sudden fiction: AFTERNOON IN THE VALLEY

I dreamt of my grandmother again last night. Swollen ankles bulging out of threadbare pink slippers, feet pressed into faded brown carpet. Armchair bent to a scoliosis curve at the back, springs shot underneath, cigarette smoldering at stained fingertips. The curtains are drawn; up against the window the Central Valley heat presses its palms, torching the glass; the room is dark and cool and illuminated with Johnny Carson glow. The ceiling scalds in its familiar spot above the armchair, the same spot from which cigarette smoke has risen like a departing spirit for the last twenty-seven years. Her watery blue eyes blink and adjust, Johnny Carson tells a joke and everybody guffaws. A cough rattles in her chest, she bends over and hacks into her upturned palms and worries that the pain she feels near her left shoulder might spell some bad news. Outside the lemons have dropped off the tree and lie in a fallen halo on the ground like a shed petticoat, burning black in the sun. Crows congregated on the rooftop watch the lemons rot and split like open sores. The brown grass lies flattened in the yard, the lawn balding in many places. A blight spreads from the sidewalk to the driveway, moving south, threatening to uproot what’s left of the grass. The mailbox door hangs open in the afternoon drone, far-off airplanes and the lazy buzz of a lawnmower, the single sharp retort of a bell on a child’s bike as he flies down the empty street. The porch swing sags on the ground where the right half dropped off the chain, the wood smashed, splintered and grey. She shifts in her armchair, which squeals under her weight. Fleshy down of the throat, arteries thick with paste, flesh upon flesh upon flesh upon bone. Bones brittle, but cushioned beneath many pounds of aging fat. A wreath of sweat crowns her short, coarse mass of grey curls. Blue eyes blink, blinding blue eyes blink. She blinks hard to see Johnny Carson, who is interviewing Gregory Peck. Old Gregory Peck, old Gregory who was once young. She is startled to see him like that, beard of white, scheming black arched eyebrows that lend a certain cunning to his kind, aged face. She feels sick looking at old Gregory Peck, old Gregory who hobbled painfully onto the stage where old Johnny Carson was waiting. Everybody old, everybody white, everybody bent. Bent chair back, shot springs. Stiff fingers with an arthritis ache. She looks up at the kitchen, fixing on getting herself another Diet Coke. Her swollen heart thunders in her chest just thinking about the movement, the difficulty of locomotion, the pain of getting up. Every time she tries to stand she worries that her heart might seize up, so great is the effort. She breaks into a sweat thinking about the act of raising herself out of the chair, the terrible squeezing that she feels in her chest when she has to heave herself up, the acute ache that shoots through her engorged limbs when she labors to move from a sitting position. The sweat stands out on the back of her neck, the soft folds of her throat, dapples her forehead. The cigarette burns to ash in the ashtray. She lifts herself laboriously, slowly, electric shocks rippling through her from her agonized heart, working furiously, she pushes herself up, she stands, her knees crack under the strain, she grips her wooden cane with her oversized fingers. Slowly she shuffles into the kitchen, toward the cheerfully humming refrigerator. The faucet heads, electrical kitchen appliances, metal handles of cabinets, silverware in its drawer all sit silently and reflect, spotless, cold. The light comes yellow through the buttercup shade drawn over the kitchen window. The countertops white, clean, lifeless. She grips the refrigerator door, breathing hard. From the living room comes the laughter of the Johnny Carson crowd followed by thunderous applause, ringing out like a practiced choir hymnal ringing loud in the eves of the high cathedral.

