Day 365: The Robbery

Bloodroot

Had Mrs. Dawkins' windows been open all the way, she would have heard the slight rustling of leaves lifting and settling in the evening breeze of early May. Had her periwinkle drapes not been drawn, she would have been able to admire the crescent moon rocking in the night sky, which was never so black as it seemed, after all; she would have delighted at the sight of a trillion blinking stars, each one pointing to the beginning of another time, another galaxy too far away for the imagination to comprehend.

Had she stood by her window, she might have recognized the two young men sitting in a black Ford in front of her house and wondered where she had seen them before. She might even have smelled the stink of beer and nicotine emanating from their pores. Indeed, she would have stepped back at the sight of those handcuffs and that duct tape, both lying in plain view, in the littered back seat of the sedan. She might also have caught bits of their conversation and called police before it was too late.

“You sure that back door isn't locked.”

“She never locks it. I shoveled her snow all winter, and she never locked it, not once. ”

“That her bedroom light?”

“Yeah. Wait till we're sure she's sleeping. I don't want any screaming old ladies on my hands.”

“I'm tired of waiting.”

“Yeah, well, it won't be long now. We're going to get us some money, my man.”

“You should'a seen the tip she gave me at the car wash last week. Twenty bucks! 'Here, dear, this is for you.' Who the hell does she think she is giving out a tip like that? It's like she's asking to get herself robbed.”

“Yeah, when I told her 50 bucks to shovel her walk, she didn't even blink. 'Okay.' That's what she said. 'Okay, young man.' Yeah, she's probably got money stashed in every corner of the house.”

“What the hell. She don't need all that money anyway.”

“Yeah, what's she going to do with it? Go to a club? Twenty bucks. Fifty bucks. Screw that. I'll be she's got at least a few thousand in there.”

“What if she wakes up?”

“Look, dickhead, don't get all girly on me. She's old. Who the hell cares if she wakes up?”

“It's not like I care, man. I just don't want no problems, like you said, with screaming old ladies.”

“Look, if we have to knock her off, we'll knock her off.”

“Yeah. She'll probably beg us. 'Oh, please don't hurt me.' That's what they all do.”

Their laughter startles a neighbor's dog. The animal lifts his ears and sniffs. Sensing something isn't right, he growls and paces the edge of his fence until he's called inside. “Get in here, Buddy” the neighbor hisses. “I said get in here. You'll wake the whole neighborhood up. Bad dog.”

An hour after the lights turn off, the men leave their car in the street and tiptoe along the winding brick path to the back of Mrs. Dawkins' small brick house. 

Had they not been so intent on laying their hands on Mrs. Dawkins' perceived fortune, they would have noticed the sweet scent of bloodroot and ghost flower planted throughout her small garden; they might have noticed the care with which Mrs. Dawkins tends her yard—the freshly turned richness of the soil around the white irises, the row of tenderly trimmed azaleas, bursting with red and pink flowers even at night, along the stone driveway. They certainly would have noticed the welcoming aromas of basil and mint hanging in the kitchen window, left open no more than a sliver to let in the fresh night air.

If they hadn't been so careful about silencing their own footsteps, they would have heard the creaking of stairs inside the house. They would have heard the opening and closing of a cabinet and the releasing of a trigger lock. Had they not been concentrating on the justifiable nature of an old woman's possible death at their hands, they might have seen her raise her shotgun to her thin 83-year-old shoulder; they might have noticed how purposefully she aimed it, with her one good eye, toward the kitchen door as they turned the doorknob and let themselves inside. At last, they might have noticed the familiar sound of a trigger pulled back and released into that infinitesimal universe between consciousness and nothingness. 

Had they not been in that very spot at that precise moment, by the time the sun rose on them the following morning, one of them would have gone to work, as usual, at the car wash and the other would have knocked on Mrs. Dawkins' kitchen door and asked her if she needed any help around the yard.

Day 364: Thoughts Interrupted by a Poem

Here I am just about at the finish line, or starting line, depending how I want to look at it. So, if nothing else can be said about me, at least I keep my word, at least most of the time. It can also be said that writing every day for a year emboldens the writer, gives him/her the coglioni (uova?) to take literary chances, that is, to write without giving a damn what anyone thinks. At times I've written pieces that I know aren't worth much more than the exercise they've afforded my fingers; some of my writing has been a concerted effort to tend to every rule; some of it has been experimental, like this little snapshot taken on a subway:

She wears his arm

around her shoulders

like a dead stole

like a flannel drape

whose weight

shortens her

by at least two inches.

“It didn't mean anything,” he says.

Some of my blog entries have involved a lot more work than others. But no matter how much or how little work each story/poem/blog has entailed, I haven't had many comments, which is both a blessing and a disappointment. A blessing because I haven't felt the need to write for anyone's approval; a disappointment because, well, I have no reason to write for anyone's approval. After all, when I was a student, I used to write my best papers when the professor was handsome and/or brilliant. And now that all the handsome and/or brilliant professors have shuffled off the mortal coil of my life, I've had to learn to to do what I should have been doing all along, that is, to write for no one but myself.

He, in turn, wears her arm

around his back

like a fanny pack,

like an iron weight

that pulls his waist band

down to his thighs

making him feel

like a man.

But sometimes I wonder what Peter thinks (it doesn't matter which one) about my work. And on occasion I wish my friend Giuseppe weren't so dicklessly indifferent about my writing. More than anything, I think it would be helpful if another writer would jump in and commiserate—not to advise me that I used a trendy word (oh dear, I hope not) or could have been far more effective had I left out that semi-colon or taken an opportunity to explore the scent of honeysuckle or the harbor at low tide—I mean, Joan, “rank” is telling; you really ought to “show.” None of that would have helped, which was probably a good enough reason for everyone to remain silent.

The sudden lurch of the subway car

breaks their embrace

causing each to 

tumble

—one forward, the other backward—

into clusters

of commuters,

tired gloomy dazed commuters,

lost in their Blackberries

nodding their heads

to the beat of

Ipods, hoping

for an evening of peace.

“What's the matter with you?”

“Watch what you're doing!”

“Get the hell off me.”

The woman pulls herself up

and finds that she is taller

than the rest of the world,

like Alice in Wonderland

after she ate that mushroom,

like Gulliver in Lilliput

without the strings.

“Wow, that arm was sure weighing me down,”

she said to the people below

causing them to laugh and laugh.

But the man had trouble getting up again

for his pants were down to his knees

like Cinema de Merde

like Theater of the Ridiculous.

(How Charles Ludlum would have
applauded and grinned.)

And so tomorrow I'll make a last visit here on this stage to post one more piece of work. I hope it's funny; I hope it's a little strange; I hope no one cares; I hope everyone cares. 

Hoping is my way of making it through until tomorrow. And in this—good writing or bad—I'm just like everyone else.

