I'm posting this action shot in honor of my last post. (Dad! Stop singing to Bob Denver. I mean, I know you love him and all!) Props to Supersonicjan.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Bob, uh, I mean John Denver
I'm posting this action shot in honor of my last post. (Dad! Stop singing to Bob Denver. I mean, I know you love him and all!) Props to Supersonicjan.
Friday, July 18, 2008
"Annie's Song"
See, here is the thing - what if the foundation of your life turned out to be a lie? I'm listening to "Annie's Song" by Bob Denver and it always makes me think of being a child because my father loved Bob Denver so much when I was a child. As a child it made me think of my mom and dad and how they loved each other. Only it turns out they didn't. When I got older, my parents separated and divorced and my dad came out to everyone. So I'm sitting here listening to the song as I work and crying because the song reminds of me of something so beautiful and so false.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Child
Here's a poem I wrote Sunday while I was sitting on the stand at church.
"Child"
A brightness
this birth
into another place
and time
starts its ticking
an accounting
or a gift
a sentence
passed
before a crime can be committed.
I wait
the uneasy father
witness to
a travail
I have no power to stay.
You pause
a thing of fearful
ugly beauty
then
a breath
a cry
a plea.
Life begins anew
my heart
your heart
my blood
your blood
a seedling god
in my trembling
mortal hands.
"Child"
A brightness
this birth
into another place
and time
starts its ticking
an accounting
or a gift
a sentence
passed
before a crime can be committed.
I wait
the uneasy father
witness to
a travail
I have no power to stay.
You pause
a thing of fearful
ugly beauty
then
a breath
a cry
a plea.
Life begins anew
my heart
your heart
my blood
your blood
a seedling god
in my trembling
mortal hands.
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
The Wisdom of Fishes
Here's a story I just finished recently. I started writing it right around the time I wrote "Bone Dog" and thought that it might be a children's story as well, but that's not how it turned out. Those of you familiar with "The Old Man and The Sea" by Ernest Hemmingway may see some echoes of that story in this one. I've always loved "The Old Man and The Sea" and will admit that I drew inspiration from it for this story. Hopefully I haven't done it any disservice and you enjoy the story.
"The Wisdom of Fishes"
Jose stood on the rocky beach, looking out into the distance. It was late afternoon. All around him was the sun, the sky, and the sea. He curled his toes in the hot sand. Above him, the sea birds looped and bobbed, arcing down to steal a piece of fish or to land on the water where they bobbed like toy boats.
He heard the sound of the fishermen at the dock. They were unloading their boats, talking and laughing - the lucky ones. They'd caught their fish and would soon be heading home to share dinner with happy families.
Jose held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. There was no sign of another boat coming in. He walked slowly back to where grandma was working in the small garden.
"No llega," He said. "He isn't back yet."
Grandmother looked up. "Llegara pronto. He'll be back soon." She sighed, though, as she said it. It had been several days since he had returned with any fish. The fact that he wasn't back yet was not a good sign.
Jose bent down to help grandmother. Together they weeded and thinned the plants in the little garden until the dark of the late evening settled around them. When the moon appeared between the clouds rolling in, grandpa still wasn't back. Jose and grandma fixed a small meal of greens from the garden, then turned in for the night.
Later in the night, Jose awoke to the sound of quiet footsteps. He heard grandpa sigh wearily, then settle into his bed. Outside a light rain had begun to fall and the drops echoed like tiny pebbles tossed lightly on the tin roof. Jose drifted back to sleep and dreamed of large exotic fish leaping from electric blue seas and racing across horizons of white foam.
In the morning, grandpa was gone again.
"Abuela, grandma, where does grandpa go to fish?" Grandma was in the tiny kitchen brewing a pale herbal tea.
"Hijito, little son," She said without turning, her back still to him, "grandfather fishes the deep waters, where the oldest and wisest fish live. They are harder to catch, but they are larger and give you more strength."
Jose remembered his dream - the large exotic fish dancing in the deep ocean, the flash of white foam on the crest of a large blue wave curling in on itself. "Will he catch one today?"
Grandma sighed, then poured the tea. "No se. I don't know."
They drank the tea in silence, then headed out to work in the garden. The sun's rays were pale and weak in the early dawn. Throughout the morning the rays gathered strength, though, until, by late morning, grandma and Jose were working in the full heat of the day.