sudden fiction: FIRE SEASON

The fire tore across the line of trees and we watched closely as they cringed and blackened in defeat. Carla said that we should turn the TV off, because we didn’t need to be depressed on the night before I left. Joe protested, said that we had to keep the news on in case the fire got too close and we had to evacuate. Mom asked if I had all my things ready. I said they were in a pile by the front door at home and she smiled proudly and squeezed my hand. Loredo watched us then got up and went over to the chips and salsa. He stood there with his hunched back turned to us and I could tell he was getting ready to say something. Mom asked Carla if she wanted more punch and Carla said sure. From inside you could see the sky over Joe and Carla’s house was a milky red, like blood spit into a sink. The smell of smoke seeped through the walls so that Joe kept coughing and saying we weren’t even safe inside, the air quality was so bad. The guy on the news said the fire was still fifty miles away from where we were but it was picking up speed. Our neighborhood was safe for now but we had to be prepared. Then Loredo turned around at the salsa bowl and said, You don’t have to do it, man. Everyone looked at him. Mom said, Loredo, be quiet. Your brother, he’s not afraid. Are you? Of course I’m not, I said. Loredo said, It’s not about being afraid, it’s about doing the right thing. And this shit ain’t right, man. You shouldn’t have to die for this. Carla put her hand over her heart, looked like someone had shot me in front of her. Mom said, He’s not going to die. How can you say such a thing. Carla’s eyes drifted to the Christ nailed to the wall above the front door. My eyes followed hers. The Christ had been up there so long he was missing one of his legs. Then Dad spoke up, from the armchair nearest the TV, the one with the duct tape holding it together. Without looking away from the screen he said, I don’t see you doing nothing for your country, Loredo. Why don’t you just shut up. Joe shifted in his seat uncomfortably and Loredo turned swiftly away. Mom was squeezing my hand like I might fly away if she didn’t hold me down. On TV the man said, Be careful out there folks, be careful.

it's been a while

Last time I wrote here George Bush was president! Every time I read the news and see the words "President Barack Obama" my heart skips a beat. Yes, perhaps I am one of the Hope kool-aid drinkers (I bought Vogue for the first time ever just because Michelle was on the cover) but I can't help but feel that things are already beginning to be, and will soon be, better than ever before in my adulthood. He's already done so many things that I can rejoice about, from lifting the international gag order to initiating the shut-down of Guantanamo to signing the Lily Ledbetter act. Now I just wish he would just legalize marijuana, set up federal funding for free birth control, issue an executive order to build bullet trains across the country, and launch an aggressive orangutan conservation effort, then I would be one happy lady. But I guess you can't have it all.

Here is a poem (that is a work in progress):

Sometimes I think
that Franklin D. Roosevelt had all the answers
but he’s not speaking to me this evening.
There is a breath at the windows
but it’s not Frank because he’s
looking in, waiting to tell.
I read history books hoping that he
has left me a secret message hidden between
the WPA and the Yalta Conference;
a message that says,
“Taylor Melligan, this was a different life
back here. You have it no worse and no better
and you don’t know.
You have atomic bombs and you don’t know.
You have children with swollen bellies and you don’t know.
You have a flashflood of cancer and you don’t know.
Your writers are charlatans.
No one speaks the truth, and when they do
they don’t know.
No one is reading the newspaper
except to confirm their suspicions.
No one is at the movies.
Capra is dead. Preminger is dead. Bergman is dead.
There is a landfill of Styrofoam floating in the sea,
an island, and you don’t know.”

But there is no message. No FDR speaking.
No hints, no clues,
no stories.
Only lines of type and
our writers are charlatans.

Bureaucracy.

"I mistrust all systemizers and avoid them. The will to a system is a lack of integrity." --Friedrich Nietzsche

About two weeks ago, I was drinking wine on a Thursday night and looking for something to occupy my mind. It was about 10:30 pm and I decided to check the Padres website to see how the night's game against the Rockies had gone down. Well lo and behold, I checked the score only to find that the game was still in progress. I conferred with David and the two of us decided to go to the Imperial House to get a drink and catch the end of the game. We got there around 11, stayed til about 11:30, and watched in amazement on the TV in the bar as the game went into the 17th, then 18th, then 19th innings without anybody on either side scoring. The bartender announced last call and the intoxicating combination of poorly made sidecars and the thrilling pitching battle inspired us to conclude that we should go down to the ballpark to watch the game. When we arrived it was getting on midnight and as the game had started at 7:05, the stadium was almost completely deserted. Petco seats about 45,000 and I would estimate that there were about 300 people left. We ran gleefully to the gate only to be told that we couldn't go in. This is more or less how it unfolded:

US: But it's the 20th inning!

SECURITY GUARD: Rules is rules.

US: But there's no one here!

SECURITY GUARD: I'm sorry folks, you got to have a valid ticket in your name to enter.

US: But usually they let you in for free after the 7th inning.

SECURITY GUARD: Not anymore.

US: But how can you turn us away? It's half past midnight!