Day 363: The Pastor and the Working Girl

I'm still reading Immediate Fiction by Jerry Cleaver. He suggests writing a short story about a priest and a prostitute. However, if I title a piece "The Priest and the Prostitute," I'll get all sorts of sordid spam from escort services throughout the world and will have to spend an inordinate amount of time deleting it from my email accounts. Therefore I decided to do a prosaic poem about a Pastor and a Working Girl. I don't even know if "working girl" is still a euphemism for prostitute. It matters not, as long as I don't get inundated with garbage mail. Yes, I know this is not really a poem; nor is it a short story. It's whatever you want to call it. It's a little creation. 

For ten years, the Pastor and the Working Girl

met every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday

in the rectory of St. Michael's Church

for a quick prayer and chorus of Halleluiah.

Although Pastor Dixon

tried his best to infuse

the fear of God into his “Charge,”

—for that's how he referred to Violet

aka Vi aka Vixen aka VaVoom—

Violet always insisted that Pastor Dixon

wore godliness

like a turtle wears a shell,

like a penguin wears a tuxedo.

“It's so you,” she would say.

As she left the rectory

each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,

the secretary would look up from her keyboard:

“You converted yet?”

“Not yet, Mrs. J.

But I feel it coming on.”

As the pastor left the rectory

each Monday, Wednesday, and Friday,

the secretary would look up from her keyboard:

“She converted yet?”

“Who? Oh you mean my Charge.

Not yet. A sad state of affairs, indeed.”

“Indeed,” repeated Mrs. J. to the choir.

“Indeed,” repeated the choir to the congregation.

“Indeed,” repeated the congregation to the town
at large.

One Friday, Violet

didn't come to the rectory

for her usual prayer,

for her usual chorus of Halleluiah.

Pastor Dixon grabbed his coat

and rushed to her house

only to find it empty.

“She's moved away,” said the neighbor to the right.

“Yup, that's right,” said the neighbor to the left.

Pastor Dixon threw himself

on the cold hard ground

and sobbed until he could no longer sob.

He was quickly divested of his collar

position, equilibrium,

turned out into the street;

and forced to become a Working Boy

in order to survive.

Times were tough, but he didn't care.

His Violet, his Charge, his Working Girl

seemed to have disappeared.

For years he toiled

in the down dirty street

earning more than enough to survive.

One day, on a whim,

he walked into his old church

and asked to speak with the pastor.

“Pastor Violet will be right with you,
Mr. Dixon, sir,”

the secretary smiled.

“But I'm afraid she only has time for

a quick prayer and a chorus of Hallelujah as

her schedule is really quite full.”

“That's all the time I need,” said he,

That's all the time I have.”

Day 362: The Company Instrument

DATE: ___________________

To Whom It May Not Concern:

It has come to our Company's attention that NAME was overheard using Language of an Unacceptable grade and quality in various Cubicles and Washrooms throughout the Building. In addition, NAME is alleged to have made Complaints of a Personal as well as Professional nature during both working and nonworking hours within the Building and in various Locations throughout the City. These Complaints and their accompanying bursts of Emotionality have been reported by Reliable Sources, including our Company's prestigious Investigative Team, "Eyes 'n Ears Everywhere" (EEE).

Our Legal Team politely asks that NAME review the following RULES as per his/her Contract. Upon reading and understanding said RULES, the Team asks that NAME sign where indicated at the Bottom of this Instrument. The Matter will then be Considered Closed (CC) until or unless Further Violations (FVs) come to the the Team's Attention, in which case, NAME will be asked to Terminate his/her Employment (TE).

To wit:

RULE 55 A: No Employee shall make references to Bodily Functions (BFs). These include all Activities one might Execute in the Washroom. In other words, one “Visits” said Washroom; one does not “have to pee”; nor does one “have to take a crap.” Furthermore, Female Employees (FEs) must be Attentive regarding any Reference to their Monthly Visitor (MV). One does not exclaim, “Oh, shit; I just got my period! Anyone got a tampon?” Instead, one Plans For and Takes Care Of said matters without Ceremony or Comment (CC).

RULE 102 C: No Employee shall register Verbal Dissatisfaction (VD) regarding our Company or the Working Conditions herein. Therefore, one does not exclaim, “This place sucks big time” or “My Manager is a Dickhead.” Instead, one fills out one of our Company Happiness Cards and inserts it into the Suggestion Box located next to said Manager's Cubicle. What's more, when asked to work late, one does not open one's eyes widely, lift one's eyebrows, and declare, “You're kidding, right?” Instead, one smiles, nods, and acquiesces with a polite, “Of course.” On Fridays, one may agree to working late with a more casual, “No problem.”

RULE 443 P: When out and about in Public during Nonworking Hours, our Company expects Employees to guard their Tongues as well as Refrain from Activities that might be Deemed Inappropriate (DI). Therefore, one does not visit places known to condone activities of a Lewd or Lascivious nature (LLs). Thus, if an acquaintance suggests an evening at Hunp-A-Rama or Boobies Galore, Company Employees should just say, “Sorry, but I have other plans” or “Thanks, but no thanks.” Similarly, when our Exit Security Guards are checking Employees' briefcases when they leave work on Friday night, Employees should not mutter, “Let me out of this f*ing place”; nor should Employees do war whoops and cartwheels all the way to the Subway Station (SS). One simply smiles and says, “Good night. Have a nice weekend.”

RULE 502 A: Crying, laughing, and joke telling as well as other Expressions of an Emotional Nature (EENs) shall be restricted to Friday afternoons from 3 to 3:20 PM in H.R.'s Snack Room. Emoticon Stickers and Coffee will be provided. Our H.R. Generalist and Counselor will be on hand to give Encouragement and to Update your Personnel File.

We Sincerely Hope that NAME will Regard this Instrument as seriously as the Company does and that no Further Infractions (FIs) or Alleged Infractions (AIs) will be Reported.

NAME is asked to Indicate that she/he understands aforesaid RULES by signing this Instrument below as Indicated by the Straight Line (SL): 

_______________________________________.

Day 361: Rino

He sped right by you

leaving a trail

of bladed lights

and distant drumrolls

on the grainy doorsill

of yesterday's horizon.

No matter,

you'll catch him

next time;

you turn to

the choke weed

of your own garden

for no more than

a moment, maybe two;

then 40 years later

there's the obituary

you find when you type

his name into Google

and remember, at last,

the rhythmic aria of his accent,

the crinkly brown eyes of his smile,

the gentle good morning

of his early summer tide

when he called you

The Blue-Eyed Girl.

You read the abridged version

of a lifetime since

you waved that last goodbye:

Divorced, re-married, widowed,

grandchild, companion,

patents, papers, awards,

funeral mass;

you see you've missed

the graying of his hair,

the filling out of his cheeks,

the speeding clock of his time

on Earth;

you've even missed

his memorial service

in the Mudd Building

at Columbia U.

No more tomorrows

no more yesterdays

no dashing lights

or crescendo drumroll

on anyone's horizon;

no more chance

to say you
remembered

no more crystal mornings
no more next time around;

just this endless chill
of winter
just this slow and halting  

Good night.

