Who can fathom a heart’s fixations? There is a squirrel—one particular squirrel, I am convinced—whose coordinates of desire are precisely calibrated to a perennial and unsightly gash in the windowbox, a ragged rupture of soil just between the kalanchoe and the fuschia. Only his obsession grows there. Seedlings, ground cover, weeds—whatever might fill the gap is torn out mercilessly, desperately. Nothing is left in its place—no nut set lovingly aside for winter, no hoarded chest of gold doubloons. Only a hole—a hollow neither man nor squirrel can fill, but which remains, waiting, longing, wondering what jewel may someday be found whose every facet fits.
Showing posts with label prose poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label prose poem. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 11, 2021
Sunday, April 25, 2021
Perlocution
In the days when words were old and meaning was young, love signified a small,
reddish-gray stone, smooth, with a slight indentation on the top, about the size
of a thumb. Nobody could agree on whether this was too common, or too specific.
Some who couldn’t find such a stone decided that what it really meant was a
blade of grass, and traded entire meadows for rocks that were still rather
coarse and heavy. Others chose the graceful speed of an antelope, or the precise
shade of stormy green where the sea meets the sky, and wouldn’t trade them for
anything. Time passed like promises, words faded, and meanings multiplied,
proliferated, fractaled themselves, even as we desperately bound them into
books, stored them in vaults, arrayed them in cathedrals, and occasionally
tucked one away in a small box of faded papers, a mix of bills, letters and
poems, at the bottom of which lies a small, reddish-gray stone, smooth, with a
slight indentation on the top, about the size of a thumb.
Sunday, April 14, 2019
What to Do When in Doubt
- Get your passport stamped. It always comes out a little blurry, but most of your friends back home will probably believe that you were there.
- Breathe in and count to ten. Write the numbers down to make sure you don’t skip any. (Seven is notoriously slippery, even on the first day.)
- Hire a guide. It should be easy to find someone who speaks your language, but you may have some trouble convincing him to show you around. Tell him you don’t mind if he’s new at this.
- See the sights. Your guide will be unable to tell you what any of them are called. At one building, he will gather together a small group of passersby and ask them if they know what it is. None can name it, but they each describe the interior in great detail. Each description is completely different, to which the others all say “yes, that is right.”
- Dismiss your guide with thanks. You will find lodgings inside this building, but you must enter alone.
- Make yourself comfortable. There is no staff, so you will have to make your own bed and keep the bathroom clean. You will find everything you need waiting for you.
- Look through your luggage. If you find a photograph of a person, a dog, or a guitar, put it out on the nightstand. It is probably someone you love. Dust it every day.
- Take long walks through the city. Occasionally someone will stop you and ask the name of a building. It’s alright if you don’t know. Enjoy the freedom of not knowing.
- If someone asks you to be their guide, welcome them, and do your best.
- One day, you will come to a bustling terminal, surrounded by people looking slightly disoriented and trying to count to ten. You can no longer get any farther than three, but when someone asks for your passport, you’re surprised to note that you had put it in your pocket that morning. Do not go back for your luggage, not even the photograph.
Saturday, April 13, 2019
The Time Tuba
[inspired by an autocorrect of my name]
Warning: This tuba will self-destruct in...
...5
The Time Tuba™ is guaranteed to provide many happy and satisfying hours of music to both practitioner and audience. [Actual hours sold separately. Not compatible with any other spatio-temporal dimensions.]
...4
The Time Tuba was created by an evil sorcerer whose neighbor’s son would practice at all hours of the night. With every note the boy aged a year. By the time he noticed, he was 87, arthritic, and had to give up the tuba. The evil sorcerer lived quietly ever after.
...3
The Time Tuba uses valves to change the length of a note, rather than its pitch. This is very convenient, as the musician can simply play all the notes ahead of time and trust them to come out with the correct timing. Unfortunately, all the notes are the same.
...2
The Time Tuba exists in its own dimension. No matter how long you practice or perform, you will finish at the same time you began.
