next to the toffee tree

 ::Well, it is the Toffee Tree’s one year anniversary. As a gift to you, I introduce the capital letter that the beginnings of sentences and where else appropriate ; ) This is a longer piece that I’m giving to you in episodes…much like ’The Ostrich Man’, hopefully it retains more flow. But like ’The Ostrich Man’ its not a super revised piece, but rather, something I wrote quickly and use as an arena to test out some new short story idea’s and techniques. I have no time/desire to reflect on a year of blogging, just in case you were wondering::  

(Ορφεύς enters. Proceeds to stage front, stares out with a solemn face) 

(Pause) 

Ορφεύς: What must we say now? Can we say anything at all? Anything other than what must be said – or must be done? (Flashing an ironic smile) For let me speak to those that know sorrow, for those acquainted with bitter tears. Let me tell you my story that you may rejoice with what you have left…for I have lost… (Trails off to a pause) I have lost. 

Ned looked up from the script. The glowing logs had lessened and the yellow sort of light he needed to read properly had faded away. He set the play to one side, Ορφεύς & Eurydíkê. The shadows danced on the names, making the exquisite and tender calligraphy almost as vivid as a human face. Two human faces…side by side, one right side up, one upside down — thought Ned. He wondered if he might get a pen and a scrap of paper to better plot out an idea. Shaping ”Ο” and the ”φ“ to look like eyes, then on to a mouth and chin that expand laterally into Eurydice’s angelic face. He dwelt on it for a moment then gave up on the project.

He was persuaded in this way. He did not finish projects, especially in the visual arts. He had two major pitfalls: one being that he lacked patience, the other that as he offered the first stroke he was quite prone to step back and see the beauty in it. Afraid that he might spoil it, he would fancy it complete and search for a new project. Thus it was with the masks, he figured to imagine the eyes of Orpheus were enough (to vaguely guess at a mouth for the hero was even more that needed), and so, on to another project.

He took a log and stoked the fire with the blunt end before adding three or four healthy portions of treated wood to the inferno. He had enjoyed the play thus far.

While meandering through a used book store that afternoon he had lifted the volume off a small, satiated cart of books. In one act, it was the retelling of the ancient virtuoso and his nymph-wife. Ned had decided that the obscure (even unknown) author Raymond Czires was a troubled, troubled soul. Obviously struggling with the vice of alcohol (or an even more violent addiction), and sins for which he could find no atonement. His characters were dark and passionate, so ill-tempered, yet there was a grace (or a beauty) found in their hot rages that had spilled over, and soaked into the paper.

He was coming to the climax of the plot; Orpheus had just lost his lover forever, and now contemplated his reasons for being. Ned had already skipped to the final scene to read the concluding lines – ironically the man that could “make the rivers reverse flow with the notes of his lyre” (as the open scene is dictated by a token fairy), Orpheus would meet his end with his body lying still beside the waters; his decapitated head floating downstream an eerie song proceeding from the lips. Ned stopped to wonder about how Czires planned to carry out the scene in a theatre setting of any normalcy, but perhaps it was a closet drama. Yet, somehow, it seemed improbable that a play with so much yelling and screaming would only really be fulfilled in a collection of human voices (not a solitary human mind). For this, was the principle reason Ned bought the work. As he flipped through the pages, he found the text overweight with raised voices. This intrigued him. And after reading most of the play, he rather agreed with the violent Cziresist impression – that the Greek heroes and gods were not somehow prone to equanimity of his grade school text book (he had not read Greek myth beyond that), but they would be abundantly and ecstatically overflowing with emotion. He thought it much more reasonable that these super-human-beings would be properly affected to booming shouts of rage and piercing cries, as opposed to cool debates and contemplations.  

Ορφεύς: For this I have decided for myself, that if I search for all eternity: the notes to sing this dirge, they shall be too numerous and too elusive…WHAT!? WHAT CRUEL WHISPER DO YOU SPEAK WITCH!?

Περσεφόνη: (calmly) I speak mostly in tears. Tears that wet the whole earth.

Ορφεύς: THEN LET THEM DROWN ME THAT I FIND SOME RIGHTNESS IN MY DEPTHS!

Περσεφόνη: This will happen before the end.

Ορφεύς: WOULD DEATH PROPHESY THE END OF MY SORROW?! (He slaps her on the face)

Περσεφόνη: YOU CHILD!

