She had not intended her impulsive walk to the park to be a reflection on love lost. But as it was windy and raining, and as the loss was fresh and raw and constantly in the forefront of her mind, she should have known it would turn out that way.
The park was very large and very green with grass and pine trees, which was normal, but at the moment it was also empty, and while she knew she would have felt lonelier if it had been crowded, it also seemed very sad. She had gravitated toward the swings when she still thought this would be a casually fun walk, and now she was pumping away methodically as if swinging was some arduous but important task she was assigned. She was a very serious person.
Gradually a bright afternoon image from a year before overtook the rainy one. The Thursday of the first week, after school, two boys took turns jumping, or flying, off the swings; the first flailed to the ground and, grinning, held up a fan of pine needles he had obtained from the adjacent tree. "I got a souvenir!" As the second boy soared through the air a loud crack split the air. He dropped gracefully onto his feet holding a 7 foot long branch, held it aloft, and said, "I got a souvenir." She remembered trying very hard not to consciously think that she loved him. Then she timed them both running an obstacle course on the play structure, which the man she wouldn't admit she loved won. His friend accused her of being biased, which she denied vehemently, but the accusation thrilled her because it implied a tie of some kind between she and him; later she found out that the whole thing was his characteristically confident attempt to win her love and the friend was being accommodating by saying this. Then, tired - for he didn't take care of himself whatsoever back then - he sat on the bench she was perched on the back of and leaned on her leg and it was impossible to keep the silly, childish thought that she loved him after only four days out of her head.
Presently the lurching motion of swinging made her sick and she dragged her toes through the tan bark to stop. She would only hurt herself if she tried to jump.
Her over-sized sleeves hung limply over her hands as she walked. Because they rubbed against the fabric, the tips of her fingers became oddly hot, but as she looked out over the vast sea of soggy grass between her and her destination, it seemed like far too much trouble to push up her sleeves. Here was the place they had laid together after spending a torturous week apart; there was the tree he had climbed, provoking admiration at his efficient grace. Even recognizing that it was irrational, she liked to think that this park belonged only to her and her love, and she couldn't help believing it on the deepest, most basic level.
Upon reaching the tree they sat and talked in for hours on the Monday of the first week, an isolated tree in the middle of the broad field that offered privacy among the leaves, an island of the wild and the pure in the middle of the suburb, she was surprised to discover that it was very near a fence. Jarringly, she now noticed this obtrusion in all of her memories there. The bark was dark with rain and currently constellations of small white flowers graced the branches. One large horizontal branch had been cut off and she thought it was the one he had swung to the ground from, with easy grace and only one hand, but she wasn't sure. It didn't matter; it felt like the same branch. But instead of feeling like the loss of something important to her, the open wound felt like a beautiful sign of the inevitability of change. The loss of one beautiful thing, she thought, is no tragedy because another will always spring from the ashes.
She had her arms placed against a head-height branch and her face resting on her arms. It pulled her sweatshirt up so her midriff was bare and it was cold, but she felt too solemnly tranquil to move.
Suddenly it occurred to her that he was a liar. She had known it from the start. He had told her he lied well, but she never believed he would lie to her.
Without examining the urge she moved to the area they used to go to be alone - a small gap in the bushes no one would even know existed if they weren't searching for a secluded spot to do something illicit. When she arrived she was confused - there was no trek through thick foliage, there was no sense of intimate secrecy, there was only a view straight through to the Christian elementary school. The bushes had been trimmed. Sparse new plants of indeterminate species were growing where the dense dark bushes should be, their new bright green made even brighter and greener by their background of red and copper pine needles. Yes, she thought, change is not bad. The new will replace the old. The world will go on, continually refreshing itself. She did not miss they way things used to be.
She hesitated, then obeyed her compulsion to go home. She remembered distinctly, her phone was left on the side table. Maybe he had texted her by now.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Monday, November 15, 2010
The Death of Glory
Atticus Freyr understood the concept of disillusionment fairly early, long before he experienced it. He thought he was disillusioned when he was 10 because he knew about poverty and disease and genocide, but these things did not corrupt his fundamental view of the world. His belief in the power of will to change reality, his sense that all humans had freedom, had an unlimited range of motion - these things remained intact. And so he thought that, though he was trapped by the power of parents over children and by law in the bureaucracy and unrelenting schedule of his prison-school, someday he could be happy.
