Fall term begins
I toss, I turn.
Who's that next to me?
Oh yeah,
She’s looking at me.
I reach for the ceiling, my arm is perpendicular to our bodies.
It’s like I’m asking God a question,
but He’s stopped calling on me.
I look at my arm, anyway.
It’s slender, two-toned and tattooed.
Ju(kiss)st me.
Looking at her makes me smile.
I'd like her to ask me if something's wrong, but I hate that question.
So we jus’ kiss. And, that feels good.
Her skin’s soft.
Really, another kiss?
Why thank you.
So, my feelings end up forgotten.
She loves me and I love that.
But, I'm having conflicting thoughts.
What's wrong with me that I'm like this?
It's Just)kiss) tha(ahhh)t the last woman that told me changed her mind.
So, I think: This could be my chance.
Then, I think: She deserves better.
I’m no good tonight.
Does she know this/me/why?
She’s pretty/smart.
I’m a mess right now, I say.
She doesn’t need to hear this.
Oh, she’s kissing me, good.
She can’t see my thoughts even
when I push our heads together.
Right now mine’s tired and drained,
emotionally and physically.
It’s mental obviously.
And she kisses me hard.
And again and is up against me -- we’re close.
There j(k)u(i)s(ss)t the past,
years (between us),
memories (of others),
moments missed (keep kissing),
(Oh, the mistakes I’ve made!)
and, me.
There’s you, I think, looking at my extended fingers,
here, and
Can I just hold onto you?
That’s what I want to do.
She hasn’t seen me in
forever and so she grabs me
(wants to have sex with me).
I’m blah, but maybe
I’ll be better later, when I get back.
But, you’ll be gone soon too,
so what then?
I don’t know, and so should be alone.
No, no one should be.
I’ll end up there. I’m no good at this.
We all will. Who is?
I’m a mess.
I said this and it makes me seem dense.
She bites my lip before I can think more.
Who's that next to me?
Oh yeah,
She’s looking at me.
I reach for the ceiling, my arm is perpendicular to our bodies.
It’s like I’m asking God a question,
but He’s stopped calling on me.
I look at my arm, anyway.
It’s slender, two-toned and tattooed.
Ju(kiss)st me.
Looking at her makes me smile.
I'd like her to ask me if something's wrong, but I hate that question.
So we jus’ kiss. And, that feels good.
Her skin’s soft.
Really, another kiss?
Why thank you.
So, my feelings end up forgotten.
She loves me and I love that.
But, I'm having conflicting thoughts.
What's wrong with me that I'm like this?
It's Just)kiss) tha(ahhh)t the last woman that told me changed her mind.
So, I think: This could be my chance.
Then, I think: She deserves better.
I’m no good tonight.
Does she know this/me/why?
She’s pretty/smart.
I’m a mess right now, I say.
She doesn’t need to hear this.
Oh, she’s kissing me, good.
She can’t see my thoughts even
when I push our heads together.
Right now mine’s tired and drained,
emotionally and physically.
It’s mental obviously.
And she kisses me hard.
And again and is up against me -- we’re close.
There j(k)u(i)s(ss)t the past,
years (between us),
memories (of others),
moments missed (keep kissing),
(Oh, the mistakes I’ve made!)
and, me.
There’s you, I think, looking at my extended fingers,
here, and
Can I just hold onto you?
That’s what I want to do.
She hasn’t seen me in
forever and so she grabs me
(wants to have sex with me).
I’m blah, but maybe
I’ll be better later, when I get back.
But, you’ll be gone soon too,
so what then?
I don’t know, and so should be alone.
No, no one should be.
I’ll end up there. I’m no good at this.
We all will. Who is?
I’m a mess.
I said this and it makes me seem dense.
She bites my lip before I can think more.
These times are hard to define
My calendar shows the first day of autumn is the 23rd. Unofficially, the end of summer is Labor Day – no more white shoes (or belts, I suppose). These times are hard to define. It started to rain in Portland last week, which means to me the dry season (summer) is over, but still we get sun bursts that warm us. Those bring me back. There are more green leaves on trees than there are yellow ones on the Park Blocks, which will lead you to believe that it’s not fall, yet. Sweaters are out (no sign of scarves yet, though), which means summer is over, but some people are still wearing sandals, they don’t want it to be. It’s getting later earlier, I think Yogi Berea said, and that’s a sign that summer has descended. Bye-bye brightness; Portland’s favorite color is gray. It’s too cool to go to the Sandy River -- sorry, rats -- so that means less drowning – that’s good, I guess. Swimming is a summer sport. The NFL began its regular season, a sure sign that summer’s over – Sunday’s are here.
Usually when the semester starts we tend to think that summer is over – school’s in session, sucka. But for most schools that was a month ago – summer in my calendar. We’re on the quarter system at Portland State, and not that I’m complaining about my extended vacation, but it seems like a late start.
End of September: It’s not something you think of as a traditional school start. Portland State is seasonal, and there’s a quarter for every season. There’s a quarter for every state, four quarters for a buck. Where does that get us? Where was everyone this summer? Is the real question. Seemed quiet round these parts. Few students take the summer quarter – it’s shorter, so why do we have it? If Portland State truly wants to be a traditionally university, and the housing department, the rise in First Year Experience (up 60 percent), the push for attendance in athletics, the meal plans, will all lead you to believe it does, why not move to the semester system? So, we’d have a summer session. We’d start earlier, finish earlier. Less transfer fiascos. ( A cough covers my university studies slip-in.)