(Lights go down – exits and entrances – lights come up)

(9 women choreograph themselves over the stage, tenderly picking up articles and putting them in baskets)

(Lights go down – exits and entrances – lights come up) 

(Orpheus wanders blindly on stage)

(Lights go down – exits and entrances – lights come up) 

(The scene is returned to Persephone and Orpheus in their previous positions. Persephone throws Orpheus towards the audience. Orpheus, now lying flat on his back, lets out haunting cries. He cries again and again not forming words. Then…)

Ορφεύς: THE EARTH…THE EARTH IS A DESERT!! YOUR TEARS…YOUR TEARS ARE HOLLOWING…HOLLOW LIES!

The play was starting to strike Ned. These words, unlike the faces on the cover, had gone beyond art and hummed some secret chords in the depths of his heart, and in the depths of the room, the empty room. A wooden bench and a wooden chair sunk slightly into the wooden floor; their backs hugging the wooden wall. It was a lonely cabin, and Ned would be the only visitor this weekend. He loosened his tie. The cabin stood as a speck, surrounded by miles and miles of dense forest. Yet, amidst a sea of green, Ned could only realize a desert. The strange chords still hummed, weaving in and out and pressing themselves up against his insides. His stood up – it rose to the surface of the blood that ran through his ears. Picking up the chair, he spun it around. In a single flash he threw off all composure and calmness, as the strange chords broke into a clear and brilliant melody – he threw the chair (as if swinging a baseball bat) into the opposing wall. A sharp crackle filled the room as the chair shattered into large splinters, which lay on the floor of the far-from-silent room. Ned picked up the script. Confused at which character he desired to be, he decided on both. He cleared his throat and began:

::To Be Continued::          

“i was playing a song, and the melody was such that i proceded to breathe out a ghost. and the ghost, being so violently opposed to the life i had given him, detained me in a room of unlocked doors for the better part of an hour.”

“and thats why you were late?”

“yes.”

richard put his face into the snow bank, it was nighttime. he stood there, unbalanced, most of his weight on the balls of his feet. he had wanted to plunge his face in the snow bank, something violent, but, in the end, it reflected his utter timidness to the onlookers. he stood there, his hands trembling the air, quivering; his back arched to keep his hands free from the burning snow. it was -41. at that temperature, the snow burns.

he stuck his hands into the bank. this pose a lot less awkward than the former one, but just as strange. he was a strange sight. was he a strange man? a stranger.

the watchers did not watch in silence, erie nervous laughter accompanied there cocked eyebrows and hazy stares. was he a strange man? of course. yet, did he pay natural gas bills? or take the bus? have a mortgage? did he go to the grocery store? was richard not entitled to one strange moment plucked out of his monotonous life?

he stood up, hands in the air, and as if being followed by a gunman, he walked into the darkness, hands in the air — his steady gate passed his steady frame through the dark door of night in the near off distance. his dress coat, that he had probably bought at moores (suits for men) to place over his moores (suits for men) suits, was the first to disappear, then the back of his darkish hair, bearing very little snow, passed. finally, his hands, still raised in a tremulous protest that no one understood, were erased by the dark.

i mostly expected him to just walk away, none of that hands-raised business.  i guess that’s two strange things we can pluck out of richard’s assumed to be monotonous life. allthough, we can’t really know what richard shall do tomorrow morning, afternoon, or evening. 

the imprint of his face remains in the snowbank,

crowned

by

his

forgotten

glasses.   

::part II comes almost a year and a half after part 1 was published by a much younger me. this younger me was even more cryptic, but perhaps, in fleeting moments of clarity, much more apt at giving people a good sock in the gut. – is ’sock’ a word we have forgotten? i mean it in the transitive verb form: to deliver a forceful blow, or to strike – i was brash, and would say things like “my flare and charm are rubbish” or ”i’m crushing a lot of water bottles these days, i can’t write, i can’t think straight, i don’t know what to do. i wish it was 1 AM, then i would have an excuse for this ramble.” not only more brash, but i think i was less afraid of pouring out my heart, not being more honest because i am dreadfully honest in all my writing it seems, but i have never posted a piece like ‘J’ again, at least not to my knowing readers. and not untill now do i follow up ‘can you here it?’ ( http://www.xanga.com/telegraph_hill/523204110/can-you-hear-it.html ) so take some courage as you read this…i left you some as i took the large portion i needed to write it, and indeed, even larger portion to post it. i contemplated long about throwing the proceeding part II on the pile of ‘unknowing readers’ works. as to say, never to be read by people that know me. i have considered this for many reasons, none of which i will comment on, but i will say two things, and ultimately the two reasons why i posted it.

1) it is an earnest piece — you may find it hard not to read it as the most cheezy thing i’ve ever written, but its not. and if you still think its cheezy after you read it: you need to read the end again and realize your missing the point.  