Vittorio "Rino" Castelli

Day 360: What To Write Instead

Here's the trick: In order to write a good story, you have to create at least one character with whom the reader can identify. That character must want something very dramatic—to survive, to find love, to get from desperate point A to point sweet B. For each dramatic want there must be an equally dramatic opposing want from the baddy, the meanie, the villain. They spar and clash throughout the story until one of them wins. Everything in the story must lead to that particular and inevitable resolution, which is decided by the actions of the characters. I know all this from reading a book by Jerry Cleaver titled Immediate Fiction. I recommend the book. I also recommend that I start life all over again, maybe as a writer.

It's all so easy, it's hard.

So, for now, I'll write this prosaic poem instead:

Each morning

for 20 years now

the man shuffles

to the end of his driveway

looks to his left, looks to his right,

picks up his newspaper,

turns around, shuffles back

into the house, and closes the door

for the rest of the day.

This morning there was no paper,

just the man

hands resting on hips,

slight forward thrust

of narrow shoulders,

tiny puckering of his brush-stroke mouth,

occasional blinking of his ink-dot eyes,

constant cascading of his long face

into the blue soles of his cloth slippers.

Because there was no newspaper

he had not read the headline

concerning the red-haired paperboy,

the one he called Sonny,

the one he always forgot to tip,

who had been killed by a car

just yesterday

after tossing the morning news

from his bike

and turning to watch it land

at the foot of

the man's driveway.

With nothing there for the man

to pick up,

he waits all day

in the hot sun,

causing him to puff up

like soufflé or popovers,

causing him to implode

at last

in the aftermath

of one boy's tragic
and untimely death.

Day 359: Eat Your Vegetables

The problem with keeping food in a canister at the bottom of your T-shirt drawer is twofold. First, you simply forget it's there, especially if you're only eight or nine years old. Second, because you forget you've forgotten all about them, you're always surprised and delighted when you find said canister.

“Oooooh. A surprise!” You think it's Christmas or your birthday; maybe there's a treasure inside; maybe something better than a treasure. Chocolate? A handful of quarters?

With anticipation tickling the base of your spine, you open it up with nervous glee only to discover there's nothing in there but three-month-old food stuffs, each in a varying and disturbing state of rot. The stench is so strong it knocks you over, and the slimy, hairy greenish-orange-ish hills of mold growing within actually give you bad dreams.

How extraordinary to discover that those horrid boiled Brussels sprouts and slimy little lima beans from dinners long past could transmogrify into something even more repulsive than they were in their allegedly edible state.

“Argh!”

You stare at the now bearded foods, turned quite green with specks of brown, and clap your hand over your face to block the stink—a stink so powerful it would scare a skunk.

This, for a nine-year-old, is glorious science, for it teaches, quite graphically, that nothing lasts and nothing actually disappears; rather, it changes form, and sometimes in the most unpleasant way.

I was always a little disappointed that I couldn't share my scientific discoveries with anyone, except, of course, my dog Rebel. In fact, Rebel was usually good enough to eat all the food I didn't want. He'd sit under the table with his mouth open, waiting for me to give him whatever it was I didn't want. He could make a hotdog or potato skin disappear in one silent gulp. All gone. But the moment I'd sneak a soggy green bean or pungent turnip stub under the table, his mouth would clamp shut and he'd lie down and pretend he was sleeping.

Rebel hated Brussels sprouts, too.

So, into my pocket it would go and remain there until I could get to my room and cram it into one of my Lone Ranger bullet tins or an empty candy tin (no plastic in those days). Then, ever so quietly, I'd open the bottom drawer of my bureau and stash the tin under a stack of neatly folded T-shirts. Voilá! Gone and forgotten for at least three months.

When you're nine, keeping food in a canister at the bottom of your T-shirt drawer makes perfect sense. But it's the sort of thing you give up entirely when you're ten and don't take up again until you're maybe around 93. But by then the science has lost its thrill. By then there's really no one left to tell.

Day 358: The Dropped Euphemism

While brushing my teeth,

I dropped a euphemism into the bathroom sink

and watched in horror as it rolled down the drain into the sewer

where it mixed in with a wrongful crowd.

“Come back here, you dwong,” I bellowed. “You're not the real thing; they'll find you out!”

It lifted its lip and sneered like a teenager,

flared its nostrils and snorted like a rocker,

bent over and blammoed like that girl who sat next to me in seventh grade.

So, down the drain I slid to remind it of its roots,

to drag its sorry ashbun back into the pipe,

back into the clean durdle of the sink,

back into my toothpastey mouth.

“Go to H-E-double hockey sticks,”

it flaxoned when it saw me.

“I'm not fronking going anywhere wit-chew.”

Then all the bad words laughed and laughed

causing smeg-muck

and scharg-womp

to gurgle and gush into the streets.

Crestfallen and shag-monked, my euphemism

crawled into my stangish waiting pocket

where it furdled and thrashed about

very sorry for its single, but dwongful descent

into the sewer below.

Day 357: Facebook Video Message

I'm like so hyped because eight minutes ago I left a video message on Facebook for Trevor. Trevor's my Boyfriend slash Fiancé. Even though at first everyone said it wasn't going to last more than a week, we've been together for almost a year. A year!

Anyway, I posted a video for him and like a hundred friends have already “liked” it. I can't wait until Trevor sees it and videos me back.

He's like a video nut. One night I showed up at his house, you know, as a surprise, and he was making a webcam video for some guy in Hollywood. He didn't want to show it to me because he said he had a contract with the guy, and the video really belonged to the studio. Weird, huh? I wish I could have seen it, but I didn't. I think he was naked in the video, because he was only wearing a bathrobe when I came in. But he said he wasn't naked at all. He said, “What are you, crazy?”

Okay, it's like fifteen minutes, and Trevor still hasn't videoed me back. I texted him like 50 times already: “trev chk FB lv u.” Maybe he lost his Blackberry again. He's always doing that. Like a month ago, he didn't answer his cell all night, and then finally the next day I went to his job—he works for some sort of theater thing over in Manhattan; you know, where people learn how to act—and I said, “Trevor, I was calling you all night. Why didn't you answer your cell?”

“My cell? Oh, my cell,” he said, and he hit himself on the forehead. “Doink! I forgot to tell you, Babe. I think I left it in a taxi.”

I could tell he felt bad because he got all red and said “sorry” like five times. He's so forgetful. He's lost his Blackberry like six times in the last two weeks alone. I bought him a walkie-talkie so we could talk whenever, but he lost that, too.

Wow. It's like almost a half hour since I videoed Trevor on Facebook. He's got to know about it because his friend Bruno wrote “cool” and his brother Dude wrote “lol.”

Oh, I feel better. Manny from where Trevor works just Facebooked me and said, “Trevor's in a meeting right now.”

Trevor has a very prestigious position in whatever his job is so he always has to be at some meeting. That's why we can't always be together even though we want to be. So lots of times I make him chocolate chip cookies from the Toll House box, because they're his favorite, and I drop them off at his job. Usually someone like Julie, the receptionist, says, “Oh, Trevor. Let's see.” And she checks the computer screen. “Trevor, Trevor, Trevor. Uhmmmmm. Oh, here it is. Trevor's in a meeting.” That's how I know he's in a meeting all the time.