SECURITY GUARD: It was hard to turn away the first 200 people wanting to get in free. By now it's easy.

It was so completely ridiculous, and as David pointed out, totally at odds with the democratic spirit of baseball. In its original conception the game was for everyone--it was the American pastime, something that brought people together in good spirits. Now you've got baseball games essentially stratified by class as far as the seating goes. To get anywhere near the field costs upward of $50 a seat at Petco, so obviously us everyday joes are not getting many good seats at the games these days (if we can even afford to go at all.)

But what really bothers me is this insane, mindless bureaucracy. I don't know who invented these rules, or for what purpose, but they are destroying any semblance of human decency left in this operation. To whom were we supposed to air our grievances about this retarded policy? Should we send a letter just to have it passed around the complaints department and eventually shredded? It is like this with so many things today: the cell phone industry is a big one that comes to mind. I was getting charged exorbitant fees for no apparent reason and all I could do was keep yelling at the poor mindless operators who wouldn't put me in touch with someone who could fix my problem. It's like that with politics too--I remember reading letters that had been sent to Franklin Roosevelt by ordinary citizens suffering during the Depression, and he and his wife had taken the time to write back to some of them. The fucking president of the United States! And now, who are we supposed to complain to about Abu Ghrab? To whom can we write angry letters about the auto companies' total resistence to improving mileage and emissions? Who is going to answer the letter I write about the deplorable state of public transportation in this country and where should I send it? How am I supposed to protest my taxes being funneled into a war that I do not support?

It's like that scene in The Grapes of Wrath where the bank representatives come to kick the farmers off their land. The reps say they are not responsible, that it is the bank. And who's in charge of the bank? the farmers ask. And the reps speak of the bank as a living machine, something comprised of humans but wholly unhuman in its entirety. The farmers threaten to shoot the reps, then the men at the bank, then the men who run the bank, then the men who drive the tractors that bulldoze their houses. And it is explained to them that no single person is responsible. That there is no one to shoot.

Obviously my baseball example is a petty one compared to the larger implications of extreme systemization. We lost the game in the 22nd inning. It seems grotesquely appropriate.

on not caring

I am in such a fragile state lately! I can't watch the election coverage anymore and I can't watch the Padres lose or I am going to Break Down. I just want to only pay attention to good things sometimes. Not usually, but there are those periods when there is just so much wrong with the world that you have to spend a week eating pizza and walking in the park and watching birds and only seeing Preston Sturges screwball comedies. I can't deal with the Olympics, the halt in troop reductions, the kid-fuckers in Texas, or Hillary Clinton this week. I just want to pretend everything is pink champagne. Next week I'll go back to feeling oh so disgruntled and yelling at the New York Times website. But for now I just want to eat sushi and dance on tables!

Some people can be like that all the time. Some people walk out of their houses and never see a homeless person on their street. They can laugh through disturbing movies, sit in air-conditioning, eat hamburgers, and be content to Tivo "American Idol." Who are these people? What is their secret? I mean, I feel like it takes some serious work not to give a shit about anything. How do they do it? The other day in one of my classes we watched a pretty brutal documentary called "The Panama Deception" that showed people getting beaten up, shot in the head, showed dead children burned to death in torched cars, and garbage bags full of human meat. One girl next to me was trying to talk to me through the whole film. Later I mentioned it to another girl and she said (in all seriousness), "Yeah American intervention--who cares? Boring!"

I'd like to open those people's heads up and take a look inside. I don't get it. I'll probably end up watching Olbermann while I'm eating my sushi and dancing on the tabletop. I just can't not care. Oh fie, fie!

Great Dangerous Silence

There’s a reason for it,
surely,
for
severed fox heads
nestled sleeping in
wild Alaskan grass,
For human hands and
spinal cords
tangled and morphing
in the belly of a bear,
for buzzards hovering high
above a quivering
trail of flesh
red on the riverbanks.
There’s a reason for
the abandoned campfire,
the untended shoes
stepped out of
at the edge
of the trees,
for sleek silvered trout
writhing in terror,
and eyes that
blink
in the dark.
I could fall in love
with the great
dangerous silence
of Northern night,
and the retreat of strange
footsteps
that disappear into
the woods.

exactly

"Kerouac opened a million coffee bars and sold a million pairs of Levis to both sexes." --William Burroughs