Real disillusionment forced itself on him in the form of gray files in a gray cubicle in a gray office. After college he got a job doing the filing for the company that makes the labels for soda cans, and became intensely unhappy.
What Atticus wanted was to experience the whole world, dig into it and scrape himself on it, come back up gloriously grimy and grinning ear to ear, to write a new creation story, to start a revolution. The ever-present necessities of food, water, and shelter thwarted his plans. He supposed he had always known these condemning necessities existed but had never really believed in them until he felt hunger in his belly and could not pay rent.
That was when he discovered that he hated work - a genuine, deep-rooted hatred that filled his body first with anger and then with despair. Every fiber of his being rebelled against necessity, and for a while he tried to ignore it, to let himself slowly die in order to be happy in life. But base animal pains overcame his will and, feeling the shameful weight of his weakness, he crawled back to work.
That was when he became deeply unhappy. Realizing his degrading emotional state, he sat down in his dim living room/kitchen/bedroom and retreated so far into his mind that the traffic noise could not reach him. Why was he unhappy? The answer came in stages, which he let build and evolve until he was presented with a final, certain answer.
He had, in fact, a severely limited range of motion. Atticus had inherited a bureaucracy just as bad as public school. It became apparent to him that the structure and form society took was made for one thing, and it did that one thing reasonably well: it provided for the longest lives for the most people. The problem was that in the process it destroyed everything else. As the child to the parent, he was a dependent who had to conform. Most people, he realized, lived their whole lives this way, doing work they despised, waiting out the dreary days. And for what? What could be the purpose if not happiness? Atticus knew that civilization's response to necessity made everyone it infected fundamentally unhappy. This was his disillusionment. Not the tragedy of death and destruction, but the slavery, the quiet desperation, of an office job.
Real disillusionment forced itself on him in the form of gray files in a gray cubicle in a gray office. After college he got a job doing the filing for the company that makes the labels for soda cans, and became intensely unhappy.
What Atticus wanted was to experience the whole world, dig into it and scrape himself on it, come back up gloriously grimy and grinning ear to ear, to write a new creation story, to start a revolution. The ever-present necessities of food, water, and shelter thwarted his plans. He supposed he had always known these condemning necessities existed but had never really believed in them until he felt hunger in his belly and could not pay rent.
That was when he discovered that he hated work - a genuine, deep-rooted hatred that filled his body first with anger and then with despair. Every fiber of his being rebelled against necessity, and for a while he tried to ignore it, to let himself slowly die in order to be happy in life. But base animal pains overcame his will and, feeling the shameful weight of his weakness, he crawled back to work.
That was when he became deeply unhappy. Realizing his degrading emotional state, he sat down in his dim living room/kitchen/bedroom and retreated so far into his mind that the traffic noise could not reach him. Why was he unhappy? The answer came in stages, which he let build and evolve until he was presented with a final, certain answer.
He had, in fact, a severely limited range of motion. Atticus had inherited a bureaucracy just as bad as public school. It became apparent to him that the structure and form society took was made for one thing, and it did that one thing reasonably well: it provided for the longest lives for the most people. The problem was that in the process it destroyed everything else. As the child to the parent, he was a dependent who had to conform. Most people, he realized, lived their whole lives this way, doing work they despised, waiting out the dreary days. And for what? What could be the purpose if not happiness? Atticus knew that civilization's response to necessity made everyone it infected fundamentally unhappy. This was his disillusionment. Not the tragedy of death and destruction, but the slavery, the quiet desperation, of an office job.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
Alexander Wept (in progress)
These are the practice hands I drew before putting any pen on my actual drawing. As you can see from my first failed attempts, this was a very good idea.
Monday, May 31, 2010
The World is Worth my Time
I always wanted to be somewhere else, although when I got there I didn't want to be there either. It was like the air was pushing in on me. I shouldn't have been able to exist because the air itself didn't want me. That was how I knew that what I was waiting for could never come.
The truth is I don't know how to write about being happy. I've never had a need.
Aiming high has always been my thing. The difference is now there are good things in this world for me. I credit Wellbutrin; I credit therapy. You I credit most of all. You make these sun-bleached sterile streets tolerable. In fact you make them shine. I always knew I would strive for greatness. You make it worth my time.