This summer I was stuck in a place that wasn’t quite bliss and wasn’t quite stress. I was happy to be out of school – summer and school were never two words I put together – but I wanted the school year to start, mainly I wanted my financial aid check so I could stop working. My daily dilemma: enjoy the sunny summer day, but I had no money to do so.
Okay, there are some things to do without a dollar during summer: take a dip in the Willamette; rebel ride the max; loiter the library; wander the sidewalks, window shopping; and, wonder why it’s the second week in September and you’re still not in school.
and,
Thai Coup Haiku
I'm all for a coup
detat, martial law, ha ha
"rampant corruption"
Usually when the semester starts we tend to think that summer is over – school’s in session, sucka. But for most schools that was a month ago – summer in my calendar. We’re on the quarter system at Portland State, and not that I’m complaining about my extended vacation, but it seems like a late start.
End of September: It’s not something you think of as a traditional school start. Portland State is seasonal, and there’s a quarter for every season. There’s a quarter for every state, four quarters for a buck. Where does that get us? Where was everyone this summer? Is the real question. Seemed quiet round these parts. Few students take the summer quarter – it’s shorter, so why do we have it? If Portland State truly wants to be a traditionally university, and the housing department, the rise in First Year Experience (up 60 percent), the push for attendance in athletics, the meal plans, will all lead you to believe it does, why not move to the semester system? So, we’d have a summer session. We’d start earlier, finish earlier. Less transfer fiascos. ( A cough covers my university studies slip-in.)
This summer I was stuck in a place that wasn’t quite bliss and wasn’t quite stress. I was happy to be out of school – summer and school were never two words I put together – but I wanted the school year to start, mainly I wanted my financial aid check so I could stop working. My daily dilemma: enjoy the sunny summer day, but I had no money to do so.
Okay, there are some things to do without a dollar during summer: take a dip in the Willamette; rebel ride the max; loiter the library; wander the sidewalks, window shopping; and, wonder why it’s the second week in September and you’re still not in school.
and,
Thai Coup Haiku
I'm all for a coup
detat, martial law, ha ha
"rampant corruption"
(more) Qs for yous
Got a message in my inbox, said you are not haikuing -- God bless you. Well, I'm showing you all I am, and I still can. Here's what I just jotted. Scribbled these bits while I was taking a shit, I jest. But could have in the same amount of time. Enjoy
They say there’s one more
Day that I have to work here
Closing the Borders
I’m sore and tired
It’s hard for me to get up
I’m just twenty-six
Done this for too long
Wake up, work, return, and drink
Over and over
So, for now I’ll stop
Clocking in and clocking out
Working for the Man
Direct Deposit
There’s money in my account
Swore I worked harder
I’ve made some friends here
Strong enough to keep? I think
Time will tell, I dwell
People come and go
In and out like the time card
Life really like this?
The structure falls down
No: mandatory hours
Schedule is broken
Cleaned out my locker
Today, gave away my things
Hope you enjoyed me
They say there’s one more
Day that I have to work here
Closing the Borders
I’m sore and tired
It’s hard for me to get up
I’m just twenty-six
Done this for too long
Wake up, work, return, and drink
Over and over
So, for now I’ll stop
Clocking in and clocking out
Working for the Man
Direct Deposit
There’s money in my account
Swore I worked harder
I’ve made some friends here
Strong enough to keep? I think
Time will tell, I dwell
People come and go
In and out like the time card
Life really like this?
The structure falls down
No: mandatory hours
Schedule is broken
Cleaned out my locker
Today, gave away my things
Hope you enjoyed me
Ender's Game: a book report
This here, this is my first science-fiction book report.
My teachers (there are many out there) tell me to have an introductory paragraph, a body of some sort (three paragraphs), and a conclusion. This, the five-paragraph (page) essay. My thoughts don’t organize like that though, so I wrote this my way. And in Carsonation, you can’t edit me (Ha!).
Ender Wiggin: He’s got game. That’s what the title of the book implies anyway. Ender’s Game. I want to say it to you like I think it. It's intimidating.
"G-A-M-E, sinced it's been started I've been in it."
I was asked(?) to read Ender's Game. It was recommended to me, and I take book recomedations serious. I normally don’t read Sci-Fi. Have been told it’s anti-game. You know, chick retractor. But a special lady friend of mine gave it to me, and so I put away the 300-plus page paperback this past week as sort of a tribute to her. By the time I got through with it I found a connection with the book, the girl, this genre. Let me try(?) to explain.
I’m into coming-of-age novels. Like everyone, I’ve read Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye. Great voice, good narrative, a classic. Bank’s Rule of the Bone: another fantastic, first-person story of which main character I could relate to. Ender’s Game, by best-selling author Orson Scott Card, and winner of the Hugo Award, is the story of a pre-teen boy-genius, who’s special powers include: strategic planning, imagination, quick learning, operating on a low-calorie diet and limited sleep, computer-hacking abilities, and boyish athleticism. (Okay, maybe I can relate.) Ender Wiggin, which seems is recognized as having the ability to rule the universe in the womb, and seen -- with a monitor, mind you -- as the answer to all of Earth’s prayers as a military cosmonaut. Ender is the solution to a problem faced in the year 3030(?) against, you’d never believe it, Buggers.
