward the pile of shattered wood, soiled stuffing and ravaged material that had once been a loveseat.
“Did Tojo do that?” he asked.
I nodded. “He apparently didn’t like the floral pattern, and tried to pick the flowers to make it better. I haven’t gotten around to cleaning it up yet.”
John gulped audibly, and wiped his forehead as he took two small steps into the room.
Tojo likes to play Sniper when I get home from work. I would call it Hide and Go Seek except that I never get to hide first. I also never get to seek. I simply walk into one of the rooms of our tiny apartment and he leaps out at me, fangs bared, eyes ablaze, froth oozing from the corners of his mouth. He never attacks from the same place twice. One day he’ll charge out from beneath the bed, and the next he’ll be waiting behind the door. Once or twice he has leapt at me from the bookshelf or from atop the refrigerator.
I’ve begun to leave a plastic neck brace outside my front door that I adorn upon my return to keep his foamy slobber from seeping down my shirt when he goes for the jugular. He’s so cute when he gets frustrated. His little body shakes all over and he gives this odd kind of howl. Then he’ll do a few awkward back flips and go hide under the couch. I can see his glowing eyes watch me from the darkness, unblinking. He never takes them off me; he loves me so much.
Tojo actually came with the couch that the previous tenant left in the apartment. At first I thought he might have been some kind of rat or possum until I heard him bark. Then I realized that the poor thing must have a bad case of mange and lost all his fur, which can’t be good for him. He shakes and sneezes a lot. I brought him a blanket my first day there and he playfully tore at my fingers, severing one when I fed him some hotdogs. My fault, but who really needs the top of their pinky? It was only after I’d stayed in the place for a few weeks that he came out and started playing his games with me. Most of them are alright and fun but I do not care too much for his version of Burglar Alarm.
Apparently, Burglar Alarm is a game that we can only play at 2:45am. It goes like this: I lie in bed, fast asleep, and Tojo comes into the room. As stealthy as a jungle beast he crawls up my dresser and quietly takes aim. Then, once he has judged his distance, Tojo leaps onto the bed, howling and snarling like a mad banshee, gnawing my knees through the sheets, raising the alarm of the pretend burglar at the window. We played this game for three weeks solid. Since then, I’ve started closing my bedroom door at night.
John from work came over a few days ago. He wanted to see the new place and meet my new dog. He seemed confused by my neck brace which I wrapped around his throat, but, when I wrapped a thick wool scarf around my own neck, he must have overcome his confusion for he asked instead about my dog.
“What kind of dog is Toe-Poe, Gus,” he asked as I hunted in my pockets for my keys.
“Tojo,” I corrected gently, “is a…. He’s …um.” I did not know what Tojo was. So I guessed. “He’s a pug, I think. But there might be something else mixed in there too.”
John from work nodded as I pulled out my keys and fit the appropriate one in the lock. It turned with a loud, rusty click. The fast scraping sound of claws on linoleum told me that Tojo headed off for another game of Sniper. I paused just to give him time. I knew he’d want to impress our guest.
I dramatically opened the door and gestured that John from work go in first.
He looked at me, his eyes big, and his mouth partially open. I could tell he had grown quite excited by the way he paled and started to sweat.
“Go on, man,” I said. “Tojo will announce himself when he’s ready.”
John from work shook his head and suggested that I go in first. How polite of John, I thought, not wanting to hog all the fun. So I walked in and set my bag down by the foot of the couch, nonchalantly checking under it for Tojo, and sat down comfortably when I saw nothing there but dust and his blanket. I tried to keep my appearance casual as I scanned the room for clues as to Tojo’s whereabouts, but found none.
John stood timidly at the door, still outside. I suppose he wondered what to do about wiping his boots off before he came in. I do not have a door mat.
“Don’t worry about wiping you feet or anything,” I said. “If you track anything of interest into the room Tojo’ll lick it up later.”
Still outside, John from work pointed toward the pile of shattered wood, soiled stuffing and ravaged material that had once been a loveseat.
“Did Tojo do that?” he asked.
I nodded. “He apparently didn’t like the floral pattern, and tried to pick the flowers to make it better. I haven’t gotten around to cleaning it up yet.”
John gulped audibly, and wiped his forehead as he took two small steps into the room.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
The Melancholy Death of the Dodecahedron
The Dodecahedron began his life happy. Lovingly carved out of a humble chunk of wood and painted in a shimmering coat of Midnight Blue, the Dodecahedron, once set down complete upon the table, marveled at his twelve sides. “Surly with this many sides and faces,” the Dodecahedron thought, “I will have many friends here upon the Activities Table, and will be able to partake in many activities with other shapes who will be my friends.” And so, with this optimistic outlook, the Dodecahedron set out to make friends and find his nitch.
Many fellow blocks constructed of other shapes and colors roamed across the Activities Table. The Dodecahedron joined a slim Canary Yellow Cylinder and a tall Orange Rectangle. The Cylinder and Rectangle, like the Dodecahedron, also felt happy and looked forward to finding their place amongst the throng of other colorful and shapely blocks. Within moments they became friends. But after a little wile of searching together, they came to a corner of the table filled with different sized holes. Each hole was perfectly round, and the Cylinder found one that fit him. Then, the Cylinder noticed something odd about his new friends.