"Descansemonos," said grandmother. "Let's rest. It's too hot to continue working like this."
In the shade of the little hut, they drank some more tea. Jose wondered if grandpa was standing on the deck of the little fishing boat in the heat of the noon day sun. Grandpa was a little man, but strong. At ten years Jose was already almost his size, but grandpa was much stronger. He wondered if the heat sapped grandpa's strength, the way it did his own. He thought about it and decided that it did not. He had once seen grandpa carry a fish as big as a man all the way from the dock to the market. The sun had been hot that day, too. He sat thinking of the mystery of it - how grandpa could carry a large fish in the hot sun while he was already tired just from standing in the heat trimming plants in the garden. ... He fell asleep trying to work it out.
In the late evening, grandpa did not return. That night there were no quiet footsteps carefully working their way to the bed that grandpa shared with grandma.
In the morning, at breakfast, there was a grim, determined set to grandma's face, one Jose had never seen before. He felt a new fear moving like a deep cold current in his heart. There were stories about men who sailed out in the morning to bring home food and never returned. He opened his mouth to ask grandma about grandpa, but something in her face as she poured the morning tea stopped him.
Later he tried to work in the garden, but felt too weak and worried to continue.
"Abuela, may I go to the hill?" Jose asked.
"Si, porque no? Sure, why not?" Grandma looked up from her weeding and wiped her brow. Her eyes were tired under the brow of her sun hat.
Jose left for the large hill just outside of town. The hot sun streamed down from an open sky. The day was hot, but a strong breeze was blowing in from the sea. Jose could smell the salty, faintly fishy scent of the ocean. He worked his way slowly, but steadily to the foot of the hill. In the shade of a small tree he sat to rest until his heart stopped jumping and turning in his chest.
He thought of the time he had helped to unload fish from grandpa's boat. He had found a smaller fish at the bottom of the pile, half buried in the briny water that sloshed the bottom of the boat, its gills still opening and closing, opening and closing, like the wings of a butterfly fresh from its chrysalis. When he had grabbed it, it had struggled in his hand, thrashing and pumping, surprisingly strong for its size. He had almost dropped it at first, but then he'd gripped it more tightly and soon its struggling had weakened, then stopped altogether until it lay almost serene in his hand, its only remaining movement the butterfly motion of its gills, opening and closing, opening and closing.
Even in the shade, the sun was hot and for a moment he felt faint. His thoughts felt slow and confused. The hill - there was still the hill. His heart was steady again.
He rose and began the work of slowly climbing to the crest of the hill, his pace measured and even, first one step and then the other. Throughout the climb, the sun beat down upon him like the constant roll of waves from a distant shore. Toward the top of the hill, his heart again began its reckless struggle to escape, twisting and turning and jumping in his chest. Small points of light swam before his eyes. He lay down and waited.
After a while, his heart calmed again.
When he felt strong enough, he stood and looked out to sea. He thought he saw something tiny and white bobbing out in the distance, but when he wiped the sweat from his eyes there was nothing. He walked slowly back to the shade of a tree partway down the hill and lay down to rest.
When he awoke, it was dark. In the distance he heard the sound of the water lapping at the shore. The night was cool and he found it much easier to climb again to the top of the hill. The sky was cloudless and the moon bright. He looked out again to the sea. He thought he saw something moving steadily in from the distance. He lay down a while, then rose and looked again. There was nothing.
He rested again, then slowly made his way down the hill and back to the hut. He carefully opened the door and stood in the entrance, listening. Inside he heard the soft, measured whisper of grandma's night breathing. There was no other sound. He carefully made his way to his bed and lay down.
"Hahlo, hahlo!" he awoke to someone shouting. "Is anyone there?" There was a loud and hurried knocking at the door.
He stood and hurried quickly to the door. It was early morning. Grandmother was already rising. At the door was another fisherman from the village, Senor Fuentes. "Vengan, pues, rapido! Hurry quickly!" He said.
As they made their way at a half-run to the docks, Senor Fuentes explained how another group of fisherman had found grandfather unconscious on his boat, drifting at sea. "The fish he had tied to his boat was enormous," said Senor Fuentes, "judging from what was left of him, that is." Sharks had eaten most of the fish in the night. When the other fisherman found him, they'd had to cut the remains of the fish free to use the rope to lash grandpa's boat to their own.