Growing up, I was taught that picking buggers was a bad habit. I’ve come to realize that everybody gets them. They are a collection of debris that we breathe in. They can sometimes roll down the back of the throat, congregate as phlegm, and be spit out as something I’ll refer to as lugees. Buggers: bad? Or a natural, biological phenomena? Part of our daily lives, for sure. Prescription: Kleenex. Card parially portrays Buggers as the ultimate evil. The universal threat to man’s existence in this fantasy world. I’ll appreciate this creativity. I didn’t think of it, so I’ll read about it, contemplate its possibility(?). Yeah, okay. I’ll picture them (and you should too) as those animated gremlins from that one foot-fungus commercial.
Carefully crafted in the 1970s, (cough, and, Cold. War.), Card, a Mormon/Fascist/Racist/Sexist, attempts in Ender’s Game to incorporate political satire(?). I question this (notice the parenthetical punctuation) because satire – funny and thought provoking – it isn’t. The major flaw in this made-for-mass-market paperback novel is its failure to captivate a literate, politically insightful audience. I’m not about to write here that I’m an expert when it comes to satire, politics, the Russian Red, the political position of this time, or the fantasy world. I do, however, having read a book or two in my day, have the ability to acknowledge when an author has dreamt a story so far out of his own mind’s reach that he can't write his way out of it. In this case the universe is the setting, and Card cannot grasp that far. We can't blame him there. The political spectrum isn’t intergalactic, though, and Card writes his characters (pre-teens!) with worldly, John Locke-like insight. But it's clear he does not have it. For Mr. Card can’t describe political positions what his characters supposedly have. He tells but doesn't show.
As mentioned, I haven’t attempted the Sci-Fi/Fantasy genre before – and don’t see myself doing so in the near future, even though I’ve recently acquired other such strippable paperbacks. I’ve heard from others that, with the stars as the setting, authors can and have grasped fantasy bigger imaginations. (I’ll take their word for it.)
There’s an Earth setting in this (no I won’t; yes I have to) novel, and it is Greensboro, North Carolina(!). Why in God’s name does Card make this the relatable setting to us Earthlings? I have no God’s-forsaken idea. It makes sense, however, if you read the forward. This is where he lives. Sheesh, is this the only place he’s lived? Greensboro, somewhere(?) in North Carolina, is out in the middle of nowhere. Okay, my opinion, but there’s woods, and some sort of town-like setting. There’s like a dozen universities there, is what I've read (elsewhere).
There’s one school there that I care about. One the average reader probably hasn’t even heard of. It’s a Quaker and private, liberal arts(?) college. It’s called Guilford, and it’s where this special lady friend of mine, who recommended the book is attending. Now, if you have a map in front of you, or have ever seen an image of the Continental United States you’re thinking: Dang, that’s about as far as two people (I'm in Portland, Ore.) could possibly be.
Clearly you haven’t read Ender’s Game.
My teachers (there are many out there) tell me to have an introductory paragraph, a body of some sort (three paragraphs), and a conclusion. This, the five-paragraph (page) essay. My thoughts don’t organize like that though, so I wrote this my way. And in Carsonation, you can’t edit me (Ha!).
Ender Wiggin: He’s got game. That’s what the title of the book implies anyway. Ender’s Game. I want to say it to you like I think it. It's intimidating.
"G-A-M-E, sinced it's been started I've been in it."
I was asked(?) to read Ender's Game. It was recommended to me, and I take book recomedations serious. I normally don’t read Sci-Fi. Have been told it’s anti-game. You know, chick retractor. But a special lady friend of mine gave it to me, and so I put away the 300-plus page paperback this past week as sort of a tribute to her. By the time I got through with it I found a connection with the book, the girl, this genre. Let me try(?) to explain.
I’m into coming-of-age novels. Like everyone, I’ve read Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye. Great voice, good narrative, a classic. Bank’s Rule of the Bone: another fantastic, first-person story of which main character I could relate to. Ender’s Game, by best-selling author Orson Scott Card, and winner of the Hugo Award, is the story of a pre-teen boy-genius, who’s special powers include: strategic planning, imagination, quick learning, operating on a low-calorie diet and limited sleep, computer-hacking abilities, and boyish athleticism. (Okay, maybe I can relate.) Ender Wiggin, which seems is recognized as having the ability to rule the universe in the womb, and seen -- with a monitor, mind you -- as the answer to all of Earth’s prayers as a military cosmonaut. Ender is the solution to a problem faced in the year 3030(?) against, you’d never believe it, Buggers.
Growing up, I was taught that picking buggers was a bad habit. I’ve come to realize that everybody gets them. They are a collection of debris that we breathe in. They can sometimes roll down the back of the throat, congregate as phlegm, and be spit out as something I’ll refer to as lugees. Buggers: bad? Or a natural, biological phenomena? Part of our daily lives, for sure. Prescription: Kleenex. Card parially portrays Buggers as the ultimate evil. The universal threat to man’s existence in this fantasy world. I’ll appreciate this creativity. I didn’t think of it, so I’ll read about it, contemplate its possibility(?). Yeah, okay. I’ll picture them (and you should too) as those animated gremlins from that one foot-fungus commercial.
