I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. I think I am. I think there­fore I am? I remem­ber them.

Mem­ory meets lan­guage at the inter­sec­tion of our con­structed present.

I walk home tonight through a sim­i­lar inter­sec­tion. One eye steady to the ground as I step over it. It must of hap­pened here on the cor­ner of Shafter and For­rest. On the damp con­crete side­walk, against that bush, under those win­dows. Used and dis­carded, it still sits in its quiet mag­nif­i­cence. The mechan­ics of life wrapped in a cloud of death next to a few leaves and some old gum.

Recre­ation, recla­ma­tion, regur­gi­ta­tion, repen­tance, redemp­tion, resurrection.

I pass through the same inter­sec­tion a day later, lift my foot to step over it.  This time it must have hap­pened some­where on this block within this past week; def­i­nitely this month. Tomor­row it never hap­pened at all.

 

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TO DUSTY / TOO DUSTY

The par­ti­tions of the mind keep every­thing in line. The line your toes touch and tempt — no — beg to cross. The day you cross it is the day you walk through that door.

Room one serves as the wait­ing room. The air hangs thick with the antic­i­pa­tion of con­ven­tion, but in the mean­time it’s stor­age. Pedestals, flo­res­cent lights, fix­tures, tem­po­rary rem­nants all sit atop the Ikea sofa and glass cof­fee table bought on a clear day. All tran­si­tion, really.

Room two’s kinetic energy pounds. Three giant win­dows bring light in and brush against the power tools fresh with heat and saw dust. Here houses the mind and body, trap­ping the gears that make the whole thing stand on two legs.

To your left you feel a chaotic breeze. Room Three. Step into the back cor­ner of this ware­house. Smell the sealed air of 1998 and look down. Notice the toe of your shoe hit the heel of a bloody sock. Look up and gaze at the sea of empty chip bags and a thou­sand empty coke cans. See the dipped imprint of a body on the bed. This is a bay win­dow into an unex­am­ined life.  A life of all work and no play, of two microwaved hot dogs with a side of orange peanut but­ter crack­ers for lunch.

Here you are con­fronted with your own bland con­for­mity, your own brand of dis­gust, your own death, your own faith.

 

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PEAR STREET

I only knew two things.
1. She had a col­lec­tion of black vel­vet Jesus paint­ings.
2. And a lazy eye.

The dis­cov­ery seemed to hap­pen over night and sud­denly my fam­ily of strangers con­verged to take care of busi­ness. I stood across the street from the house as I watched every­one enter. Their gasps were audi­ble and I thought about her own gasps at the sight of this inva­sion. If home is an exten­sion of the mind, maybe this was best let be.

But no. There is work to be done; repairs to be made, items to be sorted, walls painted, cracks filled. Money made.

Typ­i­cal of any north­east­ern min­ing town there is a gra­dat­ing layer of soot cling­ing to the edges of the white sid­ing. The boxy frame cow­ers away from the street request­ing you divert your gaze else­where. Stew­ing modesty.

The front door is the mouth of a tun­nel carved between stacks of mag­a­zines, news­pa­pers and garbage hov­er­ing from years of accu­mu­la­tion. It takes you from the front door, through the liv­ing room, and into the kitchen. From here you can go left to the pantry or right to the garage. I soak it all in. This is how she woke up every day. Did this cacoph­ony of objects soothe her? Did the box of rub­ber gloves pur­chased some­time dur­ing the Kennedy admin­is­tra­tion make time stand still for her?

Each opened bag or dark cor­ner reveal another twist, another dark devi­a­tion from real­ity. A real­ity I would kindly devi­ate from as well.

Social secu­rity checks cashed and sub­se­quently hid­den. The same jacket in every color. Sil­ver and gold ver­sions of the same jew­elry sets. Tags on every­thing. The judg­ments come in whis­pers and wide eyed, high browed glances as we pass. Each ele­va­tion of the brow com­mu­ni­cat­ing mes­sages only those of dis­tant rela­tion can trans­late. I am in the mid­dle of one of these looks when I notice my mother.  I am both amazed and repulsed as I watch her sit in the mid­dle of the floor while her fin­gers swim through cos­tume jew­elry and a pile of cash. The woman who cleaned my blinds every morn­ing is finally tak­ing in a moment. And this moment is not with­out it’s judge­ments, I see her brow fur­row with con­cern as she attempts to rea­son all of this through a dis­traught rev­e­la­tion. She looks at me with a pan­icked eye. Sud­denly we are 0 for 4 and she real­izes the fragility of my future through these pat­terns of which she has no control.

I reach to grab the box of rub­ber gloves. They dis­in­te­grate in my hands, the black soot now cov­er­ing me fin­ger tip to elbow.

Ashes to ashes, right?

 

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TINY IMPERIALISTS

Instruc­tions for con­struct­ing an emo­tional attachment:

Step One:  Time here must be con­sid­ered lin­early. Any sug­ges­tion oth­er­wise will prove fruit­less. How will you look back?

Step Two: Be aware of height­ened reac­tions to cer­tain moments and objects. This can include goose­bumps, sweaty palms, widened eyes, heart sink­age, stom­ach flying.

Step Three: Take an image. If you trust your instincts and your senses, feel free to use your eyes and file away a men­tal image. If not then use a camera.

Step Four:  Edit out the unnec­es­sary infor­ma­tion. Be aware of the tan­gen­tal and ephemeral.

Step Five: If not reminded of the moment by exter­nal forces, make sure to refer to the image at least twice a year for preser­va­tion. Allow your palms to sweat, eyes widen, heart pound all over again.

Step Six: Pro­ceed to ref­er­ence this moment peri­od­i­cally through metaphor.

The tini­est lit­tle impe­ri­al­ists they ever did see.

Red lips on a baby face. Women touch the blonde head for a spit of good luck.

Pink slushy down a long straw, the taste of dull sugar from the cane. A small scoop at the end; such a clever design.

Jelly can­dies and choco­late koala bears.

Wooden san­dals cluck the pavement.

Play hard in the warm rain against crash­ing waves, seriously.

Bor­der the glass win­dows with tow­els as the typhoon pounds against the tiny sanction.

Throw sand. Heave sea urchins.

Umbrel­las.

Shoes off at the door.

Kimono instruc­tion.

The struc­tural­ists began here.

A maze of fab­ric dow­els and a room full of pil­lows against a field of cane.

Here the future looks like spaghetti with but­ter and a long, coiled, phone cord. Wrap it through your fin­gers, you tiny impe­ri­al­ist, as you eat your evening din­ner and they have their morn­ing toast.

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