I really love Trevor—OMG, it's been like an hour since I videoed him. He's so nice to me and he's got these sexy blue eyes with long black lashes. Whenever I touch his lashes, he pulls back, like he's pretending not to like it when I touch them. So I tease him: “Why do guys always get the nice long eyelashes? I wish I had your eyelashes.”

Then he teases me back, “Yeah? What would you do, put a ribbon on them?”

That's what he says, and I laugh. “You always make me laugh,” I say.

“Yeah, I'm a funny guy,” he says and looks a little embarrassed.

Trevor doesn't really like compliments, which is why I guess he doesn't give me any. It's okay, though. I can tell he loves me because he always says he's sorry after he pushes me away.

And sometimes he says he loves me when we're, you know, doing it in the car or in the elevator or in the stairwell in my building. Those are the only times he says he loves me. He never says he loves me when we're doing it in a regular place like his bed.

It's been two hours and 17 minutes since I videoed Trevor on Facebook, and he still hasn't videoed me back. I feel a little queasy in my stomach right now, and I have sort of nervous jitters in my throat.

My mother thinks Trevor's bad news, and so do some of my friends. But I think they're just jealous. My friend Tanya—I mean my ex-friend Tanya— called me one day and told me she saw Trevor making out with Katie Lynn on New Year's Eve. Now she's not my friend any more, because that was such a lie. Trevor said, “Huh? I don't even know Katie Lynn.”

Well, he does know her, but I guess he forgot who she is. It's been almost three hours since I videoed Trevor on Facebook. I guess he's still in the meeting.

Once I got into a big fight with my mom after she called Trevor a player. I bet my mom doesn't even know what a player is, because she's like 45. She probably thinks it's some kind of piano or sports guy. Anyway, we had a terrible argument and the next day she said she was sorry she had gotten me so upset. Ever since then she tries to be nice to Trevor, but you can still tell that she doesn't like him because her mouth gets all thin and tight when she talks to him, even when she's saying something nice like, “Would you like to stay for dinner?”

Trevor's way too busy to stay for dinner anyway. Oh, wow. Trevor just Facebooked me.

“Hey. S'up?”

Well, at least he answered. I guess he doesn't have time to video me. I hope my ex-friend Tanya sees how he Facebooked me back. I'm going to show it to my mom. I bet she'll be glad when she sees that he treats me pretty nice after all.

Day 356: Barge Pole

My mother used to say,

“In 20 years you won't touch him with a barge pole.”

I wasn't quite sure

what a barge pole was,

so 50 years later

I looked it up

and found

it is a British/Australian expression.

Had my mother spoken

American English

she would have said,

“In 20 years you won't touch him with a ten-foot pole.”

So I went to the marina,

bought a barge pole

from Sea-Worthy Supplies
and carried it around
like a spear.

Although the barge pole

was ten feet long,

beautifully lacquered,

and plum,

I didn't touch him with it

because

I couldn't remember

who he was.

Somehow,

I think
my mother

would be pleased

to know

she had been right

all along.

Day 355: Old John

Although his callused hands, thick and polished, said he had been a carpenter, his ruddy cheeks, drawn and weathered, insisted he had been a sailor. His green eyes, starlike and halcyon, revealed he was somewhat of a dreamer. His clothes, plaid flannel shirt and matching peek hat on the hottest day of summer or iciest day of winter, affirmed he was a man of simple means and taste. But his lips, thin and moving, proved he was a storyteller.

As he walked each day along that narrow band of sidewalk between the stony retaining walls and shiny row of parked cars along Woodbine Avenue, he told the story of his life. He spoke about the honeysuckle and how its sweet scent recalled mid-May mornings of his boyhood when he and Howard Godfrey would suck the nectar from its orange blossoms, “to get energy,” they said, before playing stickball in Scudder Park. He talked about the reek of low tide and bedraggled lazy afternoons waiting for a breeze. He talked about the hurricane of '08 that had carried his mother out to sea, and the utter futility of screaming in the face of any storm. 

He talked about winters of long ago when you could drive your Tin Lizzie clear across Northport Harbor or cross-country ski through the hushed woods above Waterside Avenue with its countless families of deer, fox, raccoons, and birds of every sort. 

He talked about Betty Jones, the way she tossed her long dark hair as she skipped through piles of fallen yellow leaves, the way she beamed at him with those great blue eyes all full of love and expectation, the way she would touch his arm, ever so lightly and surreptitiously, when she sat next to him in algebra class, the way she felt in his arms—like a feather— the day he carried her across the threshold and how she felt in his arms —like a feather — when he layed her in her coffin.

People called him Old John not so much because he was old, but because of the way he walked, stoop-shouldered and gingerly, along narrow paths between this memory and that. They called him Old John because he never returned their “Good morning, John” until long after they had passed on the street. They called him Old John because of the way he studied the sidewalk in front of him, touching the stony holding walls and row of parked cars for balance. They called him Old John because that's what they remembered—his gait, his clothes, his tentative reaching for something long departed.

Day 354: Drapes

In conversation

with the open window

it did not mention

its nakedness.

Of course

I did my best

not to look

through it,

not to appear

so damned eager.

Shutting my eyes

for prudence sake,

I hung a lovely

pair of curtains

—drapes, really—

(peach taffeta)

whose skirts

ballooned

naughtily

in the evening

breeze.

Day 353: Some Of Them Wrote Poetry

The old-time smokers have gone away.

Huffing and puffing

amid whirligigs and smoke rings,
they've drawn the final breath.

Some of them wrote poetry,

recited it on corners, like Bleeker Street and 4th,

in the Dark Dragon Cafe,

under sparking wheels of the Third-Avenue El,

in the chatty waters of Bethesda Fountain.

The old-time boozers are also gone.

Slurring their words in the crapulence

of glugging it down with a chaser,
they've taken the final swig.

Some of them wrote poetry,

published it on yellow flyers,

on discarded napkins,

in bathroom stalls,

in cold running sweat on Jack Daniel's neck.

Old-time angry people have also taken leave.

Shadowboxing and tongue-lashing
phantom and entia alike,

they've broken the final straw.

Some of them wrote poetry, 

whooped and yammered it on Avenue D,

in precinct holding cells,

on the Brooklyn Bridge,

in the very last pew of St. Mark's Church.

It's quiet now and poetless

since all these poets are gone.

The swooshing brooms

and snoozy humdrum

of day after day

have shushed

at last

their tuneful furor

and the pregnant silence

that once gave them voice

on the snaggy rock of poetry's precipice.

Day 352: Local TV News: NYC

troubled teen star out of rehab

troubled TV star going to rehab

snow advisory

shots fired

it's going to snow

troubled rock star arrested

here comes the snow

dead bodies turn up

troubled rap star going to rehab

troubled porn star finds religion

it's snowing hard

troubled child star arrested AGAIN

troubled recording artist no show at concert

see the snow come down

mutilated body turns up

people are shoveling snow

gruesome discovery in luxury high rise

troubled movie star turned troubled TV star going to rehab

lots of slushly stuff: ewe, you guys

troubled former child star turned troubled actor dies of overdose

lots of puddles, you guys

people are tired of snow

more snow on its way

troubled star in rehab for third time in two weeks

back to you guys in the studio, yeah

I didn't bother with capitals and punctuation, because TV News doesn't bother with the news.