The truth is I don't know how to write about being happy. I've never had a need.
Aiming high has always been my thing. The difference is now there are good things in this world for me. I credit Wellbutrin; I credit therapy. You I credit most of all. You make these sun-bleached sterile streets tolerable. In fact you make them shine. I always knew I would strive for greatness. You make it worth my time.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Apathy
Sit around and talk about the things you'll do.
There's nothing you can do.
You're the victim here so let's hear a cheer for apathy.
When you're old and start to decay you'll be full of regrets.
It's okay, we'll complain until there's no one left to blame.
Let's face it, you're never climbing out of this hole so get comfortable with misery:
Commute and work and watch TV.
Oh, and don't forget to buy, buy, buy, it's only $19.99.
Does it make you feel better to know you're part of the machine?
This is Capitalism, the things our fathers didn't fight for in the Cold War!
Work 14 hours a day and buy the biggest house you can't afford,
You're living the American Dream!
When you're old you'll be in debt but it's okay, there's always someone to blame.
Nothing matters much. Nothing's gonna change. Your kids will be the same.
The planet's going down the drain.
So just give in, it's easier that way.
There's nothing you can do.
You're the victim here so let's hear a cheer for apathy.
When you're old and start to decay you'll be full of regrets.
It's okay, we'll complain until there's no one left to blame.
Let's face it, you're never climbing out of this hole so get comfortable with misery:
Commute and work and watch TV.
Oh, and don't forget to buy, buy, buy, it's only $19.99.
Does it make you feel better to know you're part of the machine?
This is Capitalism, the things our fathers didn't fight for in the Cold War!
Work 14 hours a day and buy the biggest house you can't afford,
You're living the American Dream!
When you're old you'll be in debt but it's okay, there's always someone to blame.
Nothing matters much. Nothing's gonna change. Your kids will be the same.
The planet's going down the drain.
So just give in, it's easier that way.
Alone, Together
I love being bored.
I love having nothing to do.
I love wasting all my time.
I love being online
Waiting uselessly for you.
Gmail says, "Riley is not available to chat,"
So I talk to his email account.
"I feel like I can sing right now. It's amazing."
The blind, deaf slate records it
For him to find much later
And know he wasn't alone.
I love having nothing to do.
I love wasting all my time.
I love being online
Waiting uselessly for you.
Gmail says, "Riley is not available to chat,"
So I talk to his email account.
"I feel like I can sing right now. It's amazing."
The blind, deaf slate records it
For him to find much later
And know he wasn't alone.
Friday, April 23, 2010
Paragon for the Wrong
Our young commander with scars on his face.
His armor gleams dull gray and bright gold.
Soldiers wait row on row, arms and legs
and sparkling eyes that gleam gray and gold somewhere deep inside.
He raises his hand. he gives the command.
We're not believers but well take a stand.
Our young commander, he has a plan.
Another fight, another win, another story to tell the kids.
So you want to rule the world?
In the morning light pale gray and gold
your flag's unfurled and we begin the fight.
Our young commander unmatched in strength and grace.
Deep in his marble palace he rules the human race.
The heretics outside these walls
They're just loud, snarling mouths without eyes or brains,
fingers or veins. Just running feet, pounding fists, gnashing teeth.
They have no faith.
Inside we're loyal disciples
Joyful hearts and sparkling eyes.
We know that we're right.
Until the fateful night the faithless filled the sky
With fire and smoke all gray and red and gold.
We all took a stand. We fought to the last.
We the faithful, row on row of arms and legs and steely eyes
We failed by sunrise.
My young commander died today.
He left me lost in smoke and flame.
His followers disperse and shrink;
Become shameful, hateful objects;
Limp arms and legs and dead, dead eyes
As his flag burns.
The ruins of his empire are gray and red and gold:
Gray smoke, red blood, gold crown
Blasphemous on a different head.
That's when it hits me my leader is dead.
My life's work is rubble.
My back's against the wall.
But I have one thing the faithless, the rebels will never have.
I'm still certain I was right.
His armor gleams dull gray and bright gold.
Soldiers wait row on row, arms and legs
and sparkling eyes that gleam gray and gold somewhere deep inside.
He raises his hand. he gives the command.
We're not believers but well take a stand.
Our young commander, he has a plan.
Another fight, another win, another story to tell the kids.