Carefully crafted in the 1970s, (cough, and, Cold. War.), Card, a Mormon/Fascist/Racist/Sexist, attempts in Ender’s Game to incorporate political satire(?). I question this (notice the parenthetical punctuation) because satire – funny and thought provoking – it isn’t. The major flaw in this made-for-mass-market paperback novel is its failure to captivate a literate, politically insightful audience. I’m not about to write here that I’m an expert when it comes to satire, politics, the Russian Red, the political position of this time, or the fantasy world. I do, however, having read a book or two in my day, have the ability to acknowledge when an author has dreamt a story so far out of his own mind’s reach that he can't write his way out of it. In this case the universe is the setting, and Card cannot grasp that far. We can't blame him there. The political spectrum isn’t intergalactic, though, and Card writes his characters (pre-teens!) with worldly, John Locke-like insight. But it's clear he does not have it. For Mr. Card can’t describe political positions what his characters supposedly have. He tells but doesn't show.
As mentioned, I haven’t attempted the Sci-Fi/Fantasy genre before – and don’t see myself doing so in the near future, even though I’ve recently acquired other such strippable paperbacks. I’ve heard from others that, with the stars as the setting, authors can and have grasped fantasy bigger imaginations. (I’ll take their word for it.)
There’s an Earth setting in this (no I won’t; yes I have to) novel, and it is Greensboro, North Carolina(!). Why in God’s name does Card make this the relatable setting to us Earthlings? I have no God’s-forsaken idea. It makes sense, however, if you read the forward. This is where he lives. Sheesh, is this the only place he’s lived? Greensboro, somewhere(?) in North Carolina, is out in the middle of nowhere. Okay, my opinion, but there’s woods, and some sort of town-like setting. There’s like a dozen universities there, is what I've read (elsewhere).
There’s one school there that I care about. One the average reader probably hasn’t even heard of. It’s a Quaker and private, liberal arts(?) college. It’s called Guilford, and it’s where this special lady friend of mine, who recommended the book is attending. Now, if you have a map in front of you, or have ever seen an image of the Continental United States you’re thinking: Dang, that’s about as far as two people (I'm in Portland, Ore.) could possibly be.
Clearly you haven’t read Ender’s Game.
the Enemy
The enemy woke me Saturday morning by throwing a paddleball birthday gift from my brother at my door as hard as he could. Woooop, crash, rubber-band reverb, and the bounce of the ball. Once. Then again. Then a third time. I put on my shorts to see what was the matter, though I knew who it was, I wondered why / how it had come to this.
I opened my bedroom door and saw the Enemy with his shorts low and with his shirt off. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. Maybe startled himself by his display of stupidity, the apparently stoned enemy stood and shaking he came up with his intended comments. ‘I don’t have respect for you,’ the Enemy said.
And I stared.
He went on, calling me such names as 'bitch' and an 'un-inspirable bitch'. I stood and stared and looked at the gashes in my door, created by the enemy. His weapon of choice: my own for-fun toy. He says it was a plastic bottle. There was no bottle.
He fragmented sentences together as to the reason for this middle-of-the night awaking; he pulled them from the belly of his consciousness. I tried to fall asleep at eleven, was awakened just after two, had to be up and ready for a ride to work, arriving at five. My body was tired, but my mind was now wide-awake. I stood, letting the Enemy get out whatever he thought he needed to say about me/ to me, at this point of our relationship/ living arangment, at this point of the evening, actually morning.
‘You should live by yourself,’ the Enemy told me. ‘You don’t like people. It’s just you and your dog. And you spend all your time in your room. Why don’t you live by yourself?’ The enemy wanted asked but did not want to find out.
This one-sided conversation had become the major problem I’ve had with the Enemy. He doesn’t listen, doesn’t want to hear reason. Doesn’t get it. Leaving me stuck and fighting an enemy in a battle that cannot be won.
I’m not interested in fighting with anyone, physically. I’ve thought about it. I’ve pictured myself doing it. I’ve punched inanimate objects. I recently hurt my right middle knuckle doing so, and I now have to picture myself punching with my left, weaker hand. I’ve said I was a pacifist, and these descriptions might make this statement seem untrue, but I wouldn’t want to be in a brawl. Am fully aware that physical violence doesn’t solve anything. I hope in the future that I am able to express myself verbally, in ways that give meaningful understanding to my enemies. Still, my Enemy calls me passive-aggressive. A term someone planted inside him. I’m passive at times, sure. Aggressive other times, yes. But, even little-ole me knows, It’s when you’re passive-aggressive that your words weaken.
I don’t hate the Enemy. I get made and frustrated and sometimes wish I could break bones. I would never, however, and upon contemplation I find myself sad at the state of my being, and at the attitudes of others.
At the end of our battle the Enemy tells me he likes me. I tell him I want him to be happy. That we have to part ways and cannot live as one, but both have to live without afflicting physical pain on one another. I’m kept awake thinking that I could have done better in selecting enemies. But, that we can’t choose them. And that: The Enemy is within.
I opened my bedroom door and saw the Enemy with his shorts low and with his shirt off. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked. Maybe startled himself by his display of stupidity, the apparently stoned enemy stood and shaking he came up with his intended comments. ‘I don’t have respect for you,’ the Enemy said.
And I stared.
He went on, calling me such names as 'bitch' and an 'un-inspirable bitch'. I stood and stared and looked at the gashes in my door, created by the enemy. His weapon of choice: my own for-fun toy. He says it was a plastic bottle. There was no bottle.
