Ten Songs From Another World

I wrote these ten pieces in 2009. I always imagined each accompanied by a painting, but I have zero artistic talent and no one has offered to partner with me. (I'm intrigued by the idea of collaboration, having always worked exclusively by myself.) Perhaps they are destined to be only words, after all. I like all of them but the tenth one is my favorite. Enjoy. And apologies for the uneven formatting; Blogger is a pain in the ass and I'm done fighting it for the day. I wish you could see my original document.


Clean Kills

My father told me: it must always be a clean kill. Sloppy work is not accepted under any circumstances. And when you are finished, you clean all your tools and put them back in the proper place. The cooks call it mise en place. Everything properly set up, each component occupies the space necessary, and there is enough space left over to perform the work in a quick, thorough and decisive manner. The final result must be of the highest quality. Always use your own knife. To use another's would be an ethical violation of the most degrading sort, put on display for all to see. These are the things my father taught me, and I learned the lessons well. He did not let go of life until I demonstrated I’d learned. When I was finished, I kept the eyes, because I needed someone to watch over me.

Step 2

Have you ever conjured a three-headed dog? It happens only by complete accident. Most likely you were distracted, talking to your brother over beer gone warm in the afternoon sun. Though it made annoying little yips, you probably wouldn’t have noticed the creature had you not tripped over it. Unlike you, there was nothing befuddled in its eyes--six of them: one pair green, another black, and the third a pus-like shade of yellow. It sat on the grass that you mowed yesterday and stared at you as if it had every right to be there. 

The only thing you could think to say was “Get off my lawn” but that sounded all wrong when it came out, it wasn’t what you meant, wasn’t even the best you could do. Your brain was hazy with the beer. Oh, old man. Your brother, who you’d forgotten about, informed you that the dog wasn’t listening. On this point, you had to agree, and so you let him stay.

I Will Go There, Take Me Home

Fourteen prayers: sun, dust, acorn, spider and ten more not named. History buried deep in the cool earth, covered by penance. Rotting wood, discarded magazines, you are as dust, as the things left unsaid. Fourteen prayers, each separate but said in order they form a greater whole. A cosmic weave, a tapestry of dark filaments shrouding you like a cloak of black stars. A chainlike series of cells.  

Metal corrodes but dirt is always soft. Soft, wet and cool.

By Accident

The way the top of an evergreen tree moves in a slight breeze--this is a reminder of death. A reminder that everything is transient. An evergreen in the breeze says “You will die, as everyone and everything does.” Evergreens are not properly named, for they will not be green forever. Their tops will not always sway in the breeze. They will become dust stirred by the breeze, and then even that will be gone. 

Every girl I have ever loved is a dancer. When I met them, they were no longer dancing, but in every case I knew that they had spent many years doing so, long before we were intimate enough for them to tell me. A dancer’s sense of movement is highly evolved, and they move with grace, a grace born of years of brutal bodily punishment. Years of training form muscle memory that becomes embedded so deep that it can never be unlearned. It informs every aspect of their physical movement. I did not know anything about dancing until well into my adult years. But I did know, even before I had any idea about falling in love, that I would love dancers. I myself cannot dance, I have no grace whatsoever. I have loved each of these girls deeply and truthfully in our time together. I will give up everything that matters for those I love.

A Looming Resonance

A television set sits on a stump out in the woods. It is incongruous and highly unnatural, this glass and wire creation surrounded by things growing out of the ground, by dirt and pine needles and limbs. The set probably isn’t even HD compliant--there’s an antenna sticking out from the back, leaning to the left in a drunken grab at the stars. If there were anyone around to turn it on, they’d be frustrated by the lack of an outlet to plug into, unless there was a generator hidden behind the deadfall. There most likely isn't, though you can never be too sure of what is hidden in the woods. 