So you want to rule the world?
In the morning light pale gray and gold
your flag's unfurled and we begin the fight.
Our young commander unmatched in strength and grace.
Deep in his marble palace he rules the human race.
The heretics outside these walls
They're just loud, snarling mouths without eyes or brains,
fingers or veins. Just running feet, pounding fists, gnashing teeth.
They have no faith.
Inside we're loyal disciples
Joyful hearts and sparkling eyes.
We know that we're right.
Until the fateful night the faithless filled the sky
With fire and smoke all gray and red and gold.
We all took a stand. We fought to the last.
We the faithful, row on row of arms and legs and steely eyes
We failed by sunrise.
My young commander died today.
He left me lost in smoke and flame.
His followers disperse and shrink;
Become shameful, hateful objects;
Limp arms and legs and dead, dead eyes
As his flag burns.
The ruins of his empire are gray and red and gold:
Gray smoke, red blood, gold crown
Blasphemous on a different head.
That's when it hits me my leader is dead.
My life's work is rubble.
My back's against the wall.
But I have one thing the faithless, the rebels will never have.
I'm still certain I was right.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Wherever You Go (There You Are)
I moved away from my first love, far away from the smell of the sea.
I hoped I could return someday but my home went and changed on me.
So I ran all around the world and when there was nowhere left to go
I said I need to be alone, 'cause wherever you go, there you are.
You said, "You take everything too serious."
I rarely know how to cope with this friggin screwed up world.
If I could find a way to run away you know I'd run away.
Tried it three times, but I can't run away.
'Cause I ran all around the world and when there was nowhere left to go
I said I need to be alone, need to think things through, 'cause wherever you go, there you are.
You always thought life was a game to be won and for a while you were winning.
You're always in the tabloids, the cover of Harbor High Today.
You used to say drama blows away, but you're not saying that today.
Now you know you can't run away
'Cause you ran all around the world and when there was nowhere left to go
You said you need to talk things through, you need to know I'm here for you, 'cause wherever you go, there you are.
'Cause how do you run away when you're the villain in the play?
All I know is: your guardian is all I've ever been and if that's all I ever am then that's okay.
So please believe me when I say you can't run away.
I hoped I could return someday but my home went and changed on me.
So I ran all around the world and when there was nowhere left to go
I said I need to be alone, 'cause wherever you go, there you are.
You said, "You take everything too serious."
I rarely know how to cope with this friggin screwed up world.
If I could find a way to run away you know I'd run away.
Tried it three times, but I can't run away.
'Cause I ran all around the world and when there was nowhere left to go
I said I need to be alone, need to think things through, 'cause wherever you go, there you are.
You always thought life was a game to be won and for a while you were winning.
You're always in the tabloids, the cover of Harbor High Today.
You used to say drama blows away, but you're not saying that today.
Now you know you can't run away
'Cause you ran all around the world and when there was nowhere left to go
You said you need to talk things through, you need to know I'm here for you, 'cause wherever you go, there you are.
'Cause how do you run away when you're the villain in the play?
All I know is: your guardian is all I've ever been and if that's all I ever am then that's okay.
So please believe me when I say you can't run away.
Underwater
Kept underwater, though I still need air
Under a weight I know I cannot bear.
Because I need it was never a good enough reason
So I bear what I must bear
And I breath despite the water and I walk towards the air
Because the world's laws govern me despite what I can take.
Home is so far away and it'll never feel the same.
I need to replicate those few good days
The cool morning fog and the warm evening air
But that was never a good enough reason
So I breath despite the water
And I walk. And I fall.
And I can't get air to my heart and my brain.
The water and the world don't care what I can and can't take.
Under a weight I know I cannot bear.
Because I need it was never a good enough reason
So I bear what I must bear
And I breath despite the water and I walk towards the air
Because the world's laws govern me despite what I can take.
Home is so far away and it'll never feel the same.
I need to replicate those few good days
The cool morning fog and the warm evening air
But that was never a good enough reason
So I breath despite the water
And I walk. And I fall.
And I can't get air to my heart and my brain.
