Friday, October 4, 2013
If I had a gun I'd blow my head off, he says. He sits on a couch in a living room. A living room with walls he made by hand, posting timber, pounding nails. He sits on a couch alone in the dark. Is that what you want, she says. His wife sits at a kitchen table in the light. She sits within hearing distance, surrounded by walls he made. Their voices, not their eyes, make contact. His words respond to her words, her angry words for the cancer that kills him, that's killing him now. What else can I do, he says. That's not very nice, she says. He has months, maybe weeks. He wants life. He wants walls. He wants timber and nails. She sits under a lamp at a kitchen table smoking. One cigarette, then another and another. Her face appears in a cloud that follows her and kills her years later. Unaware of death inside her she sits by herself in the light near the dark where he sits by himself holding his head near the walls holding him up, near the walls that he made by hand, posting timber, pounding nails. In a hall against a wall that he built stands a girl, their daughter, listening in the shade between them.
Monday, August 19, 2013
Friday, August 2, 2013
Friday, May 31, 2013
Bark Dog and Play Dog and I stand on our summit. A small summit. Hardly a summit. Not Everest. Not Denali. Not Kilimanjaro. Nothing of consequence, but a summit with a view of a frozen pond that thaws and becomes home to ducks and golf balls. Bark Dog notices a man below in the valley, base camp to our Matterhorn. Bark Dog runs towards Mr. Golf Man, ignoring my pleas to stop and return. Bark Dog reaches Mr. Golf Man and does what Bark Dog does. Barks and barks more. "I'll hit it," the man yells up. "You'll what?" I yell down. Then I see what Mr. Golf Man means as he shifts golf club (now weapon) from practice putt to dog skull. I reach base camp in time to position myself between bark and club (now weapon). Are you afraid of dogs? Yes, he's afraid of dogs. Small dogs. Big dogs. Bark dogs. Ball dogs. Play dogs. All dogs. "I run," says Mr. Golf Man. He runs marathons. (Mr. Run Man?) And when he runs, he runs from dogs because dogs bite people who run. I run (sort of) I say. Dog-bitten twice (not while sort of running) I say. Then Play Dog lands at base camp near Mr. Golf (now Run) Man. Play Dog starts to move in circles. Then more circles and circles and more circles, fast and crazy like beast full of earth energy after climbing peaks and traversing valleys. I circle Play Dog who circles Mr. Golf (now Run) Man, getting dizzy, missing Play Dog and nearly falling and landing my head on club (now weapon) while Mr. Golf (now Run) Man circles in reverse. "Stand still," I say to him. Play Dog thinks you're playing, playing circle games with club (now weapon), I say. Mr. Golf (now Run) Man sees my eyes, still and not circling or dizzying, and pauses, not running, not playing. Then I leap and capture two summit fueled beasts who bark and play (not golf).