These short stories are about their titles

This is a story about Death

We drive a good car. It is blue and relaxing and fast, but still gets good mileage. The car is Italian, like my wife. She is prone to fits of jealousy, and I’ll often see her tailing me on the way to work, sometimes directly, and at others with a car or two between us. She drives poorly and looks agitated. Sometimes I’ll pull off suddenly for coffee, making small talk with the woman at the register asking after the weather and the day. Back on the road, I’ll find myself staring in the rear view, seeing if I can spot the white of her knuckles gripping the wheel at 9 and 5. She’s a nervous driver, and was never any good at it. I’ll wonder sometimes, how she and my infant son managed to get out of the house so quickly, after I leave. I wonder what kind of shoes he’s wearing, or whether his little toes are tapping like a piano player across keys on his car seat. I wonder where they go after this morning ritual is over—If they’ll slip back down to the playground to haunt people there or stop at their favorite Gelato place up around fifth. I want them to follow me forever, but I always lose them in the glare of the sun, or the passing of a big blue truck. No matter how much I slow down, I can never quite catch them, warn them to stay off the roads, and just like that, they are gone again, without even stopping to say goodbye.

 Bombs and Brooms 

I was looking all over the house for the broom. The children had left toys all over the floor and it was my intention to sweep them up and throw them all away. At night, when they will ask me where the toys have gone, I’d make up elaborate stories: Wally the puffer fish stuffed animal grew gills and took up religion. He’s under seas now, preaching to the unclean, their unwashed bodies. James the Giraffe took up with the circus because they offered a more competitive 403 B. They’d believe none of it of course. My children are too damn smart. They are so smart that they’ve hidden the broom away, anticipating even this gesture. I am sure that I ask them they’ll tell me quite a story. The wicked witch of the West needed it for air travel. It grew a soul and flew into the clouds. It was last seen over the center of town in a Middle Eastern country, dropping bristles on the unwashed children below.

On Children

When the baby is crying, my wife will ask me to go upstairs and soothe him. I am tired often, and lazy to boot. Instead of going upstairs, I’ll tell her that the world will offer him no comfort, that this is a test of his fortitude. She’ll say that he doesn’t even know how to spell or say fortitude. In the kitchen, she’ll place the dishes in the sink and head upstairs. “You’re spoiling him,” I’ll yell, “he’s going to turn out like old milk” from the couch where I’m reading an article about fantasy football. 

Architecture

I try to look for beauty in the small things: a flower blooming in a sea of pavement, a stranger smiling from across the room. Often though, I find that the small things in life are rather too small: the nucleus of an atom, molecules colliding. Most of the world seems full of big ugly things. I think that I must keep looking for small things: the smell of an old perfume, filling certain moments of a day, a trickle of light passing through thick darkness. Nothing is ever as good as it could be. I’m looking for an hour, a minute, a second to go perfectly right, something around which I could begin to construct my day. 

Breaking Bad episode 1 recap. I'm a little behind.

Breaking Bad

It’s nice to finally be invited to the party. Honestly, I never intended to watch Breaking Bad. However, I can’t go to Grantland, or listen to music on Spotify without being inundated with images of a glowering Walter White. Even my Stephen Colbert video this week included Bryan Cranston. So, I figured it was time to start watching.

The strange thing about starting Breaking Bad now is that I know the trajectory. I know that he becomes evil. Of course, we also know when we start a Dickens novel that things are going to work out, even if it takes some chicanery to get there. So, I suppose it isn’t ruined that much.

What struck me about the first episode, (and I realize that to write about a show after watching one episode is hubristic, akin to reading three chapters of Infinite Jest and making pronouncements about the novel. This is the age of serialization, when we understand that television shows have longs arcs. There was a time when each episode was supposed to be self-contained and larger structures were near obsolete) is the dark side of Walter White bubbling to the surface immediately. I read a piece by Chuck Klosterman asserting that the first episode made you have to root for Walter White. I don’t know if I buy that.