The water and the world don't care what I can and can't take.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Haven (Installment 4)
When I opened the door James' eyes sought out Jane and he said, "Do you remember that Twilight Zone with the aliens who promised to help humanity? Well, that's maybe not the perfect metaphor 'cause it turned out they wanted to eat us, but still, wouldn't that be great? I mean, Someone swoops in with all the answers, solves all our problems. The God Machine. And we can do it. You can. They can. Whatever." My slow, deliberate mind wasn't keeping up. Jane got it before I did.
"You want the Havinians to go to the Earth universe to help humanity."
"Yes!" James exclaimed with shining pride and happiness.
"No."
"What?" James looked baffled, and I imagine I did, too. It had sounded like a good idea to me.
"Don't tell anyone this ides, James, because it's not a good one, but they're gonna wanna do it, because they're good, and moral, and altruistic, and very, very naive."
"But... earth is your home, Jane."
"It's not."
"They need you. They're suffering."
"I don't care."
James looked bereft.
Jane's voice had risen and she had leaned forward in her chair, but now she leaned back and said, "That's not true... yes it is."
Pleading now, James said, "C'mon, you don't want to save the world?"
"No, I don't."
When Jane was a child she was made an outsider. Her peers rejected her, bullied her. So she rejected them in return.
One day when she was 10 her classmates got mad at her for for making them lose a kickball game and the rest of the day made their disdain for her intelligence and maturity clear. She kept a stony face all day and almost believed herself that she did not care about their opinions, but when she went home she cried uncontrollably into her mother's shoulder.
"Sports don't matter," Jane sobbed, hurt and outraged but surprisingly coherent. "Science matters. Science can save the world."
Stroking her child's shocking orange hair, Jane's mom said, "You're right. But do one thing for me, okay? Don't hate the world. Or what will be the point in saving it?"
"You want the Havinians to go to the Earth universe to help humanity."
"Yes!" James exclaimed with shining pride and happiness.
"No."
"What?" James looked baffled, and I imagine I did, too. It had sounded like a good idea to me.
"Don't tell anyone this ides, James, because it's not a good one, but they're gonna wanna do it, because they're good, and moral, and altruistic, and very, very naive."
"But... earth is your home, Jane."
"It's not."
"They need you. They're suffering."
"I don't care."
James looked bereft.
Jane's voice had risen and she had leaned forward in her chair, but now she leaned back and said, "That's not true... yes it is."
Pleading now, James said, "C'mon, you don't want to save the world?"
"No, I don't."
When Jane was a child she was made an outsider. Her peers rejected her, bullied her. So she rejected them in return.
One day when she was 10 her classmates got mad at her for for making them lose a kickball game and the rest of the day made their disdain for her intelligence and maturity clear. She kept a stony face all day and almost believed herself that she did not care about their opinions, but when she went home she cried uncontrollably into her mother's shoulder.
"Sports don't matter," Jane sobbed, hurt and outraged but surprisingly coherent. "Science matters. Science can save the world."
Stroking her child's shocking orange hair, Jane's mom said, "You're right. But do one thing for me, okay? Don't hate the world. Or what will be the point in saving it?"
Friday, January 29, 2010
Dumb Luck
We're all stupid we do what we're told
or we don't and we get in trouble even more.
We don't know what's coming but we keep walking anyway.
I'm stunned when the sun rises every day.
Danger wakes me up and tired makes me feel alive
So if you're restless let's run.
We'll try everything and if we fail we'll hop on the next train.
run with me just run with me run with me.
I don't wanna make a plan (jump jump)
I don't wanna make a plan (don't look)
I just wanna go (jump jump)
We'll see when we get there (don't look).
We're all stupid we do what we're told
or we don't and we get in trouble even more.
We don't know what's coming but we keep walking anyway.
I'm stunned when the sun rises every day.
We don't know nothin let's keep it that way
so we can have stupid dumb luck fun
and if the sun rises tomorrow we can always run.
or we don't and we get in trouble even more.
We don't know what's coming but we keep walking anyway.
I'm stunned when the sun rises every day.
Danger wakes me up and tired makes me feel alive
So if you're restless let's run.
We'll try everything and if we fail we'll hop on the next train.
run with me just run with me run with me.
I don't wanna make a plan (jump jump)
I don't wanna make a plan (don't look)
I just wanna go (jump jump)
We'll see when we get there (don't look).
We're all stupid we do what we're told
or we don't and we get in trouble even more.
We don't know what's coming but we keep walking anyway.
I'm stunned when the sun rises every day.