He fragmented sentences together as to the reason for this middle-of-the night awaking; he pulled them from the belly of his consciousness. I tried to fall asleep at eleven, was awakened just after two, had to be up and ready for a ride to work, arriving at five. My body was tired, but my mind was now wide-awake. I stood, letting the Enemy get out whatever he thought he needed to say about me/ to me, at this point of our relationship/ living arangment, at this point of the evening, actually morning.
‘You should live by yourself,’ the Enemy told me. ‘You don’t like people. It’s just you and your dog. And you spend all your time in your room. Why don’t you live by yourself?’ The enemy wanted asked but did not want to find out.
This one-sided conversation had become the major problem I’ve had with the Enemy. He doesn’t listen, doesn’t want to hear reason. Doesn’t get it. Leaving me stuck and fighting an enemy in a battle that cannot be won.
I’m not interested in fighting with anyone, physically. I’ve thought about it. I’ve pictured myself doing it. I’ve punched inanimate objects. I recently hurt my right middle knuckle doing so, and I now have to picture myself punching with my left, weaker hand. I’ve said I was a pacifist, and these descriptions might make this statement seem untrue, but I wouldn’t want to be in a brawl. Am fully aware that physical violence doesn’t solve anything. I hope in the future that I am able to express myself verbally, in ways that give meaningful understanding to my enemies. Still, my Enemy calls me passive-aggressive. A term someone planted inside him. I’m passive at times, sure. Aggressive other times, yes. But, even little-ole me knows, It’s when you’re passive-aggressive that your words weaken.
I don’t hate the Enemy. I get made and frustrated and sometimes wish I could break bones. I would never, however, and upon contemplation I find myself sad at the state of my being, and at the attitudes of others.
At the end of our battle the Enemy tells me he likes me. I tell him I want him to be happy. That we have to part ways and cannot live as one, but both have to live without afflicting physical pain on one another. I’m kept awake thinking that I could have done better in selecting enemies. But, that we can’t choose them. And that: The Enemy is within.
Rebel rider
Cops. Fuck, is what I said when I got to the MAX station. I'm not running from the law. I haven't mo-murdered any fools. I'm no thief. It's just that, well, I don't exactly pay to sit on the train that is going to move with or without me and my bike. I'm a rebel rider. And I've never been caught. Wait. There was this time when I bought a two-zone ticket. I gave it to the cop because he asked me for my ticket. And on that day I actually bought one. The problem: I was in zone three. Well, I walked from there. Was close enough. Didn't have my bike rolling. Now that I ride, I hang it from the rack at 4:53 a.m. downtown, when I catch the first Blue of the morning. And back, usually around 2:43 p.m., the Red or the Blue. I only ride for three stops. One of the stops shouldn't even count. It's like a 1,000 feet underground. In the middle of nowhere. So, it's two stops really that I need to ride. And, as stated earlier, the MAX is going with or without me. If anything they should pay me to ride. I'm pretty much the only sane and (sometimes) showered one on the thing. OK, so cops are at the station that I need to catch my train today on the way back from work. They're hassling everyone getting on and off. And there's no way they'd let me get on. And here's the problem: I've got no money. I do. Some. In the bank. (I should have more, but the fucking jerk I kicked out of my house hasn't paid the money he owes me for the bills.) So, I'm thinking I'll use my debit card at the machine and buy an all-zone ticket to ride the three stops so that I don't get hassled by these cops. The problem is the ticket machine won't take the card I normally use at the ATM(achine). (Ticket) Machine says, Can't contact bank. I say, What in the shit is this noise? Now, I've got to go to Trader Joe's and buy something so that I can get cash back because there's no ATM(achine) anywhere in sight. I get a sushi roll and a juice of some sort, and five singles back. I scarf it (the sushi) down and head back to the tracks, where the cops have wrapped up their trap. Have called it quits. Are done for. I think about not buying a ticket, think better, buy one, and then head off to my final physical therapy appointment, paid for by worker's comp. Good thing too. Yesterday I put in my two-week notice. No more health care. No more MAX worries. At least not at 4:53 a.m. At least not without a ticket.
Take good care. And remember, tip your caregivers with kindness.
Take good care. And remember, tip your caregivers with kindness.
Maybe you've heard this one
"Did you hear the one about the girl who was deaf in one ear, but then brought hearing back with yoga?" I asked the girl who was leaning up against my car -- when I had a car -- that was parked in the garage.
"Nah uh," she said, but looked completely interested.
And so I told her.
"She was under a lot of stress in middle school, like we are. Just going through changes and lost hearing in her left ear. There was no medical reasoning for this. It just kind of happened. Still, she loved music. Listened, sang, experienced it. She fell in love, lost love. She loved life. Experienced it. She loved herself. She knew what she was good at. And, although she could only hear out of one hear, her thoughts were coming in loud and clear. Her head, as she said, was a fun place to be.
“If you’ve heard this one then you know. You know what happened when she started practicing yoga. Her happy mind took her places that explaining to you couldn’t even come close to describing, picturing. If you haven’t heard it then you don’t get to hear it from me. You’ll have to find her; I think she’s still in the Denver area. She’ll explain to you what I can’t -- I have hearing in both ears. How she transfixed her mind to manipulate her hearing sense, giving her balance. She’ll take you there if you let her. If you find her and get to know her -- it’s not hard -- she’ll most likely invite you back to her place to smoke a bowl. You should let her bring it up, though, the hearing thing. The story will come out naturally. If she doesn’t, don’t worry, don’t persist, don’t question her about it, but spend time with her and be patient. This is a story you want to hear from her if you haven’t heard it already.