At the dock, Jose stood, watching as the other men supported grandpa, helping him to step unsteadily from the boat to the shore. His face and arms were sunburned a deep red like boiled crab. He felt vaguely sick and ashamed looking at grandpa in his weakness.
"Abuela, grandfather," one of the men said, "you need to eat, to regain your strength. Take one of my fishes, take a big one, take two."
"No, gracias" said grandfather, shaking his head wearily "I will catch my own. And this time it will be bigger."
The man shook his head sadly at grandfather's response, then turned and made the same offer to Jose. Jose looked at what the man was offering. The fish in the hold were beautiful - large and strong and colorful, like the fish in his dream. He could imagine the sweetness of their flesh, the strength in them becoming his own. He longed to take one, then thought of grandfather and how it would shame him. He shook his head "no" then turned away quickly from the man and walked to where grandfather waited.
As they walked away together from the dock toward their little hut, grandfather reached out only once to steady himself against Jose, then gathered his balance and walked the rest of the way alone. Grandmother had already gone on ahead.
In the morning, grandpa was gone again.
"The Wisdom of Fishes"
Jose stood on the rocky beach, looking out into the distance. It was late afternoon. All around him was the sun, the sky, and the sea. He curled his toes in the hot sand. Above him, the sea birds looped and bobbed, arcing down to steal a piece of fish or to land on the water where they bobbed like toy boats.
He heard the sound of the fishermen at the dock. They were unloading their boats, talking and laughing - the lucky ones. They'd caught their fish and would soon be heading home to share dinner with happy families.
Jose held up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun. There was no sign of another boat coming in. He walked slowly back to where grandma was working in the small garden.
"No llega," He said. "He isn't back yet."
Grandmother looked up. "Llegara pronto. He'll be back soon." She sighed, though, as she said it. It had been several days since he had returned with any fish. The fact that he wasn't back yet was not a good sign.
Jose bent down to help grandmother. Together they weeded and thinned the plants in the little garden until the dark of the late evening settled around them. When the moon appeared between the clouds rolling in, grandpa still wasn't back. Jose and grandma fixed a small meal of greens from the garden, then turned in for the night.
Later in the night, Jose awoke to the sound of quiet footsteps. He heard grandpa sigh wearily, then settle into his bed. Outside a light rain had begun to fall and the drops echoed like tiny pebbles tossed lightly on the tin roof. Jose drifted back to sleep and dreamed of large exotic fish leaping from electric blue seas and racing across horizons of white foam.
In the morning, grandpa was gone again.
"Abuela, grandma, where does grandpa go to fish?" Grandma was in the tiny kitchen brewing a pale herbal tea.
"Hijito, little son," She said without turning, her back still to him, "grandfather fishes the deep waters, where the oldest and wisest fish live. They are harder to catch, but they are larger and give you more strength."
Jose remembered his dream - the large exotic fish dancing in the deep ocean, the flash of white foam on the crest of a large blue wave curling in on itself. "Will he catch one today?"
Grandma sighed, then poured the tea. "No se. I don't know."
They drank the tea in silence, then headed out to work in the garden. The sun's rays were pale and weak in the early dawn. Throughout the morning the rays gathered strength, though, until, by late morning, grandma and Jose were working in the full heat of the day.
"Descansemonos," said grandmother. "Let's rest. It's too hot to continue working like this."
In the shade of the little hut, they drank some more tea. Jose wondered if grandpa was standing on the deck of the little fishing boat in the heat of the noon day sun. Grandpa was a little man, but strong. At ten years Jose was already almost his size, but grandpa was much stronger. He wondered if the heat sapped grandpa's strength, the way it did his own. He thought about it and decided that it did not. He had once seen grandpa carry a fish as big as a man all the way from the dock to the market. The sun had been hot that day, too. He sat thinking of the mystery of it - how grandpa could carry a large fish in the hot sun while he was already tired just from standing in the heat trimming plants in the garden. ... He fell asleep trying to work it out.
In the late evening, grandpa did not return. That night there were no quiet footsteps carefully working their way to the bed that grandpa shared with grandma.
In the morning, at breakfast, there was a grim, determined set to grandma's face, one Jose had never seen before. He felt a new fear moving like a deep cold current in his heart. There were stories about men who sailed out in the morning to bring home food and never returned. He opened his mouth to ask grandma about grandpa, but something in her face as she poured the morning tea stopped him.