We don't know nothin let's keep it that way
so we can have stupid dumb luck fun
and if the sun rises tomorrow we can always run.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Sometimes it's Easy
My soul pours out my fingertips, dropping key by key.
My soul pours out my fingertips, onto glowing screen.
Silent template filling up with tiny scribbled things;
Black on white can mean so much when golden liquid enthralls me.
My soul pours out my fingertips, drains me key by key.
My soul pours out my fingertips onto glowing screen.
My soul pours out my fingertips, onto glowing screen.
Silent template filling up with tiny scribbled things;
Black on white can mean so much when golden liquid enthralls me.
My soul pours out my fingertips, drains me key by key.
My soul pours out my fingertips onto glowing screen.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Haven (Installment 3)
Over time her nerves quieted and her bright scientific interest dimmed to comfortable familiarity. At times I would look at her and get a glimpse of regret. She would fold her arms over her chest and look as if she was receding into herself and some of that old pain would come back.
I eventually stopped asking about her origins and figured she was Havinian now. The longer she stayed the less she would say about her past. And then she started calling Haven home.
She hummed our songs, she knew our stories, she cooked our food. About the time I stopped noticing her looking to the horizon from whence she came, I stopped seeing the pain in her eyes. It was replaced by relief so strong I thought there must be liquid light in her, overflowing so that it filled me, too.
We lived this way for many years. Jane rose through the ranks in her company until she became the head of Water Distribution. It was her inner ambition asserting itself - in every other area she was content with things just as they were. It was the start of another winter, already showing the signs of being long and frigid, when I found out just how far her desire for stability went.
Despite the cold I didn't want to stay inside. Jane and I walked aimlessly through streets packed with people trying to get every moment of time they could before the winter season truly began. I smiled as I took Jane's hand, for I loved her.
We walked until the ocean blocked us and then we sat on a bench, huddled together for warmth. The sun broke through the clouds and cast its brilliant rays on the world. I squinted at it; and then a shadow blocked my eyes. As the final pale sunbeams were extinguished by dirty yellow clouds, the silhouette turned into a man. Though he was probably over 30 years old, he had the face of a boy - all brightness and expectation and shiny, grinning teeth. He shouted, "Jane!" and I somehow knew he was here to change the world.
Jane was shaking her head. She was gaping in disbelief, but under it I could see fear. She looked as if she wished the man would go away. He said exuberantly, "I'm here to rescue you!"
Finally Jane choked out, "James. You look exactly the same."
"Oh, it hasn't been so long," James said.
Jane scoffed, "Only a decade."
This made James confused. I could see his excited energy dissipating and he said, "It's only been a couple months." Then he started up again, nearly yelling, "Jane, you're a genius. Even looking at the equations it took me two months to figure out what you did. When we get back you'll be up for a Nobel Prize. I just can't understand why you couldn't get back. It shouldn't be any harder than getting here."
"I don't want to go back," Jane said firmly.
It took a moment to sink in and then James stood perfectly still. "You don't?"
"James," she whispered, "Leave this place. Leave me. This is not a place for you. Go back to your dimension, tell them my experiment was a failure and it killed me. Tell them not to try it again."
"But... I'm saving you," he said.
And Jane said, "Let me show you something."
We took James everywhere I had taken Jane that first day, just watching life going on around us. Jane explained many things in terms I didn't understand and James grew quieter and quieter. Though I didn't know what she meant by war, crime, countries, genocide, famine, or a long list of other words, I could tell she was naming differences between our home and her old one. And I knew for certain now that she came from a place I couldn't imagine.
That night we found James a room. And in the morning we woke up to his frantic knocking.
I eventually stopped asking about her origins and figured she was Havinian now. The longer she stayed the less she would say about her past. And then she started calling Haven home.
She hummed our songs, she knew our stories, she cooked our food. About the time I stopped noticing her looking to the horizon from whence she came, I stopped seeing the pain in her eyes. It was replaced by relief so strong I thought there must be liquid light in her, overflowing so that it filled me, too.
We lived this way for many years. Jane rose through the ranks in her company until she became the head of Water Distribution. It was her inner ambition asserting itself - in every other area she was content with things just as they were. It was the start of another winter, already showing the signs of being long and frigid, when I found out just how far her desire for stability went.