Day 351: Cave Dwellers and the La-La's

Sure, everyone puts down old-time cave dwellers—grunting, bat wielding, hirsute, stenchy fellows with little to do but kill mammoths, suck on berries, and scrawl childish paintings on cave walls. No Da Vinci genes among that lot; no Mozarts or Lincolns or Dylan Thomases—that is, none that we're aware of.

Nonetheless, they are our ancestral parents, which means, we should grant them the same respect we grant any of our relatives, even the most poignantly unfortunate. After all, the story of the human intellect is not always a rags-to-[intellectual]-riches story. I mean, it doesn't take much to realize how enormously stupid most of humanity still is. So, there are a few gems among the moderns, and there were certainly a few gems among the ancient, or pre-ancients, if you will.

So, let me introduce Zack and Zill. Zack and Zill were cave dwellers, second or third cousins of old, who grew up around 150,000 years ago, at least 50,000 years after people started developing language. So, while they hadn't figured out how to write—that wouldn't happen for another 120,000 years—they had figured out how to leave “notes” for each other on rocks and walls.

Zack and Zill, you see, were one of Earth's original lovers, an infirmity that cave people used to call "the la-la's."  Adam and Eve, who get credit from many for being Earth's original lovers, hardly count as bona fide sufferers of the la-la's, for their attachment was strictly carnal. As proof, when they got caught in all their glistening nudity, each one blamed the other for their incontinence. Indeed, if I remember correctly, Adam blamed Eve, Eve blamed the serpent, the serpent blamed the apple, the apple blamed God, and whoever wrote the story blamed Eve. 

Zack and Zill, however, were truly in love, each with an acute case of the la-la's. Zack thought Zill's matted red hair was the most beautifully matted red hair in the world. He loved the way it smelled of cave—dank, musky, earthy. He loved her fine teeth, sharp and polished from chewing on mammoth bones; he also loved her wondrously large feet, wide, flat, and blackened with years of running barefoot through the marshes. Zill recognized Zack's manly beauty in his thick black curls, also matted, also carrying the scent of cave. She loved the powerful animal smell of his armpits, his deep voice with its sexy grunt, and his dreamy brown eyes, which made her flushed and weak.

Since no human had ever been so deeply in love before, Zack and Zill were oddities among the clan of cave dwellers. “Look at those two; they have the la-la's,” noted Mother Zongie, a wise woman who could skin a mammoth and make a stew of it in under a day. Aunt Zarris agreed. She and Mother Zongie decided to bring Zack and Zill to Uncle X-Alon, who acted as He Who Frees Clan Members From What Is Not Normal.

“State your complaint, Mother Zongie” said Uncle X-Alon with a sympathetic glance at Zack and Zill.

Mother Zongie was no dope. That sympathetic glance did not go unnoticed, and Mother Zongie was in no mood to be dismissed so easily. She knew she had a reputation for being a complainer—always running to Uncle X-Alon for every little ailment; but she was secure in the knowledge that she never complained without cause. So she stood up to her full four-foot height and knitted her brows to show intensity and determination. “Zack and Zill have some serious la-la's. They are joined at the hip, and I mean joined at the hip. They cry when they have to be separated; they draw pictures of hearts on rocks and send them to each other. It's not normal. It's not productive. Neither of them contributes anything to the clan anymore—no work, no berry hunting, no nothing. All they do is sneak off into the brush and come back smiling like idiots. If that's not the la-la's, well, I don't know what is.”

Aunt Zarris nodded all the while. “It's true, Uncle. It's horrible and true. Every word. Things can't go on like this.”

While the senior folks were conversing in this way, Zack and Zill sat shoulder to shoulder, each leaning into the other, each gazing into the other's eyes, which shined like flames, stars, and all sorts of shiny things that had yet to be imagined and invented.

“You are my fire goddess,” moaned Zack.

“You are my horseless rider,” whispered Zill.

And they giggled. Zill buried her lips in Zack's brand new beard, which smelled of smoke and mammoth dung. “I've never been so happy,” Zack smiled and kissed Zill's sun-browned cheek.

Mother Zongie and Aunt Zarris each gave Uncle X-Alon a significant look as if to say, “Take a look for yourself, oh Freer of What Is Not Normal.” Aunt Zarris leaned closer to Uncle X and said, “We think we should separate them. That'll cure the la-la's for good.”

“Yes,” agreed Mother Zongie. “This sort of behavior is certainly not healthy. Should we send one of them to another clan?”

Uncle X-Alon wasn't an early medicine man/psychologist for nothing; that is, he had a gift for understanding human behavior even before there was such a science as human behavior. “Leave it to me,” he said. “I think I have a cure for the la-la's, which might seem counter-intuitive to you, but just let me try this.”

With the ladies' assurance of complete compliance, he turned to Zack and Zill. “Young people,” he said in a gentle voice. “Your behavior toward one another is perplexing to say the least. You're exhibiting serious signs of the la-la's, which is affecting your duties as functioning members of your clan. Mother and Aunt think you ought to be separated.”

Zack and Zill began to cry. They clung to each other and created a wailing and thrashing about that would have frightened away a herd of wolves. Uncle X-Alon allowed them to continue as such until they each fell, exhausted, to the ground in front of his fire.

“However, I believe we should do the opposite.”

Aunt Zarris and Mother Zongie started to protest but were silenced by one stern look from Uncle X-Alon. “From this day forward, you are to do everything together—live, sleep, eat, hunt, talk, fire watch, baby watch, food cook. Yes, well give your union a name; we'll call it marriage.”

Zack and Zill rose to their feet, ecstatic grateful, tear-stained. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Uncle X-Alon. You are the best old guy in the world.”

Six moons later, Aunt Zarris and Mother Zongie prepared a special feast for Uncle X-Alon and invited all the clans in the neighborhood. “What's the occasion?” everyone asked.

“Oh, we think he's a wonder man.” said Mother Zongie. “He cured Zack and Zill of the la-la's.”

“Oooooooh my,” exclaimed many who remembered the terrible days of six moons past.

Mother Zongie looked lovingly at Zill, who was happily tending the fire at the entrance to the cave. “Zill, where's Zack?” she asked.

Zill glanced around the cave. “Beats me,” she responded with a shrug.

“Looks like Zack and Zill are all cured of the la-la's.”

“That's right,” laughed Aunt Zarris. “Nothing like marriage to cure the la-la's.”

Day 350: Christy

On the anniversary of her death she skips through green green fields of memory, her dark hair swishing against young shoulders, her dark eyes dancing, smiling across the universe. Her little dog runs alongside, and her laughter causes a million startled  moons to turn around and look. This is what I like to believe.

Clever girl that she is, she has no trouble finding Mother, Father, Sister, who now reside at great distances from one another, but not nearly so great as they have imagined. For each one still trembles from her loss; each one swan dives into their dreams hoping to find her again. And on a clear night, one or the other will awaken, certain they've heard her footsteps outside the door. They push open the drapes and search for her essence among the stars, among the rustling leaves, or in the rhythmic splashing of waves along a distant shore.