What troubles me about Walter, right off the bat, is the thin line that he crosses almost immediately into being bad. The awakening that he describes after receiving new of the inoperable lung cancer is precisely the sort of awakening that most of the major religions shoot for. And yet, the purpose of spiritual practice, one way or another, is generally to become a better or more peaceful member of society. The “awakening” that occurs in Walter is precisely the sort of thing that, full admission here, I hope never happens to me. I’d be lying if I said I haven’t had moments where I wanted to assault someone in public for being an asshole. Not the sort of thing with nuance, accidentally being cut off or something, but someone behaving or saying things that are patently unacceptable for general human conduct. Now, we’ve agreed as a society that these sorts of slights or grievances are best left alone, or, if very bad, settled in a court of law. And yet, I found my heart pounding with perverse joy as Walt beat up the random teen in the store. Who hasn’t wanted to do that? How refreshing! How troubling.

The same thing applies to Walt keeping the secret of his cancer and meth cooking from his wife. Right off the bat we see a tacit admission on his part that his actions are wrong and must be hidden. And yet, who doesn’t want to hide the worst or less desirable parts of themselves? We do it on a daily basis, all be it, I hope, to a lesser degree.

I suppose what I’m getting at is that this show seems to affirm the darker parts of our nature. I’ve long claimed in numerous discussions with S that art has no greater responsibility than to be true to the story. Happy endings, sad endings, are pretty much immaterial. It’s whether they honor the material. And yet, as I listen to proclamation after proclamation of BB being the greatest show ever, I’m starting to wonder if that’s true.

I’m willing to consider the fact that a large portion of the population is just made up of people who are better than I am—more grounded, fun loving, able to separate a good television show from the moral choices that happen day to day. And, if that’s the case, perhaps BB is the best drama ever. If I’m not the only one who harbors a secret self who wishes ill to every person who cuts him off and wants to haul off and punch people on the sidewalk, well then, I’m not quite sure what it would mean if BB is indeed the best drama ever. I suppose all I’m saying here is that one episode in, my sincere hope is that the answer is no.  

The things I mean when I write

Beauty, if we’re lucky, only runs skin deep. It is dangerous, as you know, to delve any deeper. If I search for beauty any deeper, swim through the arterials of your slender forearm to discover bits of gold, or sit down after dark, over bourbon, while you talk about your childhood, we’ll wind up in bed together again, the sweat cold against our bare skin, nothing left to say, waiting for the light to separate us.

During graduate school, we all listened closely to the stories to see if we appeared in them. At best, you’d get a secondary role, recognizing an observation you’d made one night over dinner, or a particular way you had of walking. When you know someone, you suspect, deep down, that at least 25 percent of what they are writing is secretly about you. I want to assure you that if say someone is beautiful or kind or funny that it was written about you. If the person said something interesting or profound, it was also probably about you. I want you to know that if I wrote about someone acting terribly, then it was probably about me. The closest mirror is our own conscience. If I said however, that someone was standing outside, gazing up at bits of the moon in a velvety sky, the stars strung across the sky—a rope of light, then I am talking about me. However, if I describe someone who has bad breath and is domineering, I am probably remembering my teacher from kindergarten. If I write about someone who loves music, I am writing about the person that I wish I was. If I write about someone owning a pet, and intentionally running over that pet, but then denying the fact to his family, then I am also writing about the person, though in this case, merely the person that I could possibly be. If I am writing about a trip to Europe, and someone is riding on trains, I am writing about a movie that I saw when I was a teenager. If I write about the ocean, and the stars, cold footprints in the sand, then I am writing about CA. If I write about a bunny rabbit, or a cat, or blackberries, then I am writing about childhood. If I write about the sea, then I am writing about longing. If I write about someone being useful, then I am again writing about a person I wish I could be. If I write about a man who builds a time machine out of a pair of shoes to travel back in time to save his family, lost in a world war 2 bombing, then I am writing about regret. If I write about Missouri, Oklahoma, or the Resurrection, then I am writing about religion. If I write about facebook or Twitter, then I am writing about confusion. If I write about television, then I am writing out of the urgency to connect. If I write about biking down to the water and skipping stones into the creek, then I am writing about childhood, though I am also perhaps writing about the inevitability of death. In fact, I may often be writing about the inevitability of death. If I write about trees, I am writing about aesthetic, nature, and perhaps the inevitability of death or change. If I write about the rain, I am writing about school, childhood, and passivity. If I write a story in which an astronomer believes that he sees people inhabiting the moon, then I am writing about unrequited love.  If I write about anything else, then I am writing about regret or sex or failure. If I write about the cold, I am writing about the inevitability of death. If I write about time, I am writing about it passing. If I am writing about the wind, I am merely writing about the wind. It signifies nothing. Sleep now. There are no more stories to tell.