Originally the television set was placed on the stump as part of an experiment, but the gentleman who placed it there died of a sudden massive stroke seven days later, much to the shock of his colleagues, all of whom went home that night wondering if the same thing could happen to them. As this gentleman had told no one about the television set he'd placed in a tiny clearing fifteen miles up Cannery Road, past the crumbling remains of the Stendhal place, the experiment could not be carried out, nor could the television be retrieved. The gentleman left no notes behind and so any knowledge of what he was attempting died with him. The television is destined to sit there, undisturbed by humanity, unless a random hunter stumbles upon it. There are rumors of elk in the area, so this is possible. What the hunter will see when he turns the set on depends upon many factors.

A Sun That Never Sets

To Scott, moths are frightening. How much of this is due to half-remembered passages from the Castaneda books he’d read while high as a kite during his college years he can’t say. Castaneda had a thing for moths, though Scott can’t remember what, exactly. He’d lost those books years ago, along with any desire to replace them.

On Scott’s bathroom ceiling there is an imprint of a moth. It is located above his bathtub. When he takes a bath, the imprint is directly over his head. He did not make the imprint. He has never killed a moth and would be terrified of the possible repercussions were he to do so. To him it looks like a moth got stuck in the ceiling paint and died. In time the body fell away and left the imprint overhead. The problem with this explanation is that the imprint has no dimensionality. He has touched the imprint several times and the moth shape is as smooth beneath his trembling fingers as the rest of the ceiling. He does not know what kind of moth this is. No one knows how many species of moth exist. He has been afraid to identify the moth and afraid of not finding its identity.

Scott can’t say for sure when the moth imprint first appeared on his bathroom ceiling. What he is certain of is that he first noticed it last Sunday, after a 21 mile bike ride. Though his normal routine was to take a shower after an exhausting ride—and this ride had been primarily comprised of hills—on this Sunday he’d decided to have a bath, read a little while, and relax. He settled into the tub, leaned back, and saw the moth imprint. Since then, he has eaten very little. His dreams have been vivid, full of extremely bright light and flames. Scott believes that he will soon have to break his lease and find another apartment. His life depends on it.

Embraced by Arms Made of Dirt

 

In each marriage, of course, there are dark corners. Places where dangerous ideas are born, like walking out on everything. Throwing it all to the wind. Blowing it up. The temptation lurks, knowing the flesh is tired and the mind weak. The dangerous truth of the matter is that it is not difficult to walk away. Anyone can do it. One day it’s a headache. The next day the marriage is history. A great relief. One foot in front of another. They don't talk about this in books.

This does not, of course, take in what is good about the marriage. If marriage is a balancing of scales, too heavy a load on either side will throw everything out of whack. That is why successful marriages are the most dull--they forego the peaks and valleys and concentrate on the mundane. The larger the percentage of a married person’s life that is mundane, the longer the marriage will last--assuming, of course, that his/her partner’s is also mundane. The secret to a long marriage is not flowers or money or great sex, it is a willful embrace of the mundane. To walk willingly into the painted grey.

This not true of marriages of dirt. Marriages of dirt are always dark.

Solitary Voyage

Every seven years she makes this trip, and the roads never change. The cars she has driven change, her hands are no longer full of life but aching from the early onset of arthritis, and the radio station selection has gotten worse. But the roads never change. The autumn air, gently laced with the scent of decaying leaves, of earth turned over before the frost sinks too deep, soothes her every time. She does not like this trip, and is thankful she only has to do it every seven years. If she were to ever drive this road under different circumstances, she might find it beautiful. At this time, as during the times before, however, it is merely a path to be traversed as quickly as she can reasonably drive. 

When she arrives at the farmhouse, there is no one home. There never is and never will be. She lets herself in--the farmhouse is never locked--and makes her way to the kitchen table. The cup, bandages and knife have been left out for her, as always. It is a small gift to be left alone to do this, she thinks as she cuts open her arm with the knife. She’d hate to do this while being watched. Not that she can’t sense the presence in the house. Still, better that it is invisible. She finishes letting blood into the cup and bandages her arm. Amazing how quick the whole process is now. The first time, there were no bandages, and she fainted before she got to her car. Every time since the bandages have been supplied, and it’s a nice gesture. She reminds herself that the cost could be so much more. She cannot bring herself to say thank you aloud but she feels deeply grateful.