On the anniversary of her death, she taps each one on the shoulder, surprising them with her mischievous giggle and with that faint scent of peppermint from her favorite chewing gum. After all these years, she's still only seventeen. Her voice, however, is beyond all years, rich with the music of a hundred thousand songs, gleeful as a child's somersault, honest and ancient as the wisest sage. Her voice wraps itself around their shoulders, pulling each one to her in the time it takes to blink an eye. “Don't worry; all is well,” she whispers and grabs onto the tail of a passing star. That's what I like to believe.

On the anniversary of her death, there are always reports of starbursts somewhere in the Galaxy. Scientists are baffled by what they see, so they call it “unusual activity.” On the anniversary of her death, flowers push mysteriously through layers of snow and ice, if only for an instant; orchestral music rises from the oceans accompanied by an ethereal chorus of angelic souls. And all the while, she skips across the green green fields of memory, her little dog running beside her, her laughter, like music, filling empty spaces between raindrops, which causes the sun to shine and rainbows to cartwheel across the sky. This is what I like to believe.

Day 349: Waiting

While I was at work this morning, one of my dogs ate a container of organic peanut butter. Eating a huge gob of peanut butter—organic or not—would have been bad enough; but when I say one of my dogs ate a container of peanut butter, I mean that he or she ate the peanut butter along with the container. I searched all over the house—not for the peanut butter, which I knew was gone—for the plastic container, but all I found was a mangled, tooth-pocked portion of the lid.

Now I have to wait for the inevitable, which I'm not looking forward to. I think Chula is the culprit because I had left the peanut butter on the counter so I wouldn't have to hunt for it when I came home for lunch. She's a wonderful jumper, part cat, part pogo stick, part crazy dog who also loves peanut butter.

So far, the dogs all seem fine. No stomach aches, no moaning, no aromatic evidence of overindulgence. Although Juno would have enjoyed the peanut butter, she wouldn't have taken the time to eat the plastic container; Saki might have eaten the peanut butter and then thrown the plastic container around and run after it; only Chula would have eaten it. However, I can't be certain.  As I said, before I begin pointing an accusatory finger at the guilty canine, I'll just have to wait for the evidence. 

Saki: "I didn't do it."

Juno: "I wasn't even awake."

Chula: "What peanut butter?"

Waiting—I used to watch my mother, who didn't have a car, waiting by the window. She was waiting for a ride to the store, to a party, to the theater, to the doctor. She didn't like to keep other people waiting, so she allowed them to keep her waiting. In the winter, she would stand by the window all bundled up in her wool coat and scarf, her gloves on, her purse in the crook of her left arm. In the summer, she'd wait by the open window or stand on the front porch, fanning herself, keeping her eyes on the road so she could hasten down the front steps to meet her ride the moment they pulled up.

Sometimes she'd wait there for a good half hour before anyone showed up. And sometimes the phone would ring; the caller was terribly sorry, but she wouldn't be able to pick her up after all. Of course if it was an emergency, the caller would try to make arrangements, cancel their own emergency, and come anyway. Naturally, my mother would tell the caller not to worry about it. Truly, it was no inconvenience at all. She would just as well stay at home. Yes, indeed, terrible weather. Not a day to be traipsing about.

She never complained about the cancellations, the no-shows, or the wait time. She was nothing like me. I seethe, as inwardly as possible, when people don't show up when they say they're going to show up. Every now and then I, too, accept the offer of a ride somewhere. And damned if I don't do the same thing my mother did. I stand by the window, coat zipped up, scarf tossed across my neck, pocket book slung over my shoulder. The dogs hate it when I do that. They know they're not going with me; they know they're going to be left behind, and they just want to get the whole thing over with, so they can anticipate my return. Or so they can hunt around for some peanut butter to eat before I get home.

I guess tomorrow morning, when everything has been properly digested, and the dogs go outside to slip and slide in the morning snow, my wait will be over. The culprit, or culprits, will be discovered. Saki? Juno? Chula? The only thing I know for certain is that it wasn't me.

Day 348: A Fake Story that Didn't Happen

The Bridge to Nowhere is the main tourist attraction in Speedy Bump Falls. Constructed of recycled steel, painted pink, and thick composite-wood planks, also painted pink, it rises like a great tongue from the earth's crust and extends to the middle of a crater—one of those 20-mile-wide craters caused, no doubt, by a meteorite maybe a million years ago. People born and raised in Speedy Bump Falls are proud of their bridge, proud that it doesn't pretend to lead anywhere, proud that it doesn't attract suicides or muggers.

Last year, the town board voted to allow garbage trucks to dump local garbage off the end of the bridge. Of course, ordinary citizens protested like crazy. “You'll kill the tourist trade,” businesspeople yelled. “You'll destroy the ecology,” environmentalists screamed. “You'll attract diseases, flies, vermin, and god knows what,” protested the doctors.

But the town board was made up of a few wealthy citizens who didn't care about any of these potential problems. They had received lovely leather-bound suitcases filled with money from Harry's Hauling, Inc., and they weren't about to disappoint their spouses and children by giving the money back. Indeed not. So it was decreed that all the garbage created by the citizens of Speedy Bump Falls would be dumped off the end of the Bridge to Nowhere.

“What will we do,” cried the people.

“A petition! We'll start a petition on Facebook.”

And so they did. But it didn't change anything.

“How about writing to our Congresspeople?”

And so they did. But the new law remained.

The citizens held meeting after meeting trying to find a way to stop the ruination of their beloved town and its tongue-like bridge. And during each meeting, they screamed and yelled and cursed, but nothing changed. Then one evening, Mrs. Dorothy Dann took up her cane and walked gingerly up to the podium.

“The solution, my friends, is really quite simple. First, we must ask the town board to pass a law stating that the only garbage allowed in the basin is garbage created by the citizens of Speedy Bump.”

“What the hell good will that do?” yelled Mr. Morey.

“Well,” explained Dorothy Dann. The town board will want to pass such a law to keep up quiet. They'll think we'll shut up if they make this single concession.”

“That's true,” agreed a few people in the crowd.

“But what about our garbage?” asked Maggie Horton.

Dorothy Dann looked each citizen in the eye. “It's revolutionary, really,” she said with a smile. “We simply won't make any garbage.”

The room filled with booing and shouts of “Sit down!”

“You had us going for a minute,” snorted Mr. Drivecorn.

Dorothy Dann stood her ground. “At least give it a try. One month. One month without making garbage. One month of making your own meals. One month of recycling everything you use. One month of refusing to buy anything that comes in a plastic wrapper or styrofoam cup.”

And so it was. In the month following the passage of the law, no one, except of course the wealthy board members, produced any garbage at all. The people liked not producing garbage; even better, their new thrifty ways were making them rich, even richer than the rich board members.

When election time came around, the people of Speedy Bump Falls got rid of the board members and voted in a brand new board, which quickly made it illegal for anyone to dump garbage off the Bridge to Nowhere. They needn't have bothered, because the people were now used to not creating garbage. No one wasted anything, the environment thrived, the people were healthy, wealthy, and wise. Oh, yes, and they lived happily ever after in their town at the foot of the Bridge to Nowhere.