2) it’s about me growing up. i think as i look over my blog i think its cool how you have been privy to me growing up, steps forward and steps back (maybe even in the same posts). i’m so so far from there, but i can see a little progress as i read through my entires.  

p.s. you need to read the part 1 to get the growing up part i’d imagine.       

can you hear it? part II 

a round scrub of grass muffles itself under his hiking boot. he turns to look back. the wild field stretches down the mountain side; a melody of wild grasses dotted with wild flowers, gently teeming with wild butterflies. the torrid light of the sun blazes a bright-bright yellow, casting its rays across rock and branch and joyful tributary. despite the stark light, the air is too thin here for the heat to rest near ones body. the altitude graciously robs the sun of its extravagant calefaction, for a more oddly subdued temperture. the promises of brilliant heat are given up for a comfortable warmth. all is bright-bright, vivid and alive. 

he raises his eyes to gaze upon the opposing mountan, the brother that stands oposite to the one currently under his feet. the overseeing brother, or maybe even father, stands at a stately 90 degrees, a sheer cliff shaded from the direct sunlight. he has a large, wide face, old and wise. his rocky visage enriched with darkened streaks where water had trickled down and stuck to the grainy surface. like wide-wide tears they run from the incandescent lining of the his crown to the eloquent lake below. and as if it were aware of the eyes watching, the wind turns and overturns the ripples on the body of water, forming grand shapes and movements as the sun plays on the uneven surface. the poetic blue and green waltz and twirl, pull, push and pirouette.

he releases the scrub and it springs back to life. he uses his forearm to wipe the sweat from his brow, and continues up the toward the peak. 

when he reaches it, his gate becomes more fluid and natural walking faster across the level ground. he makes his way to the opposite edge of the grassy plateau, stops and stares out over the miles and miles and miles and miles and miles that lay before him. the countless mountian tops, adorned with an even more countless numbers of trees, rocks, grasses and waters. ferns raised from the soil only today, lay atop the mountains, silent keepers born before adam and eve, the birds of the air, and the stars of the sky. the spectrum of life explodes before him in a rare, resonating brush with the face of God.

he motions to her, ‘come here,’ he says. she stands adjacent to him as he wraps his arm around her. his hand on her shoulder, he gives her a gentle squeeze; she smiles. ’share this with me?’ he asks.

‘okay’ she says and gives him his moment. he kisses her on the hair, just above her ear. they stand still for a second, their feet planted in the ground as the wild flowers and wild grasses rise above and hedge around the thick soles of their boots — she is still giving him his moment.

‘only if you share this with me.’

she smiles, he smiles, she is clever and right, he laugh-laughs, the most natural sound ever meant to proceed from my lips — the most gentle way to be humbled.      

“what do we learn from this kind of death? what can we learn?”

* * * * *

melvin walked, hands in his pockets gently holding two twenty dollar bills. melvin’s eyes clear and direct. for every good king knows one thing, there is a time for peace and a time for war. a time for mercy and a time for justice. and melvin was not going to allow for one of his subjects to be treated this way without a stern rebuttal. when melvin had seen the girl sitting there, crying, something in his heart sparked, and now the fire was burning strong and bright.    

* * * * *

“is this a shakespearean tragedy robbed of the prevailing good?” the voice going out into the allready sun baked morning air and nestling into the brand new stems of green grass.

* * * * *

melvin had a plan. the rain had been constantly falling since he had abandoned the truck and he had become quite wet. but that wouldn’t matter because he was coming to his first destination. the old patkins farm.

robert paktin still lived there are had for thirty years been trying to sell the object of melvin’s current desires. it was a lawn tractor, orange in color with a black padded a seat. melvin knew that the forty dollars he was carrying was a generous offer for the 1972 beast made out of steel, plastic with a wicked sense of humor when it came to the question of perfect working order. after a few moments of bargaining with robert, the tractor was his for all forty dollars.

he jumped on, a fine steed, something with this much spirit (good or bad) was not going to give up in the face adversity. a fine steed indeed.

* * * * *   

“for what cost is our courage purchased?”