Later he tried to work in the garden, but felt too weak and worried to continue.
"Abuela, may I go to the hill?" Jose asked.
"Si, porque no? Sure, why not?" Grandma looked up from her weeding and wiped her brow. Her eyes were tired under the brow of her sun hat.
Jose left for the large hill just outside of town. The hot sun streamed down from an open sky. The day was hot, but a strong breeze was blowing in from the sea. Jose could smell the salty, faintly fishy scent of the ocean. He worked his way slowly, but steadily to the foot of the hill. In the shade of a small tree he sat to rest until his heart stopped jumping and turning in his chest.
He thought of the time he had helped to unload fish from grandpa's boat. He had found a smaller fish at the bottom of the pile, half buried in the briny water that sloshed the bottom of the boat, its gills still opening and closing, opening and closing, like the wings of a butterfly fresh from its chrysalis. When he had grabbed it, it had struggled in his hand, thrashing and pumping, surprisingly strong for its size. He had almost dropped it at first, but then he'd gripped it more tightly and soon its struggling had weakened, then stopped altogether until it lay almost serene in his hand, its only remaining movement the butterfly motion of its gills, opening and closing, opening and closing.
Even in the shade, the sun was hot and for a moment he felt faint. His thoughts felt slow and confused. The hill - there was still the hill. His heart was steady again.
He rose and began the work of slowly climbing to the crest of the hill, his pace measured and even, first one step and then the other. Throughout the climb, the sun beat down upon him like the constant roll of waves from a distant shore. Toward the top of the hill, his heart again began its reckless struggle to escape, twisting and turning and jumping in his chest. Small points of light swam before his eyes. He lay down and waited.
After a while, his heart calmed again.
When he felt strong enough, he stood and looked out to sea. He thought he saw something tiny and white bobbing out in the distance, but when he wiped the sweat from his eyes there was nothing. He walked slowly back to the shade of a tree partway down the hill and lay down to rest.
When he awoke, it was dark. In the distance he heard the sound of the water lapping at the shore. The night was cool and he found it much easier to climb again to the top of the hill. The sky was cloudless and the moon bright. He looked out again to the sea. He thought he saw something moving steadily in from the distance. He lay down a while, then rose and looked again. There was nothing.
He rested again, then slowly made his way down the hill and back to the hut. He carefully opened the door and stood in the entrance, listening. Inside he heard the soft, measured whisper of grandma's night breathing. There was no other sound. He carefully made his way to his bed and lay down.
"Hahlo, hahlo!" he awoke to someone shouting. "Is anyone there?" There was a loud and hurried knocking at the door.
He stood and hurried quickly to the door. It was early morning. Grandmother was already rising. At the door was another fisherman from the village, Senor Fuentes. "Vengan, pues, rapido! Hurry quickly!" He said.
As they made their way at a half-run to the docks, Senor Fuentes explained how another group of fisherman had found grandfather unconscious on his boat, drifting at sea. "The fish he had tied to his boat was enormous," said Senor Fuentes, "judging from what was left of him, that is." Sharks had eaten most of the fish in the night. When the other fisherman found him, they'd had to cut the remains of the fish free to use the rope to lash grandpa's boat to their own.
At the dock, Jose stood, watching as the other men supported grandpa, helping him to step unsteadily from the boat to the shore. His face and arms were sunburned a deep red like boiled crab. He felt vaguely sick and ashamed looking at grandpa in his weakness.
"Abuela, grandfather," one of the men said, "you need to eat, to regain your strength. Take one of my fishes, take a big one, take two."
"No, gracias" said grandfather, shaking his head wearily "I will catch my own. And this time it will be bigger."
The man shook his head sadly at grandfather's response, then turned and made the same offer to Jose. Jose looked at what the man was offering. The fish in the hold were beautiful - large and strong and colorful, like the fish in his dream. He could imagine the sweetness of their flesh, the strength in them becoming his own. He longed to take one, then thought of grandfather and how it would shame him. He shook his head "no" then turned away quickly from the man and walked to where grandfather waited.
As they walked away together from the dock toward their little hut, grandfather reached out only once to steady himself against Jose, then gathered his balance and walked the rest of the way alone. Grandmother had already gone on ahead.
In the morning, grandpa was gone again.
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