Day 347: Buffalo

The old man crouches down, puts his ear to the ground, his index finger to his lips with a “Shush,” and listens listens listens with the intensity of an athlete. “Buffalo,” he whispers. “Twenty miles away. Headed northwest.”

The nurses at Happy Trails used to humor him when he did this: “Let's go inside and wait for them” or “I'll get my hunting rifle and we'll have buffalo burgers for dinner. How about that, Sam?”

“Don't like it at all,” Sam would retort. “Besides, I told you they were heading northwest, not due east.”

Sam would drop to his knees and hold his ear to the ground once again. “Now what do you hear?” the nurse would ask.

“Shush. Someone's coming up the driveway. Visitor from the city.”

“How do you know he's from the city?” the nurse would ask.

“No snow tires. Only city folk don't bother with snow tires this time of year,” he'd answer.

Sam usually puts his ear to the ground at least 15 or 20 times a day. And even when the nurses get tired of asking him what he's hearing, he tells them anyway. Each story is a little more outlandish than the other, so no one has ever checked to see if he's telling the truth, if he has a gift, if he can understand the rhythms and drumbeats of Earth.  

Sam puts his ear to the ground again and tells about rumblings far beneath the earth's surface. “Convection zone,” he whispers. “Earthquake on its way.” The nurse smiles as she usually does, but she decides to check with the head nurse to see if his medication needs a little boost. 

People are going about their business as usual. The nurses wheel their charges along the brick path that winds softly through Memory Garden. Now and then they stop before a bench and look at a polished plaque that bears the donor's information. “In Memory of Hugh Wiles, 1889 – 1990.” “In Loving Memory: Clara Knight 1925 – 1954 and her father Stanley G. Knight 1900 – 1982.” Some of the plaques also contain photographs of the remembered. Some of them are inscribed with messages: “Amore”; “Until We Meet Again” “Always with Us.”

It's a beautiful peaceful day in the garden. The path is wide enough to allow two wheelchairs to pass without the danger of bumping into one another. There are geraniums and tiny pansies planted along the path, and azaleas and rhododendrons mark each curve. The tall oaks, planted well over a hundred years ago, tremble ever so slightly in the afternoon breeze. The art therapist has already noted that the sky is a rich, unusual shade of blue today, and the clouds are streaked with the subtlest hues of pink and violet. This will be a wonderful day to give her patients a nice thick piece of paper and a tin of watercolors. What fun they'll have painting such colors on such a perfect day.

Except for Sam. Sam is ruining it for everyone. He's no longer whispering. Instead, he is yelling, “Earthquake! Earthquake coming!” People are getting annoyed. His nurse has left him unaccompanied.

"Enough is enough," snaps a nursing' aide.

“Oh, crap. Someone get security to bring him back inside,” groans the art therapist.

The aide tries to calm Sam with the promise of a treat: “You stop scaring everyone and you'll get a nice icecream after dinner tonight.”

Sam's eyes are wide with fear. His chin quivers under a three-day growth of gray beard, and he begins to gasp for breath. One of the nurses signals security on her walkie-talkie. “Better bring a syringe,” she advises.

Sam is on a stretcher. He is quiet, almost sleeping, a smile on his lips now that the tranquilizer has done its drastic work. “Thank goodness for Thorazine,” notes the art therapist. She is content for now her pupils can work in peace. She smiles as security wheels Sam back toward the residence. “Convection zone, indeed. This is hardly earthquake country.”

A few people notice that the birds have shot en masse from the tall oaks. In the distance, they hear howling dogs, something that sounds like the snapping of metal, a siren that screeches through the air like a train whose breaks are locked. There is no mistaking the tremor under their feet or the angry blackening of the sky. A sudden explosion under the winding brick path rips a hole through the center of Memory Garden, swallowing its pretty flowers, polished plaques, promises of everlasting love, and all the people into its newly formed chasm of boiling rock. Sam, abandoned by security, sleeps the paralyzing sleep of the tranquilized. He will awaken and stretch tomorrow at dawn. Alone and still unheeded, he will put his ear to the ground and listen. “Shhhh,” he will say to no one at all. “Buffalo," he will whisper. "Twenty miles away; headed this way. Buffalo.”

Day 346: Lost a Poem that Wasn't

Today I lost a tiny poem that wasn't a poem at all.

If I were more

savvy, literate, wise, or working for the FBI,

I'd readily discover its whereabouts

defragmented, quivering, sullen, denuded

among dark secret nooks in the dantesque bolgia

lurking under the Paradiso of my Apple keyboard.

The poem was about rounded corners versus

the sharply pointed marriage of outside corners.

It included balloons, soap bubbles, and even

organza curtains,

which billowed and sank against open windows

on cool breezy nights.

My mistake, however, is clear,

for my poem laughed at Destiny,

called it a bully and a wimp.

It even took a cheap shot at the people

who believe in its power,

calling them doormats and worse.

First the cursor froze up. I cursed, of course;

then the screen flickered and faded to black.

I implored it to stop its nonsense,

to listen to reason,

to stay the course and all that.

Finally, in a fit of exasperation,

I pressed the off button with a force

that would squash an army of ants.

Within two minutes everything returned,

everything, that is, except my

tiny poem that wasn't a poem at all.

“I know you're there,” I yelled.

“If you hide any longer,

I'll walk away; I'll go home without you.

You'll see. Okay. I'm going.”

Of course, I'm still waiting, but don't tell on me.

Shhhh. It's my secret.

Sometimes you just have to let a poem know

there's a time for playing around

and there's a time for showing

a little respect. This is especially true

when a poem is a tiny poem,

and the poem isn't a poem at all.

Day 345: The Semi-Centennial River

The river rushes for 200 miles, gushing at last into the delta basin, where it branches into seven fingers, each one stretching into the sea. Its banks, thick with wild flora 10,000 years in the making, rise softly into the arid plains, desert-like except for the brown grasses whose stubborn roots cling to an equally stubborn centimeter of black soil, runoff from the rare and wondrous flooding of the river, which occurs every few years and spreads across 20 miles to both east and west.

People have given the river names—Marrone, Siena, Red Chrystal, Nethermost, Rojo, Blood, Jubilee—but none of them has stuck. This is because the river disappears every 50 years and doesn't return for another 50 years; no one knows whether the river keeps returning from the dead or if it's nothing short of an inexplicable semi-centennial phenomenon. Whatever the reason for its regular appearance and disappearance, people who know the river believe it's a personal gift from whichever god is their god. They erect shrines to it where they pray for forgiveness, ask for bounty, health, peace.