...1
The Time Tuba has an extra key on its side. When combined with an E-flat, I found that it played slightly sharp while at the same time transporting me 156 years into the future. The F-natural remains perfectly in tune, and returns me to the present. B-flat, however, took me back to a date preceding the invention of the tuba. This has turned out to be a problem, as the Time Tuba itself has now disappeared. (Note to self: Make way to Germany, find Johann Gottfried Moritz, see if he can speed things up a bit.)
...0
Warning: This tuba will self-destruct in...
...5
The Time Tuba™ is guaranteed to provide many happy and satisfying hours of music to both practitioner and audience. [Actual hours sold separately. Not compatible with any other spatio-temporal dimensions.]
...4
The Time Tuba was created by an evil sorcerer whose neighbor’s son would practice at all hours of the night. With every note the boy aged a year. By the time he noticed, he was 87, arthritic, and had to give up the tuba. The evil sorcerer lived quietly ever after.
...3
The Time Tuba uses valves to change the length of a note, rather than its pitch. This is very convenient, as the musician can simply play all the notes ahead of time and trust them to come out with the correct timing. Unfortunately, all the notes are the same.
...2
The Time Tuba exists in its own dimension. No matter how long you practice or perform, you will finish at the same time you began.
...1
The Time Tuba has an extra key on its side. When combined with an E-flat, I found that it played slightly sharp while at the same time transporting me 156 years into the future. The F-natural remains perfectly in tune, and returns me to the present. B-flat, however, took me back to a date preceding the invention of the tuba. This has turned out to be a problem, as the Time Tuba itself has now disappeared. (Note to self: Make way to Germany, find Johann Gottfried Moritz, see if he can speed things up a bit.)
...0
Monday, April 29, 2013
Being a Treatise on the Lifecycle of My Hair
It may seem to mark the cycle of the seasons, growing out a lush, protective coat against the supposed chills of California winters, and shedding it again, moments later, in the spring. And, indeed, it has been used as just such an almanac by certain indigenous tribes of Silicon Valley that are not known for venturing far enough from their computers to observe actual weather.
Yet there are more subtle, fractal patterns in these seeming transitory phases. The sparse, infant similarity of a new cut yields to soft-rounded baby fat before moving on to terrible twos, an adorable childhood, and various awkward teenage phases, recalcitrant and pimply, during which its eventual maturity must be accepted patiently as a matter of faith, justified a few inches later. This joyful, curling prime of life is soon tinged with gray strands growing ever more prominent with their length, and foreshadowing the drawn out scraggle of old age.
It is at this point that one invariably laments the lack of Life’s “rewind” button, a leisurely meander back through halcyon memories — in place of the harsh pruning of shears and razors, a gradual reabsorption. But flowing locks flow in one direction only, and cannot be recalled so easily as sent out. (Though this is occasionally attempted, when it seems no one is looking.) And so, all other stages seeming discontinuously arbitrary, nothing is left but to bid farewell to the old, used form and begin afresh on a clean slate, free of history, yet full of potential.
Yet there are more subtle, fractal patterns in these seeming transitory phases. The sparse, infant similarity of a new cut yields to soft-rounded baby fat before moving on to terrible twos, an adorable childhood, and various awkward teenage phases, recalcitrant and pimply, during which its eventual maturity must be accepted patiently as a matter of faith, justified a few inches later. This joyful, curling prime of life is soon tinged with gray strands growing ever more prominent with their length, and foreshadowing the drawn out scraggle of old age.
It is at this point that one invariably laments the lack of Life’s “rewind” button, a leisurely meander back through halcyon memories — in place of the harsh pruning of shears and razors, a gradual reabsorption. But flowing locks flow in one direction only, and cannot be recalled so easily as sent out. (Though this is occasionally attempted, when it seems no one is looking.) And so, all other stages seeming discontinuously arbitrary, nothing is left but to bid farewell to the old, used form and begin afresh on a clean slate, free of history, yet full of potential.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)