Sailing past the outer reaches of the Bay, it was easy to forget the dead. We’d accomplished so much, mapped the rivers and valleys of a once dark territory. Our names would live on mountain passes and lakes long after we were passed from this life into the next.  Out here, the wind whips up the sea, and the salt stings. I think of my children, five and seven now, a year and a half since I’ve seen them. I think of their small blond heads, like lanterns across the water the night that I left. It was a mistake to think of them as now I’m remembering the dead. At night I think of their bones, the small parts of them that we could gather together that now lie in the hull of the ship. Their names will be on no river valleys, no mountain tops, perhaps a clavicle or pinky toe will be pressed into the red clay along the river. They can keep watch over the places we’ve named after ourselves, these lost souls. For now we will bring back what’s left of them to those other children who will be waiting upon the docks--those children whose hair was just as pale the day that we left. Forgive me, I whisper, to the uncaring wind. 

Louis C.K. Reminded me of this

Driving along a side road, strips of sunlight filtered through yellowing leaves, in this way, the trees are creating there own discontinuities.

It is unwise, it would seem, to drink a large cup of coffee too early in the morning. From there the day becomes a simulacrum of the heart's increased beat, a small, nameless bird sitting in the arches and hammocks of a green tree, red berries of dubious edibility wreathing his movements--bird like I suppose is how you'd describe them. Though perhaps it's not fair to describe, at least in writing, a bird's movements as bird like. It is more akin to certain kinds of hip hop dancing, popping and locking, each movement designed to be at once dramatic and distinct, or an Ethiopian dance that sees the dancer simultaneously nodding their head sharply and pushing their shoulders forward in a sharp rhythm--a bird winging into flight.

I didn't intend to write about a bird at all.

Driving along a side road, strips of sunlight filtered through yellowing leaves, in this way, the trees are creating there own discontinuities. I am thinking of how my daughter, seated backwards in her toddler car seat, always says, "forest," when we pass through this particular stretch of road, and now I am thinking of her absence, the quiet in the car. I am simultaneously composing a letter to a friend about my inability to see sentence structures properly, as well as my own failed attempts at writing, which should probably include laziness, as in the description of the dancers above that should by all rights be longer and more attuned to the fine details of their movement instead of the rough sketch I've offered. In particular because it's unfair to ask a reader to make that sort of jump with you without providing them some sort of scaffolding in the first place. But this sort of self-castigation could go on almost indefinitely and would probably have been more useful as marginalia or footnotes anyhow.

 This is all happening as I'm listening to Someone Like You by Adele, which reminds me both that I am more apt to cry when I am alone for a day or two, that I am perhaps, a crier. And I am simultaneously aware that this particular song has been spoofed, quite amazingly, by SNL for this very quality, while also thinking of the NPR story about the same subject that identified the arpeggios as the root cause of the tear inducing quality. The quiet therefore wasn't, true quiet, but that of human silence. I am also kind of singing along, poorly, which is the only way I know how to sing, and I am aware that I wouldn't do it with anyone else in the car, and thinking about what that means, man's relation to society etc. I am also aware of gender norms and stereotypes, and vaguely wondering about whether I should be enjoying the song at all.