Despite the cold I didn't want to stay inside. Jane and I walked aimlessly through streets packed with people trying to get every moment of time they could before the winter season truly began. I smiled as I took Jane's hand, for I loved her.
We walked until the ocean blocked us and then we sat on a bench, huddled together for warmth. The sun broke through the clouds and cast its brilliant rays on the world. I squinted at it; and then a shadow blocked my eyes. As the final pale sunbeams were extinguished by dirty yellow clouds, the silhouette turned into a man. Though he was probably over 30 years old, he had the face of a boy - all brightness and expectation and shiny, grinning teeth. He shouted, "Jane!" and I somehow knew he was here to change the world.
Jane was shaking her head. She was gaping in disbelief, but under it I could see fear. She looked as if she wished the man would go away. He said exuberantly, "I'm here to rescue you!"
Finally Jane choked out, "James. You look exactly the same."
"Oh, it hasn't been so long," James said.
Jane scoffed, "Only a decade."
This made James confused. I could see his excited energy dissipating and he said, "It's only been a couple months." Then he started up again, nearly yelling, "Jane, you're a genius. Even looking at the equations it took me two months to figure out what you did. When we get back you'll be up for a Nobel Prize. I just can't understand why you couldn't get back. It shouldn't be any harder than getting here."
"I don't want to go back," Jane said firmly.
It took a moment to sink in and then James stood perfectly still. "You don't?"
"James," she whispered, "Leave this place. Leave me. This is not a place for you. Go back to your dimension, tell them my experiment was a failure and it killed me. Tell them not to try it again."
"But... I'm saving you," he said.
And Jane said, "Let me show you something."
We took James everywhere I had taken Jane that first day, just watching life going on around us. Jane explained many things in terms I didn't understand and James grew quieter and quieter. Though I didn't know what she meant by war, crime, countries, genocide, famine, or a long list of other words, I could tell she was naming differences between our home and her old one. And I knew for certain now that she came from a place I couldn't imagine.
That night we found James a room. And in the morning we woke up to his frantic knocking.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Haven (Installment 2)
For another instant the forces of instinctual caution and intellectual curiosity battled each other, and then I began to move towards her, and it occurred to me for the first time to wonder where she could have come from if not here. Everything outside of Haven was barren desert, inhospitable. No one could live there.
Now I walked more boldly, for the more I looked at her the less threatening she seemed. Up close she was so ordinary, the person herself was completely at odds with the mystery attached to her. Still though, her eyes spoke of some wound I could not see. I half expected she would turn around and there would be a horrible bloody gash in her back. Then, realizing I had been standing five feet away and gaping for near a minute, I impulsively raised my hands in the same manner as her. This seemed to please her, for she smiled and dropped her arms to her sides. The smile made the hurt in her dark eyes even more disturbing and I heard myself ask, "Are you okay?"
She looked surprised and replied, "Yes. Of course, why wouldn't I be?"
As I checked her for injury I noticed an object attached to her hip. It recalled the rifles hunters used to shoot game, but it was smaller and fatter. The design of it, the sleekness and the minimalism, made me feel it had a completely different purpose.
"My name is Jane," she said, still smiling; and, with a pause and a giggle, she added, "And I come in peace." It was the giggle that did it. It made me feel she was an innocent and that the injury I'd perceived was a horrible tragedy, for her soul was clearly shattered, and no matter about the odd rifle, she needed protecting, and would she like to come to my town?
"I'm December," I said, and together we walked, out feet pushing down the grass and the sky darkening in preparation for night. Though she was short and I was tall, though I knew where we were going and she did not, the whole time I could not help but feel that I was following her. Over the years I would know Jane this would be a constant, for she always seemed to know something no one else in the room knew, and she always seemed the natural leader because of it.
It was strange how as we walked our conversation turned away from her and to the details of my life. Later I thought that it must have been some architecture of hers, for I had a million questions and asked none of them, while her nodding and pensive expression told me she was gleaning information from every word out of my mouth.
My town was built around the River Tam which all the barges used to get goods from the fishing and farming Villages to the City. As we walked past the first houses outlying the town I said, "The City is built of steel and our houses are built of adobe, but we know that we depend on each other and really everyone's the same everywhere." I thought this was the best thing I could tell her for her to understand Haven. I think that even then I had an instinctual knowing, for I would find out later that trust and understanding were two things her world lacked most. After this she was quiet and just gazed in her analytical way at the open doors and children playing freely while their parents talked around the community fire pit.