"If you think you already heard this, chill, this could be a new version, there's more. So, she’s teaching this course at the State University. It’s a communication class – I know ironic, right? Cause she’s deaf in one ear. She’s an amazing teacher, though, and has amazing verbal communication skills. I guess she can write too, though I don’t know for sure because I haven’t read much of what she’s written, some, but not a lot. If she writes anywhere near as good as the way she tells some stories, you know, makes sense of situations and such, I’d bet she’s a damn good writer is all. She’s teaching this class, well she’s more like the lab instructor is what she is -- she doesn’t do the lectures is what I’m trying to say. Dr. Lindsay does those. Her name isn’t Dr. Lindsay. Lindsay must be her first name, but that’s what everybody knows her as and calls her, so that’s how I’ll refer to her, now. The lab instructor, though, the partially deaf one, is teaching the lab one semester and this boy is taking the lecture and the lab and has her.
“Well, he’s kind of unique in his own way, in how he communicates, too. He’ll say stuff that’s on his mind. Things pop into his head really fast and come out of his mouth almost as fast and be funny. Sometimes. They’ll be sort of thought provoking, too. Like you’ll hear him say something sort of literal and literary and link it up with something like the breakfast food that you had this morning or about a news piece you read recently. He’ll be kind of quick and humorous, but it’s the kind of humor that you don’t always laugh at at first but if you think about it, later you’ll smile and maybe even laugh out-loud at yourself at a time when nobody will understand why or even who you are.
“He’s not sure how he got this way but it could have had something to do with the amount of marijuana he was smoking that freshman year. Also, he credits his intuitiveness from his darkened vision in one eye. But his smoking was like her practiced yoga. He didn’t always do it with others, but sort of developed a mono method. His breathing was therapeutic; we know this to be similar. Seen it in others’ cases; it improves clarity, makes members limber. He says he smokes to forgive. And to forget. He’s been wronged once or twice. Has had terrible luck with some things. And this therapy, his self-prescribed regimen that he does, helps him cope. Puts the files in their proper drawers, he’ll tell you.
“Smoke a bowl with him and he’ll tell you that when he was little, like seven or eight, he was at summer camp, and that he was blasted in the head with a muddy stick that was thrown by another camper in a classic game known as throw mud and rocks and sticks, and sometimes muddy, rocky sticks at each other for fun. If this was a game, and it seemed to be, according to his story, he was the loser. See, he caught this one muddy stick in the eye and went down hard. When he came to, boys were over him, and he was in pain. He tried to open both eyes but couldn’t, could only open one. And if you can picture this 8-year boy, who's on the ground being helped up and has a swollen over eye, well I just wish I could describe it better. But he’s our only witness, so what I’ll describe, because I’ve heard it from him, is what I picture. Hear it from him, and this is what you get: There's a handful of boy campers hovering over him – very Lord of the Flies – wondering who to call for help, wondering how to undo what can’t be undone, wondering who threw the fateful stick, and him: helpless and asking for his mother, and blood flowing from his left eye ball.
“His vision is limited, and well…
“There’s a scar, of course. He doesn’t notice it always, it’s not like he is totally blind to this day, but there was damage done. He was wronged, struck with bad luck. When both eyes are open he can hardly tell. His right eye is real good and maybe over-compensates, is what I think. He can read. Reads a bunch. Likes to wear glasses because it helps, but doesn’t always because it’s not like glasses take away the dark spot that remains centered in his left eye’s vision field.”
"When we smoke we think. We close our right eyes to get the perception of who we have become. Sometimes, it’s a dark reality We tend to forgive the boy who threw that stick at my eye because what happened happens, and, really he didn’t mean it. We were just playing this game. There’s no vengeance. We forgive but we don’t forget.
"Evidently, nonsensically, these two, the girl with no hearing in her left ear, and this boy with limited vision in his left eye, met. In the class. She was his lab instructor. He, her student. She smiled at him – at everyone. That’s communication. They laughed a lot, and that’s communication, too. They began talking for real. Became friends, first. Then they split ways to experience parts of life. They were re-united once, then again, then again. When they got together, he’d talk to her in her good ear. When they shared a bed, she looked into his good eye, as he was on his left side. Their relationship changed as they got closer, but remained apart. Life was happening all around them, to them, without them. Birthdays kept occurring. And plans changed.
“'I fell for her,' he’ll say if you ask him, 'then she fell for me,' he thinks was the order. Either way, it happened. And, although he loved her for what she was to him, he says he’s happy that she was able to find another, even to couple without him.
“We tend to be experienced when we meet. Damaged, maybe even some. If it’s our hearing, our sight, our looks, you could be scarred emotionally as well as physically from life forces. I mean, accidents happen. People have bad luck in life,” is what I said to the girl, my captivated car leaner.
It’s our senses that create the memories of our lives.
"Nah uh," she said, but looked completely interested.
And so I told her.
"She was under a lot of stress in middle school, like we are. Just going through changes and lost hearing in her left ear. There was no medical reasoning for this. It just kind of happened. Still, she loved music. Listened, sang, experienced it. She fell in love, lost love. She loved life. Experienced it. She loved herself. She knew what she was good at. And, although she could only hear out of one hear, her thoughts were coming in loud and clear. Her head, as she said, was a fun place to be.