Once upon a time, the river disappeared, as was its wont, and a few hundred city dwellers scurried to its dry banks and laid claim to plots of land. There, they built huge homes, each with many bathrooms, bedrooms, and shining oak staircases; each home boasted a large entertainment room, indoor and outdoor kitchens, a family room, a family breakfast nook, an exercise room, and of course an expansive living room, off limits to all but special guests and the maid. The community of new arrivals thrived, and the people loved it so much that they built a village, a post office, and even hired a police force. Indeed, it was a proper town, not just a weekend retreat. They elected a mayor, who petitioned the federal government to re-draw the electoral map so townspeople could have proper representation in the Capitol Building. Soon, new communities sprang up along the entire stretch of the riverbed.

And when the river returned some ten or 15 years later, the people were overjoyed, for now they had a place to catch fish and ride their jet skis. Upriver, some enterprising folks built an amusement park on both sides of the river, which attracted enthusiastic crowds from all over the country. They called the river Bountiful and invited representatives from every religion in the land come and bless it. For five years, the rich became richer still, hauling in buckets of money, and expanding their homes into palaces.

Then came the flood, the inevitable flood. “This isn't right!” shrieked the people, who saw their prized homes and possessions crash into the river and float downstream into the delta, into the sea. They demanded that the Government pay for their losses and help them rebuild when the floods receded. And the Government acquiesced.

But three years after the rebuilding, the floods returned; again the river carried away homes and new possessions and dumped them into the delta, into the sea. The people then demanded that the Government form an Exploratory Committee to find ways to stop the river from flooding. And so the Government did. As a result, taxpayers spent trillions of gold coins erecting a giant mahogany wall high above the river banks. And the rich people rebuilt their homes, this time bigger and more palatial than ever before.

The next time the river rose, it did not flood, and the people cheered. Their excellent homes were saved; their towns would go on forever. However, without the floods, the ground dried up and the soil blew into the horizon. So the people demanded that the Government irrigate the land. Again, trillions of taxpayers' coins were spent installing irrigation systems to provide each town with water for their lush green parks, weekend amusements, and personal hygiene.

Everyone rejoiced until the walls began to rot and crumble. Again the people demanded that the Government repair the walls. “What will happen to the economy if our communities fail? Why, the entire country will fail.” And so taxpayers coughed up trillions of gold coins so the rich folks' homes would be protected from the floods, the inevitable floods.

The river disappeared when it was due to disappear, so the people petitioned the Government to tear down the walls along the riverbank. After all, they were ugly walls, indeed. And now that the river was gone, they had nothing to worry about. And so the taxpayers funded the tearing down of the walls.

And when the work was done, the taxpayers had emptied their pockets and their bank accounts for good. Nothing was left. There was no money to cart away the debris from the walls. There was no money to refill the river, which seemed the only sensible thing to do to keep the communities solvent and whole.

The rich folks who lived along the riverbank returned to their city homes. Who wanted to live in such a barren spot anyway? Why there was nothing there but a dried up river bed and what looked like the beginning of a dessert. And if the Government wasn't going to help them by carting away debris and re-filling the river, then they weren't about to help the Government. They set fire to their abandoned homes, to the theme park, and to the torn-down walls that had protected them from the floods. And they felt happy and free. Surely there were better places to built a weekend getaway home.

The next time the river flooded, it washed across the burned-out homes and carried them into the delta, into the sea. On its following visit, it carried away the debris from the walls, the amusement park, the post offices, the landfills. When it had done with its third flood, the river scattered soil and seed throughout the land, causing grasses to return and wild flowers to bloom once again. A great sigh rippled across the universe as the river resumed its journey into the delta, into the sea. 

Day 344: Knit One, Pearl Two

As I drive across the flatland, the trees that rise like willowy giants at the foot of Mustard Mountain come into focus. I hear suddenly the stern bass voice of my first-year English professor critiquing my essay on color as metaphor, “The trouble with you is you can't see the forest for the trees.”

“Huh?”

“But I do see the forest,” I protested in my private journal at the end of the day. “It's just that trees are always so insistent, so clever at grabbing my attention. They throw out their arms and wave to and fro and side to side framing every color the sky splashes across its own silver canvas. Trees have so many secrets running through their woody veins they can barely contain them; so they're forced to camouflage them in a hundred shades of green among leaves of summer and freeze them between their knobby tendril-like toes during icy months of winter.

A year or so later, I heard the tree/forest accusation again, only this time it was the other way around: “You can't see the trees for the forest.”

That probably came from a poet or a drunk. Oh, yes, I remember now. He wasn't a drunk; he was a drinker who sometimes drank too much; and, yes, he was a poet—a proper poet whose sprigs of curly gray hair cork-screwed around the rim of his blue skull cap, making his big blue eyes seem bluer than they really were. Around his long thin neck, he sported an ascot, even on the hottest days, even when he made love or took a leak or ate spaghetti. His handsome manly nose, a graceful and gentle aquiline, sniffed the world around him with a self-assurance that would have made Narcissus blush. I used to think, however, that by the time he turned 90, that perfect nose would have completed its downward journey right into the pale pen stroke of his upper lip. I loved him so much I thought he was probably right about my tree/forest problem and accepted it with graciousness and promises to do better in the future.

I left him to go in search of trees and to forget about the damned forests. But during my time alone, I often forgot which problem I had. Was it the forest or the trees that I couldn't see for the other? I probably should have called him to ask for guidance, but this was before cell phones and instant messaging, so I didn't. Believe me, it's easy to get confused when people insist that you suffer from contrary intellectual and artistic deficits.

It took many years and lots of growing up before I decided to forget about the forest and the trees. Instead, I would grow pretty flowers in my garden. So I tilled the earth—no easy task—and stretched green mesh around the freshly turned soil so the dogs wouldn't dig in it; then I opened ten or 20 packets of seeds and cast them over the soil. In two months, flowers began to grow and I delighted in their painty hues and sweet huckleberry scents. Then one day, an old man wearing a hippie bandana around his head and huge Jackie-O sunglasses stopped his car right in the middle of my driveway and glowered at me. “You can't see the garden for the flowers,” he barked.

“Huh?” I asked.

He gunned the engine, backed out of the driveway, and tore down the road. I took down the green mesh and let the dogs play in the flower garden until they were tired. It was no use. I had no talent for gardens or flowers, and I couldn't get people to stop pointing out where I had missed a spot or where I had fallen off the cliff. 

Many more years passed before it became clear that we all miss just about all the trees in any given forest and all the forests in any given universe. Thus, I felt much better about the whole mess that was my life and took up knitting. 

As of today, I have knitted the longest scarf in the world. If I had the energy to measure it, I'm sure it would be at least 50 miles long. I know this because the Guinness people, who are fond of publishing world records, contacted me and asked me to send a picture of the scarf for their next issue. But I'm not going to send them anything, because some old professor or lover or crazy driver might see it and tell me I can't see the stitching for the scarf or I can't see the scarf for the stitching. The publicity I'd get from being in the Book of Records just isn't worth the pronouncements and discouragement that would follow. 

Knit one, pearl two. Knit one, pearl two. Knit one, pearl two. Knit one, pearl two. Knit one, pearl two. Knit one, pearl two. Knit one, pearl two. 

Did you say something? Sorry, I've got to concentrate. I can't hear you.

Knit one, pearl two. Knit one, pearl two. Knit one, pearl two. Knit one, pearl two. Knit one, pearl two.