 These thoughts are all happening in roughly two to three seconds time, a rapid sort of association that makes me realize how effectively mimetic poetry can be. These brief meditations, a few seconds time only, remind me immediately of other things. First, the wonderful short story, "Good Old Neon," by David Foster Wallace, in which he attempts to describe the brain's speed of light functioning. Secondly, that perhaps I should not drink strong coffee so early in the morning.

Sadie's Current Play List: Macklemore, Carly Rae etc.

Listen, Sadie's primary play list is Raffi. However, as I'm generally located in the same room and have to make do, we experiment with other music as well. Sometimes you just want one of the wheels on the bus to get a flat and for the driver to pull over, and all the dads and moms and babies go get on another bus, so the bus driver can go have a cigarette and talk with his friends about the Jets game over a cigarette.

With that in mind: Robin Thicke- Blurred Lines.

For the record, we listen to this music on Spotify. I'd not call the actual video a high point in male and female relations. Also, taking a queue from the wonderful, Vampire Weekend, I yell fish in lieu of the less generous term bit--. Also, she fell over while trying to get out the toy basket the first time she heard this song. And now, every time the song comes on she asks me if she can do her funny joke and repeats the accident. Note: It isn't as funny, but she's trying.

Secondarily, she doesn't get the line, "what rhymes with hug me." Instead, she hears, hug me and has said multiple times, "I like hugs too!" That, and I posted a video of her dancing to this song, which wound up being 1.5 minutes of her running in a circle. I can't take away her childish joy at listening to what she calls the "Hey, hey, hey" song. There is plenty of time in our lives for me to sit her down and deconstruct the sexist male overtones. For now, this song gets the party started, and we're okay with that.





Second: The Lumineers-Big Parade

She's liked this song for a while. She calls it the "lovely girl" song and who couldn't love the happy clapping and saying lovely girl.



Third: Macklemore and Ryan Lewis-Cowboy Boots

I would not have guessed, during that time we were listening to clean versions (not here, apologies for the two curse words) of "The Heist" that she'd have picked this song as her favorite. She calls it "Cowboy Boots," because she's a genius. Also the refrain is all about Cowboy Boots. I'm crediting her love of this song with the incredibly interpretation of line dancing that I do every time it comes on. Any little girl watching her dad do some faux kick as- line dancing is probably going to love that song.



Fourth: The Avett Brothers-I and Love and You

This is probably because I let her watch the video. She, like every child over the age of two days, pretty much wants to spend all day in front of a screen of some sorts. We're good modern parents, so we limit that screen time to twenty minutes a day. However, one day I let her watch the video for this song three times in a row. I didn't really vet it, but I'm pretty sure no murdering or nude girls dance around. If they do, please don't tell me as I'll have to apologize to S. It's also a great song, so I'm not at all sad that she wants to listen to "I and Love and You," genius, I'm telling you.



Fifth: Carly Rae Jepsen-Call me Maybe

She now calls this song "Call me Maybe." However, when she first heard it she called it the "crazy one." The first time I heard this song I was on a dance floor in Portland, Oregon with a group of guys that I've known forever and love like family. Anyhow, most of them were sitting, but I was up dancing, because you only live once. Anyhow, this song came on and the whole bar started singing along. I'd never heard the song before but after one round of the chorus I had developed hand gestures for giving out phone numbers and getting called, because sometimes the body just knows when you're hearing gold. Sadie was the same way. She just knew right away that you were probably supposed to dance when this song came on. Sometimes she wants to hear it twice in a row. You can't deny her. It's "Call me Maybe." P.S. I think she also saw the first second of the video once or twice and wanted to keep watching, mesmerized by the young muscly man taking off his shirt, so that video was definitely never shown again. Cliched jokes are cliched for a reason. I'm not ready for that mess.

Other evenings, other thoughts

It’s impractical to leave the house with such ominous clouds overhead. I have no umbrella. I am forever mired in such failures of imagination. I always assume that that when I step outside the rain will stop, or pass right through me like a miracle of physics. I do not carry an umbrella because I have a strange faith in the world. I constantly lie to myself saying, it’s all going to turn out fine.