* * * * *

thick dark clouds were setting in and the once gentle spring rain into a fierce storm. melvin turned on the fog lights of the garden tractor, and due to some electrical error the lights shone extra bright as the tractor poped and clanked its way down main-street as the rain became more and more forceful. becuase of melvins thorough surveys through the town of plainfield he knew exactly where jake dawson lived. 

a large thunderclap sounded overhead as melvin cranked the wheel and turned on to the dawson family lawn. melvin pushed the gear shift forward and the tractor kicked into it’s top speed as it rumbled and whined its way towards the large picture window of the living room.

melvin, soaked in the adrenaline could hear the overture rising around him as he continued to plow up the lawn. he grew closer and closer, the music rising in his chest – and then,

a large boom thunder that echoed its way down all the streets, alleys, and back yards of the town.   

melvin lay, his chest rising and falling slowly, listening to the rain pound down on the lawn beside him. and he know he was going to loose it all. melvin was bleeding and shaking…but he would be still soon. the open door of the house creaked on its hinges as the bewildered man lowered a rifle. the tractor’s engine sputtered and stopped, and a few seconds later the lights dimmed and went out. the tractor rested there, soaked in glory, giving a mystified look as the the water poured over its brow.

* * * * *

“what do we learn from this kind of death?” lizzie repeated tears in her eyes. “i don’t know what to learn from his death, but his life is ingrained into our hearts and our town. he was not a perfect man, and he did a lot of strange and even wrong things while he was here with us…but he was as we all are, just trying to find our way back home.” lizze paused and listened to the birds singing for a few moments. “but spring comes with hope that ashes will bring forth lilies and what was lost in an old promise can be gained in a new one.” lizzie took a piece of the dark earth and threw it onto the coffin.

the crowd milled and dispersed but lizzie stayed for a while. she eventually sighed and left with friendworthy tagging along behind her.

the men, who before were standing back leaning on their shovels, moved in. they burried the coffin and sprinkled new grass seed on the fertile soil.

[so this was a true story and in it the man that shot the ostrich man does go to jail. overall the short story was a good effort i think, but it had a lot of holes and inconsistantcies, but in some ways it was a more like a practice arena for my short story abilities, and now i have another true hometown story that i want to start working on, but i would like to release it all at once instead of installments. hope you enjoyed the ostrich man. peace]

it was another damp spring day as lizze sat in the ditch crying. a light misty rain was falling creating large shallow puddles on the highway; one of which lizze was wearing after the passing of an 06 dakota. this only made things worse. she had been trying to flag down passing vehicles with no success for quite some time and with her mental and emotional stamina at its bitter end, she sat down under the “Plainfeild 14 Km” sign (safe from any more puddle incidents) and she cried.

cars passed now and again but only faint sounds could break through the walls that lizzie had made out of her tucked knees, wet jacket colar and dripping hair. these walls made a private space for her cold wet face to be warmed by her tears.  

sqwish sqweesh sqwish sqwish. lizzie looked over her right shoulder. a decrepit looking, rusty truck had pulled up behind the march family minivan, and melvin merkle was making his way down the slope of wet dead grass. lizzie turned away, the tears still coming.

melvin sat down in silence and for a few moments the two sat listened to the hush of the rain.

in the silent company a certain amount of peace was finding its way into lizze and the tears were coming a lot more slowly now. “i ran out of gas.” she said.

melvin stayed silent.

“i was just avoiding going to that stupid gas station on the weekend…”

melvin stared straight ahead at the oppisite side of the ditch.

“i…” she was begining to cry more violently “i…just couldn’t…see him.” she sobed for a few more seconds and then brought herself under control. “you see i was seeing that boy that works there, his name is jake. i thought he was a really cute guy and when he asked me out i was so excited i thought we would be so happy…but he never did take me out anywhere, he just wanted me to ‘really show that we were together’ when we were at school. it was just like in all those high school drama’s on TV…except i really thought he cared.” she couldn’t hold the tears in anymore as her chest heaved for air.  ”i feel so stupid.”

for melvin it was one of those moments when we feel so increadably human and are put face to face with what a child we still are.

and then

then lizzie felt something strange and wonderful. it was the feeling that someone is catching you from a hard fall. 

melvin had wrapped his jacket around the girl.

“one minute” melvin said getting up leaving a clean hankerchief in her hand. he returned five minutes later to find lizzie mostly recovered. “i filled the tank of the mini van with extra gas that i had in the back of the truck. there was probably enough in there that you could make a trip to town and back home…and then you wouldn’t have to swing by the gas station on monday.”

“thank you” lizze said wiping the tears from her cheeks. she pushed herself on to her feet and walked over to melvin. “here is your coat.”

“you keep it, your coat is still wet.”

“thank you…” she didn’t exactly know how to adress him, but she knew she didn’t want to call him ostrich man, ”thank you…friend.”

she hugged him, got into the minivan and drove away.

melvin waited for a minute, and then began to walk.  he had drained the truck’s tank.   

[ok, so i totally demolished the narrating voice, and by now my characters are ridiculusly dynamic, but i like it.  p.s. there will be another installment]