“If you’ve heard this one then you know. You know what happened when she started practicing yoga. Her happy mind took her places that explaining to you couldn’t even come close to describing, picturing. If you haven’t heard it then you don’t get to hear it from me. You’ll have to find her; I think she’s still in the Denver area. She’ll explain to you what I can’t -- I have hearing in both ears. How she transfixed her mind to manipulate her hearing sense, giving her balance. She’ll take you there if you let her. If you find her and get to know her -- it’s not hard -- she’ll most likely invite you back to her place to smoke a bowl. You should let her bring it up, though, the hearing thing. The story will come out naturally. If she doesn’t, don’t worry, don’t persist, don’t question her about it, but spend time with her and be patient. This is a story you want to hear from her if you haven’t heard it already.
"If you think you already heard this, chill, this could be a new version, there's more. So, she’s teaching this course at the State University. It’s a communication class – I know ironic, right? Cause she’s deaf in one ear. She’s an amazing teacher, though, and has amazing verbal communication skills. I guess she can write too, though I don’t know for sure because I haven’t read much of what she’s written, some, but not a lot. If she writes anywhere near as good as the way she tells some stories, you know, makes sense of situations and such, I’d bet she’s a damn good writer is all. She’s teaching this class, well she’s more like the lab instructor is what she is -- she doesn’t do the lectures is what I’m trying to say. Dr. Lindsay does those. Her name isn’t Dr. Lindsay. Lindsay must be her first name, but that’s what everybody knows her as and calls her, so that’s how I’ll refer to her, now. The lab instructor, though, the partially deaf one, is teaching the lab one semester and this boy is taking the lecture and the lab and has her.
“Well, he’s kind of unique in his own way, in how he communicates, too. He’ll say stuff that’s on his mind. Things pop into his head really fast and come out of his mouth almost as fast and be funny. Sometimes. They’ll be sort of thought provoking, too. Like you’ll hear him say something sort of literal and literary and link it up with something like the breakfast food that you had this morning or about a news piece you read recently. He’ll be kind of quick and humorous, but it’s the kind of humor that you don’t always laugh at at first but if you think about it, later you’ll smile and maybe even laugh out-loud at yourself at a time when nobody will understand why or even who you are.
“He’s not sure how he got this way but it could have had something to do with the amount of marijuana he was smoking that freshman year. Also, he credits his intuitiveness from his darkened vision in one eye. But his smoking was like her practiced yoga. He didn’t always do it with others, but sort of developed a mono method. His breathing was therapeutic; we know this to be similar. Seen it in others’ cases; it improves clarity, makes members limber. He says he smokes to forgive. And to forget. He’s been wronged once or twice. Has had terrible luck with some things. And this therapy, his self-prescribed regimen that he does, helps him cope. Puts the files in their proper drawers, he’ll tell you.
“Smoke a bowl with him and he’ll tell you that when he was little, like seven or eight, he was at summer camp, and that he was blasted in the head with a muddy stick that was thrown by another camper in a classic game known as throw mud and rocks and sticks, and sometimes muddy, rocky sticks at each other for fun. If this was a game, and it seemed to be, according to his story, he was the loser. See, he caught this one muddy stick in the eye and went down hard. When he came to, boys were over him, and he was in pain. He tried to open both eyes but couldn’t, could only open one. And if you can picture this 8-year boy, who's on the ground being helped up and has a swollen over eye, well I just wish I could describe it better. But he’s our only witness, so what I’ll describe, because I’ve heard it from him, is what I picture. Hear it from him, and this is what you get: There's a handful of boy campers hovering over him – very Lord of the Flies – wondering who to call for help, wondering how to undo what can’t be undone, wondering who threw the fateful stick, and him: helpless and asking for his mother, and blood flowing from his left eye ball.
“His vision is limited, and well…
“There’s a scar, of course. He doesn’t notice it always, it’s not like he is totally blind to this day, but there was damage done. He was wronged, struck with bad luck. When both eyes are open he can hardly tell. His right eye is real good and maybe over-compensates, is what I think. He can read. Reads a bunch. Likes to wear glasses because it helps, but doesn’t always because it’s not like glasses take away the dark spot that remains centered in his left eye’s vision field.”
"When we smoke we think. We close our right eyes to get the perception of who we have become. Sometimes, it’s a dark reality We tend to forgive the boy who threw that stick at my eye because what happened happens, and, really he didn’t mean it. We were just playing this game. There’s no vengeance. We forgive but we don’t forget.
"Evidently, nonsensically, these two, the girl with no hearing in her left ear, and this boy with limited vision in his left eye, met. In the class. She was his lab instructor. He, her student. She smiled at him – at everyone. That’s communication. They laughed a lot, and that’s communication, too. They began talking for real. Became friends, first. Then they split ways to experience parts of life. They were re-united once, then again, then again. When they got together, he’d talk to her in her good ear. When they shared a bed, she looked into his good eye, as he was on his left side. Their relationship changed as they got closer, but remained apart. Life was happening all around them, to them, without them. Birthdays kept occurring. And plans changed.
“'I fell for her,' he’ll say if you ask him, 'then she fell for me,' he thinks was the order. Either way, it happened. And, although he loved her for what she was to him, he says he’s happy that she was able to find another, even to couple without him.
“We tend to be experienced when we meet. Damaged, maybe even some. If it’s our hearing, our sight, our looks, you could be scarred emotionally as well as physically from life forces. I mean, accidents happen. People have bad luck in life,” is what I said to the girl, my captivated car leaner.