“You have too many sides,” the Cylinder said. “You’re not going to fit in here very well over here. But I can see some other blocks of multiple sides heading to that corner in the distance. Maybe you’ll have better luck over there my friends.”
So the Dodecahedron and the Rectangle left their friend and went in the direction he mentioned. At last they came to a different corner of the Activities Table with many different sized holes, and where many blocks, all with four sides, roamed, each checking for a four-sided notch they would fit. After a long search the Rectangle found hers and she set herself comfortable into her slot on the table.
“Ah,” she exclaimed as she nestled into her place, “this fits perfectly!” Then she looked at the Dodecahedron, who smiled happily with her in her joy, and sighed. “You had best leave here now; you don’t fit. You’ve got way too many sides. There is a chance you might fit somewhere but I know it is not here. Go on, now, and leave me in peace.”
Saddened by the cruel treatment of the one he thought of as a friend, the Dodecahedron moved away fighting tears. “Surely there must be some place for me, no matter how small or far away. I will walk across the face of the table until I find a place made just for me!”
And so he walked, but each time the Dodecahedron thought he’d found a fit, the hole would only have five sides, or eight. One even had ten sides, but that was still two sides too short. Every time the Dodecahedron thought he’d found a place and tried to squeeze all twelve of his sides in it, the other blocks would laugh at him and tease him saying that he’d never find a place to fit because no one else had been made with so many sides.
“If no other blocks were made with twelve sides,” the Dodecahedron said, “then there must be One Fit for me … somewhere.” But no matter how far the Dodecahedron walked, no matter how many holes he tried, nothing fit. Those around him who saw him laughed. They mocked the peeled and scratched paint that came from his many attempts to fit in on the Activities Table.
Then one day, after crossing the table more times than he could count, even using all of his sides multiple times, the Dodecahedron slowly came to the edge of the table and looked over into the black abyss beyond. Believing what the other shapes all said about him, that he was a mistake, never intended to be, he took the final step and fell into the blackness.
He hadn’t the faith to believe that tomorrow might have been the day he found his place, that it may have been a better day. Who knows? Had he thought that, the Dodecahedron may have been right.
Many fellow blocks constructed of other shapes and colors roamed across the Activities Table. The Dodecahedron joined a slim Canary Yellow Cylinder and a tall Orange Rectangle. The Cylinder and Rectangle, like the Dodecahedron, also felt happy and looked forward to finding their place amongst the throng of other colorful and shapely blocks. Within moments they became friends. But after a little wile of searching together, they came to a corner of the table filled with different sized holes. Each hole was perfectly round, and the Cylinder found one that fit him. Then, the Cylinder noticed something odd about his new friends.
“You have too many sides,” the Cylinder said. “You’re not going to fit in here very well over here. But I can see some other blocks of multiple sides heading to that corner in the distance. Maybe you’ll have better luck over there my friends.”
So the Dodecahedron and the Rectangle left their friend and went in the direction he mentioned. At last they came to a different corner of the Activities Table with many different sized holes, and where many blocks, all with four sides, roamed, each checking for a four-sided notch they would fit. After a long search the Rectangle found hers and she set herself comfortable into her slot on the table.
“Ah,” she exclaimed as she nestled into her place, “this fits perfectly!” Then she looked at the Dodecahedron, who smiled happily with her in her joy, and sighed. “You had best leave here now; you don’t fit. You’ve got way too many sides. There is a chance you might fit somewhere but I know it is not here. Go on, now, and leave me in peace.”
Saddened by the cruel treatment of the one he thought of as a friend, the Dodecahedron moved away fighting tears. “Surely there must be some place for me, no matter how small or far away. I will walk across the face of the table until I find a place made just for me!”
And so he walked, but each time the Dodecahedron thought he’d found a fit, the hole would only have five sides, or eight. One even had ten sides, but that was still two sides too short. Every time the Dodecahedron thought he’d found a place and tried to squeeze all twelve of his sides in it, the other blocks would laugh at him and tease him saying that he’d never find a place to fit because no one else had been made with so many sides.
“If no other blocks were made with twelve sides,” the Dodecahedron said, “then there must be One Fit for me … somewhere.” But no matter how far the Dodecahedron walked, no matter how many holes he tried, nothing fit. Those around him who saw him laughed. They mocked the peeled and scratched paint that came from his many attempts to fit in on the Activities Table.
Then one day, after crossing the table more times than he could count, even using all of his sides multiple times, the Dodecahedron slowly came to the edge of the table and looked over into the black abyss beyond. Believing what the other shapes all said about him, that he was a mistake, never intended to be, he took the final step and fell into the blackness.
He hadn’t the faith to believe that tomorrow might have been the day he found his place, that it may have been a better day. Who knows? Had he thought that, the Dodecahedron may have been right.
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