Something I've always loved about my village was the way we painted our window frames bright colors. the buildings were all flat, dusty, tan, but the planks framing the windows were green on one house, red and yellow on the next, and cyan blue on a third. We lived in a world either pale or silver-gray or goldenrod, but always punctuated with our bright paints, bright fires, bright spirits.
At the edge of the village were houses with vegetable gardens and swing sets. Here were slow, lazy days and people who valued family above all else. As we moved toward the center of town the streets became wider and busier. They were filled with bustling people who wanted a steady income and a drink with some friends. The busier the streets got the more nervous Jane got. I noticed that she kept her hand nearer her weapon. When we reached the river the air was filled with shouting and our movements were hindered by a hundred other bodies. I saw it as beautifully functional, a center of productivity. Jane saw everything as a threat.
That first day Jane stayed at my house, an apartment near the river and my job as a porter, with the window frames painted green. In the coming weeks I would help her find work and an apartment of her own while she dodged questions about herself and my curiosities went unsatisfied.
Now I walked more boldly, for the more I looked at her the less threatening she seemed. Up close she was so ordinary, the person herself was completely at odds with the mystery attached to her. Still though, her eyes spoke of some wound I could not see. I half expected she would turn around and there would be a horrible bloody gash in her back. Then, realizing I had been standing five feet away and gaping for near a minute, I impulsively raised my hands in the same manner as her. This seemed to please her, for she smiled and dropped her arms to her sides. The smile made the hurt in her dark eyes even more disturbing and I heard myself ask, "Are you okay?"
She looked surprised and replied, "Yes. Of course, why wouldn't I be?"
As I checked her for injury I noticed an object attached to her hip. It recalled the rifles hunters used to shoot game, but it was smaller and fatter. The design of it, the sleekness and the minimalism, made me feel it had a completely different purpose.
"My name is Jane," she said, still smiling; and, with a pause and a giggle, she added, "And I come in peace." It was the giggle that did it. It made me feel she was an innocent and that the injury I'd perceived was a horrible tragedy, for her soul was clearly shattered, and no matter about the odd rifle, she needed protecting, and would she like to come to my town?
"I'm December," I said, and together we walked, out feet pushing down the grass and the sky darkening in preparation for night. Though she was short and I was tall, though I knew where we were going and she did not, the whole time I could not help but feel that I was following her. Over the years I would know Jane this would be a constant, for she always seemed to know something no one else in the room knew, and she always seemed the natural leader because of it.
It was strange how as we walked our conversation turned away from her and to the details of my life. Later I thought that it must have been some architecture of hers, for I had a million questions and asked none of them, while her nodding and pensive expression told me she was gleaning information from every word out of my mouth.
My town was built around the River Tam which all the barges used to get goods from the fishing and farming Villages to the City. As we walked past the first houses outlying the town I said, "The City is built of steel and our houses are built of adobe, but we know that we depend on each other and really everyone's the same everywhere." I thought this was the best thing I could tell her for her to understand Haven. I think that even then I had an instinctual knowing, for I would find out later that trust and understanding were two things her world lacked most. After this she was quiet and just gazed in her analytical way at the open doors and children playing freely while their parents talked around the community fire pit.
Something I've always loved about my village was the way we painted our window frames bright colors. the buildings were all flat, dusty, tan, but the planks framing the windows were green on one house, red and yellow on the next, and cyan blue on a third. We lived in a world either pale or silver-gray or goldenrod, but always punctuated with our bright paints, bright fires, bright spirits.
At the edge of the village were houses with vegetable gardens and swing sets. Here were slow, lazy days and people who valued family above all else. As we moved toward the center of town the streets became wider and busier. They were filled with bustling people who wanted a steady income and a drink with some friends. The busier the streets got the more nervous Jane got. I noticed that she kept her hand nearer her weapon. When we reached the river the air was filled with shouting and our movements were hindered by a hundred other bodies. I saw it as beautifully functional, a center of productivity. Jane saw everything as a threat.
That first day Jane stayed at my house, an apartment near the river and my job as a porter, with the window frames painted green. In the coming weeks I would help her find work and an apartment of her own while she dodged questions about herself and my curiosities went unsatisfied.
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