why don't you go there

America is a very tame place, especially when one looks at our rights of passage. Canada certainly isn’t impressive. South America…that depends on the country. And well, even their rights of passage are nothing to scream of. I understand that a Latin American girl will land a quinceanera when she turns fifteen. Hold the phone; she gets a party while all her relatives get wasted. In the United States we have our sweet sixteen party: a crown may be given, there might be guests, no underage drinking is aloud, and everyone goes home. 

Now look at this poor chap. He isn’t even fertile yet, and he is having a knife jabbed into his face for the sake of religion. The Catholics, they’ll sprinkle water on the face. The Christians, they’ll wait until a child is eight and then send him for a swim in a none shark infested pool. Please. This boy is taring a knife in the face.

So why are we so timid, mild, and lifeless here on this American continent? It's a fact. It's natural. It's the way it should be. So, whatever the answer is to the question above, whatever reasons we may give to not have to fear for our lives, I say thank you. For even are ghettos don't compare to the daily life of the majority of the world. I once read an article about a lady in the Middle East who wanted to leave her husband for her soul mate, her nose was chopped off. Singapore, they cane people for spitting on the sidewalk. In the Ukraine a person could get killed just for saying they want to be Ukrainian.

To be fare, there are problems in American. After all, we do have Detroit.

we had another explosion, did anyone see

 

When I was eleven I saw an explosion presented to me right there on the television screen. When it happened my teacher leapt from his chair to shut the program off. One week later my favorite TV character went home to her dad crying because she had seen the same explosion. I'm thirty-six now which means it was twenty-five years ago that I saw the challenger explode. Back then people loved progress. They televised things like the Challenger reaching for space. Now I am the teacher and all the media gives for the sake of inspiring children is war, riots, and demonstrations for ideals that are there or not there, who really knows.

Today, I wrote a line for my students, “she screamed for she loved the pain of it,” I meant it as a small gesture for Halloween. I wrote it in relation to goblins and ghouls. But the reactions I received came in expressions stating that I needed help, psychological help. Never mind that the rest of the story involved the girl being devoured while still alive.

I'm aware that these stories address two different scenes, two different mindsets and circumstances. But in the wake of Halloween comes the foremost holidays of the American year. And I can say with all sincerity that I miss my childhood. I miss the era when it was better to shield a child from an explosion than to let the child lick realities wounds. I want back what time has taken away. I don't mourn the simpleness of life for myself. I mourn it for my children. They are the ones the magic is for now, but I'm not sure the magic still lives.

 

for some but not for all

There once was a man who had a business of selling. A memory here, a memory there; each sold for a penny, a dollar, all were cheap.

In a town nestled deep in the America heart, a boy herding cattle back from the feeding grounds saw the man. He watched him hang his posters, offering a life away from the farms. The boy didn't speak to the man. He only watched him at first. But intrigued by his gifts, this boy bought one of his tickets.

And the man took him away, took him to Japan, Hungry, Sweden. He took him to Russia for an exhibition at the Kremlin. There the man showed him a beast, a creature tall and wide, a brute thicker and stronger than any other to have ever been alive. Snarling his untamed teeth, the beast roared for the thirteen years he had fought on the ropes, pleasing the people with his wildness.

The man crouched to the boy putting his lips to his ear. “You see the beast? Challenge him. Fight him. And I will give you wealth untold.” But the lie in the man’s words, the lie the boy was too young to recognize was that the wealth, the glory, the fame would come at a price: a memory for a shilling, two for a dollar, three for a ruble, five for a pound. But not knowing the lie, the boy walked to the beast, put his finger to his chest and called him to the mat.

Crowds of women, men, and boys gathered. The scuffle was grand. And the beast, he was fierce. But the boy he was not afraid of him. He wrapped his forearms around his neck. He held him tight, squeezing with all the strength he had as the beast kicked his legs into the air. Dust flew. The mat of their ring tour, bits of it falling into the stands where the people watched. But in the end when all things settled and the world became calm once again, the boy stood and the beast lay shriveled on the ground. Then the crowds cheered him, calling his name, slapping their hands against his as he walked to the man to collect his prize.

And yes, the man paid in full. He took the boy to dignitaries, presidents, kings. He lifted him to roof tops. He had songs written, and he let the people sing them, and cheer the boy for conquering the beast. But the man also extracted his fare. He took the memories, starting with the little ones first, the ones that often went unnoticed. They sold for a good price, for the people loved the boy. But the more the memories sold the more the people hungered for them. And they no longer were satisfied with the memories that spoke of smiles given in passing or the glimpses of the sun breaking through the American trees; they wanted more. So the man sold the people the memories of a lover’s first kiss. He sold them as the boy sat in the limelight, basking in the glory of his being. And without the boy even knowing it, away went his past, his present, the hope of his future not seen.

When the man was finished, and the last of the crowed sundered away clutching the memories of the boy’s childhood, the man walked to the boy. For his service he offered him one last gift. A gift that shinned. A gift that came without a price. A gift small, humble, and kind.

In the end the boy smiled.

for perfections sake

What my readers confided as vague, I say is opaque. To be clear, I know opaque means a lack of clarity, or should I say impenetrable by light; but when I say opaque it is the same for when I say defecate in place of deprecate. It’s funny that way. So to clear up my opaque vagueness, or to make my vagueness opaque I say we spend too much time trying to categorize. We spend far too much time wanting to fit each other into a pristine little package that when our ideals are not met we point fingers and say, “you’re wrong; their wrong; everything is wrong.” And yes I do it, too. In fact I find pleasure in it. But I don't think that my reasons are the same as others. I like imperfection. I like it when others have to furrow their brows to understand. But I hate the dismissal of this piece of humanity. I hate the attack, the, you meant this; but you said this; so you are this. My wife knows of what I speak, and I think she loves me for it.

My boys have spent the day exploring shapes and colors for an established, local art fair. One drew a bat; the other a spider. The artist of the bat screamed for perfection and practiced to make it so. The creator of the spider gave his creature a hundred legs easy, and the web became so dark and thick that no spider could be seen. When asked he said, “the spider is in there you just can't see him.” Simple, true, opaque vagueness, beautiful in his own right. My only fear is that his visual perception will be smashed for the sake of perfection. For the older boy once drew for expression, but now seeks only perfection.

why oh why why why oh why

I see this, and I ask allowed, “why did you do it?” I pleaded for you to stop, not strongly. When faced with another human’s decision I often times let the other human make their choice. And once that choice is made, who am I to stand in the way. I guess I could have yelled. I could have screamed, “what are you doing?” I did in fact tell you I thought your act foul. Didn't change anything because I am a human and you are a human, and we live in a place where choices are free and consequences are swift. For you though I hope consequences do a fly by rather than a stick around and hang for awhile.

Did I learn my lesson? Yes. Do I believe to be left alone? Probably not. Would I change the past? Yes. I would have gone alone and left the jar of fate closed. Will I pray for mercy? Most certainly.

where would i go

Once again beauty wins over tragedy. I suppose this is where my insensitivity comes into play. I see a picture, I sniff the air, and then my heart aches. I think to myself I would love to sit opposite this beast listening to its calls of love forlorn. I would do this. I would do that. But one thing I would not do is kill him. More than likely I will never take my children hunting to split this creature’s soul. Instead, I would take my offspring to the mountains that they, too, could bend their ears to hear his voice echo through the fog. This doesn’t mean that I don't eat meat. I do in fact love charring an animal’s flesh atop my grill. But that is only for the dumb animals. The chickens. The cows. The pigs.