It’s our senses that create the memories of our lives.
a polished poem
It’s because she’s leaving
and that I just met her
that I’ll have to make my own Mitra
from these not-forgotten parts
I’ll start with the mouth
so we can say stuff
eat meatless breakfasts
She has a great smile
and that’s how it began
Her nose I’ve felt with mine
it will re-form, I think as I inhale
To get the ears just right, I trace hers with my fingertips
they are small, intricate in design
I lose my hands in her hair:
it’s soft, straight this day, and everywhere
I see her shape, get a feel for the face
that I’ll remake from my memories
My hands are found and function
they kneed her shoulders like dough
I stop, for now, to study, to steal a kiss
If I must remake I have to taste her
We cold-water kiss cheeks
and necks
and mouths
with eyes open, with eyes closed
I squeeze her bones to my body
we roll round so I can get an imprint
Her fingernails, I notice, are nice,
in good shape
white tips of equal length come out
to her fingers’ ends
Connected, of course, too
to darling digits
I hold and shake her hands many ways:
the Soul;
the Secret;
the two-handed and solid;
the boyfriend / girlfriend
Skins slide by, and
held hands pose as images are recorded
I turn myself upside down to look at her from this other angle
Touching her toes, I feel her feet
This woman walks
I cradle her calves with my hands
to the touch they’re smooth and cool
It’s these legs
that I have to duplicate at a later date
Sitting and standing and lying down
my make-believe Mitra, here with me
Her intense eyes seep into mine
that smile, that Great Smile
laughs at something silly just said
Her body next to mine
Under cover and in an unmade bed
My mental-image Mitra looks at me
She smiles, does not cry
for she’s happy for what she’s had
seen and felt
Not sad for what she’s lost
forgotten,
can touch no longer
and that I just met her
that I’ll have to make my own Mitra
from these not-forgotten parts
I’ll start with the mouth
so we can say stuff
eat meatless breakfasts
She has a great smile
and that’s how it began
Her nose I’ve felt with mine
it will re-form, I think as I inhale
To get the ears just right, I trace hers with my fingertips
they are small, intricate in design
I lose my hands in her hair:
it’s soft, straight this day, and everywhere
I see her shape, get a feel for the face
that I’ll remake from my memories
My hands are found and function
they kneed her shoulders like dough
I stop, for now, to study, to steal a kiss
If I must remake I have to taste her
We cold-water kiss cheeks
and necks
and mouths
with eyes open, with eyes closed
I squeeze her bones to my body
we roll round so I can get an imprint
Her fingernails, I notice, are nice,
in good shape
white tips of equal length come out
to her fingers’ ends
Connected, of course, too
to darling digits
I hold and shake her hands many ways:
the Soul;
the Secret;
the two-handed and solid;
the boyfriend / girlfriend
Skins slide by, and
held hands pose as images are recorded
I turn myself upside down to look at her from this other angle
Touching her toes, I feel her feet
This woman walks
I cradle her calves with my hands
to the touch they’re smooth and cool
It’s these legs
that I have to duplicate at a later date
Sitting and standing and lying down
my make-believe Mitra, here with me
Her intense eyes seep into mine
that smile, that Great Smile
laughs at something silly just said
Her body next to mine
Under cover and in an unmade bed
My mental-image Mitra looks at me
She smiles, does not cry
for she’s happy for what she’s had
seen and felt
Not sad for what she’s lost
forgotten,
can touch no longer
Soon PIRG free
I guess you COULD get confused by this: "I'm going to have you move out." You COULD take it, "I'm going to have to move out." Say it to your self. Are you confused?
If you are, were, than I wouldn't want to live with you anyway -- you just don't get it. So, days pass after I've served walking papers to our little brother. I told him he had to move out. I told him briefly why and by when and then I told him if he wanted to talk about it to call me. No hard feelings. Just get out by the end of the month. We need a change around here and it isn't going to be me because this is a house that I found and it is I that has the relationship with the landlord. My name that all the bills are in. So, why is it that he thought that I would be moving out? And if he seriously thought that, then why wouldn't he think to ask what the deal was because THAT scenario certainly doesn't sound right?
Flip mode? Was that the argumentative tactic? This isn't an argument, I had to tell our little brother. I've made the decision. Dems da conditions. You are moving out. Clear enough for you, I hope.
It took some time, but I think our little brother understands. He'll be mad at me, but it's for he best. I felt good after making this decision, so I know it was right. PIRG free we will be come September.
If you are, were, than I wouldn't want to live with you anyway -- you just don't get it. So, days pass after I've served walking papers to our little brother. I told him he had to move out. I told him briefly why and by when and then I told him if he wanted to talk about it to call me. No hard feelings. Just get out by the end of the month. We need a change around here and it isn't going to be me because this is a house that I found and it is I that has the relationship with the landlord. My name that all the bills are in. So, why is it that he thought that I would be moving out? And if he seriously thought that, then why wouldn't he think to ask what the deal was because THAT scenario certainly doesn't sound right?
Flip mode? Was that the argumentative tactic? This isn't an argument, I had to tell our little brother. I've made the decision. Dems da conditions. You are moving out. Clear enough for you, I hope.
It took some time, but I think our little brother understands. He'll be mad at me, but it's for he best. I felt good after making this decision, so I know it was right. PIRG free we will be come September.
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