She exits the house, taking a minute to stare at it, the off-yellow paint peeling from the siding, the weathered steps being swallowed by tall grass, the spider-web crack in the living room window that has tripled in size since her first trip here. Then she gets in her car and leaves. Later that night, as her lover softly snores beside her, awash in her juices, she thinks about the house and wonders what will happen if, seven years from now, it is not there. If she arrives to nothing but dandelions and quack grass and the remains of a cement foundation. She turns and molds her body into her lover, the warmth only just keeping the cold of her fears at bay, for seven more years.

(untitled)

It’s no skin off my back, but I like to cut my skin. Just another fucking cliché, right? Cutters. Like tattoos, it’s all the rage. That’s bullshit. It’s not, it just makes for easy imagery to sell glassy-eyed pop culture with. Like heroin chic. Whatever. All I know is that when I cut myself I can breathe again. Like opening windows, like punching air holes into a plastic container so the insect doesn’t asphyxiate. 

I don’t think the reasons why matter. Hey, here’s a secret: the reasons why never matter. It’s like arguing who is more “true.” No one is true, we all lie, we all pose. Some of us do it more fancifully than others, but that’s all there is to it. There are only a few true things. Dirt, trees, rain, wind, and a sharp edge. 

I want a God not afraid to be cut. See, I don’t care if He does all the cutting; but a God that could actually stand to have it inflicted on Himself--not send a “son” down to absorb the cuts like a gutless coward--that’s a God I could get behind. I don’t trust a God that sends others to do his work for Him. That’s a copout. Let me run a knife through and I’ll believe. I want to see what’s under the cosmos. I want to transform God. 

Mostly I just want to be high again. But I’d settle for transforming God.

Angel Rat

They call him Angel Rat and no one knows how long he (or she, or it) has been leaving gifts. The gifts always come when the house is empty of occupants, whether that time is day or night. The gifts are needed things--a new light fixture to replace the one that no longer works, your child’s favorite flavor of yogurt that you forgot to buy the last three times at the store, an external drive, socks, a piece of trim to replace the broken one in the hall. There are whispers that Angel Rat once left money for a family that couldn’t pay rent that month, but this has never been verified and most don’t believe it. They do all believe that Angel Rat is what Santa Claus would be if Santa Claus: a) existed, and b) was practical in his gift-giving. 

There are, of course, many theories about Angel Rat’s identity. A humble person with money to spare is the most frequently cited. (But how is it Angel Rat always knows just what to get?) A vocal if small segment thinks Angel Rat is an alien, but no one pays attention to these conspiracy theorists. One Mr. John Dierks proposed setting up cameras in all the neighborhood households, in hopes of catching Angel Rat on film. This proved to be too impractical--it is a poor neighborhood, after all, and a number of folks are squeamish over the idea of twenty-four hour cameras filming in their home. They could, of course, only turn them on when they are away since that is when Angel Rat always comes, but there is a fear of forgetting to do so, and something just doesn’t feel right about the idea anyway. So the idea never got off the ground. That’s not to say a few people didn’t set cameras, but as of yet, no one has successfully filmed Angel Rat. It’s especially vexing as no one has figured out Angel Rat’s pattern of appearance yet. For all intents and purposes, it appears to be random. People in the neighborhood always need something--Angel Rat has no shortage of potential targets. Though not all would admit it, most think it is best for Angel Rat to remain invisible. 

Then there is the matter of the name. No one knows who first called him/her/it Angel Rat, or why. Jenny Bell claims credit, but she’s a braggart so full of hot air she might just float away one day (many wish she would, in fact, do just that.) What everyone does agree on is that the name fits, though if asked, not a single person could explain why. (The theory involving a rat named Stuart who accidentally switched bodies with an angel one rainy Saturday afternoon never gained traction. The story came to Eric D’Amour in a vision. What he always neglects to mention is that it came after he’d watched that movie with the Crocodile Dundee guy, Almost An Angel, six times in a row while drinking twelve cans of Mountain Dew.) 

Idle musings aside, the neighborhood is thankful for Angel Rat. They feel they have someone watching over them as they battle through lives that are often quite hard. This is the greatest gift that Angel Rat gives.