The metro ride is either beautiful or dirty. I vacillate between the two. It’s often used at the beginning of films, the dirty window to communicate anomie, distance, at times I find the graffiti and the light piercing over rows and rows of wires and crumbled brick quite striking. I spot a small plastic play set with a yellow slide between two warehouses, like a fleck of gold in a pan of rock. Who built that? What could they have possibly intended? Such beautiful failures, what minute gestures.

I watch a good looking couple sit on the bench. They are both staring intently at their phones, texting people who are far away. I’m not one of those zealots who sees the end of the world in the proliferation of screens, but I want to walk over to the bench and shake them both awake. “You are young and beautiful. Look at each other.” This too shall pass.

Of late I think the city that was passed over because of the clouds. I wonder what game the children were playing that day in the street, whether it was dusty or clean. I imagine the adults sitting down to tea, to discuss the ongoing war. Who knows if they heard the buzz go by overhead. The God of Death in the form of an American plane. I wonder again, what games they were playing that particular day, who won that day that the plane passed over. 

My favorite moment, on any good night, is the moment that you realize everyone knows the song that is playing. The music is bouncing off the walls and the bodies, the beautiful sweaty bodies are bouncing as well. At the part of the song where everyone is supposed to put everyone’s hands in the air, everyone’s hands go in the air because we are young and will live forever, Fuc- the darkness. The sweat from everyone in the room is one large puddle. And then the next song comes on, something strange, and everyone suddenly needs to go outside to text, or use the bathroom, and I will understand that joy is fleeting, that moments are born only to be lost. 

Microstories

I’ve been reading stories to friends of late. They all enjoy the stories where someone is about to die. I suppose it makes sense this fascination with our ephemerality. I too am fascinated by an ant or a spider in the moment before I wipe them clean. The stories that I love now are more mundane. I like to read stories about people standing in front of a dryer, waiting for the clothes to dry and for another emergency to appear, perhaps a child crying, the dishwasher finishing, or a sandwich that needs to be made. Somewhere I’m needed.

I keep waiting for the bus to come. Nearby, law students are passing the time by talking about job offers. They speak quickly and articulately. I want to invite them back to my house for a drink. I think with the proper amount of whiskey we could all forget about tort law and the interning policies of the DOJ. Soon enough we’ll all be naked, and it would be clear that underneath our clothes and patterns of speech, we are all very, very different beings. It was the clothes that made us feel temporarily alike. Divested of them, we stand awkwardly in the living room, wishing we were in court, arguing for the right to be anywhere but here.

In a fit of whimsy I decide to call her. I tell her that I’m sorry for the drawing that I’d done of her that had turned out so poor. “What picture?” she asked, swishing a glass of Merlot around. Confirming, once again some simple knowledge that you just know Socrates and Plato must have had, that no one cares as much about you as you. It was no doubt pithier when they said it, and I’m sure it sounds better in the original Greek. The sun was shining, olives ripening, and various birds were flattering themselves in song. Whoever it was, Archimedes or Plato, no matter how hard he tried, could not have imagined me, sitting on this old bus, trying to remember the name of the philosopher who swore that all was water in order to pass the time.

All of the buses say not in service. They are shells, empty metaphors, one imagines them rolling through the city, picking up no one, sufficient unto themselves, almost prayerful, these empty vessels. A nut hatch flies above me, perching on the slender branch of a tree, turning his head and thinking whatever it is that birds think before lifting off into the sky. These empty buses are a waste, like young people who are not in love. Imagine them, staring out windows at the coast or the slivers of slender light all caught up in the branches of trees, with no one to write letters to. The only happy people in this city are the bus drivers, winding their way through the streets and grids, passing everyone on the corners and leaving behind them a trail of disappointment. I followed them out last week into dusk. They made a  line at the airport, all these empty buses and the drivers all stepped out and stood in the warm evening air, smoking cigarettes, talking of the women, the night clubs, the early morning, not worrying about the lives they’d left behind, but the lives they are leading.