The Ostrich Man (Revised): I’m not trying to beat the man to death, but on popular demand his revised visage is gracing these electronic pages again… May 29, 2008
Posted by david in Creative Fiction, Creative Non-Fiction.add a comment
Episode 1
Melvin Merkle took a breath and then holding it in, made three succinct and satisfying smackering sounds with his large lips. Melvin was king, for everyday added more decisive proofs that he rightly reigned supreme over the small town of Plainfield and its dimwitted occupants. You see, Melvin was an ostrich farmer.
“It takes a cow to feed a cow.” Melvin said in firm and direct voice.
“Um, well…what exactly to you mean by that Mr. Os-um…uh…” The sixteen year old girl winced, “Sorry I don’t know your name.”
“It takes a cow to feed a cow.” Melvin said, looking straight into the eyes of Lizzie March. “Don’t you see?!” He said, the last word gaining in volume and pitch. Melvin stared with his enlarged eyes for three more, full seconds – very full seconds. This was awkward for Lizzie and thus she became very interested in the tufts of grass growing to her right, around the base of the RACE TRAC GAS sign.
Lizzie had come to the lonely non-town-side-of-the-highway establishment to purchase a quarter tank of gas for the family vehicle and perhaps a chance to talk to the handsome blue eyed boy who ran the cash register on weekends.
She did not know Melvin Merkle’s real name, for in the town of Plainfield most people (unable to come up with a better title) knew him as the Ostrich Man.
One of the many reasons that Melvin was a most excellent king was that he did not sit on some throne resolute in his pride. No, he took to surveying the streets of Plainfield and the surrounding highways looking for those upon which he could endow his wisdom. It was in the midst of one of these kingdom inspections, that he came upon this young damsel, Lizzie March.
“It takes a cow to feed a cow. I wouldn’t let a cow start walking on two legs; put on a flowery apron and slop some tasty beef stew into my blue tin plate, would I? I reckon I would shoot a cow walking on two legs wearing a flowery apron.”
“Yes…” Lizzie said, looking down and then back up into the giant saucers and asked: “Why is a cow serving beef stew.”
“That’s my point Ms. Marsh if I let a cow serve me, I would be…” he paused for dramatic effect, “bovine.”
“Well, I guess that makes sense,” Lizzie lied. Melvin could see that she couldn’t understand his higher teaching, but he thought she might need some encouragement.
“It’s about looking around you,” he looked off into the distance slowly panning across the horizon with his pale eyes, “Seeing what is there, and processing it into something unseen…” Melvin really liked to pause for dramatic effect. “…thoughts.” Melvin, satisfied with his impact on the young mind, turned and plodded away, the fine grime of an early spring crunching methodically under the soles of his shoes. Lizzie, a little shaken by the encounter, continued in her previously planned pursuits.
Shing-a-ling-ling ting-ting ting-ting ting. “Hey.” The seventeen year old boy put down the card board box he was carrying.
“Hi Jeff.”
“What were you and the ostrich man talking about?”
“Things that are unseen.” she said quietly.
Episode 2
“There you go Friendworthy,” Melvin said affectionately to his large tabby cat. “You munch on that for awhile. Yummy-yummy.” He smiled. Friendworthy was Melvin’s primary receiver of love and affection. The cat did not care too much for the loud streets of the town, but rather preferred chasing mice in and out of maze of ostrich talons, and sitting on fencepost number one watching for Melvin’s broken down, rust bitten truck to pull up the lane. Melvin had always said that Friendworthy was his anchor, his picture of what was still good in this modern world.
“A more constant friend one can’t find in this world of upside-down priorities. And people are always so hung up on talking. Just because he can’t talk doesn’t mean he can’t talk.”
“Well, yes Melvin, animals have their special ways of communicating.” Mrs. Manchuck said as she placed a reminder for the men’s breakfast on the church bulletin board.
“See there’s my point right there. People don’t say ‘talk’ anymore, they say communicate.” He added apostrophises to the final word with dramatic finger motions. “Why is everyone so scared of talking animals?”
“I don’t know, Melvin.” Mrs Manchuck said sighing.
“Rudyard Kipling wasn’t, Walt Disney wasn’t, and I’m not.” Melvin exclaimed raising his voice and pointer finger. There was silence.
“Is there anything I can help you with today Melvin.”
“When are the potlucks scheduled for this month?”
“Well…um let’s see…” she paused and looked up from her appointment book. “Melvin?”
“Yes?”
“You are the kind of man that always says exactly what is on his mind, right?” He nodded. “Well do you mind if I say what is really on my mind?” He shook his head from side to side. “Why do we always see your perfect attendance at the potlucks of our church, but have we ever seen you attend one Sunday morning service?” Mrs. Manchuck could see that Melvin was preparing to say something very insightful.
“Well, I don’t have a fancy study Bible or anything, I guess I just got the small red one I got when I was in grade five but it seems the Lord liked to sit down with his disciples and have a good meal together…and It doesn’t say anything about hard wooden pews that hurt my tailbone.”
“April 6th, Good Friday.”
Melvin walked out the door, not stopping to rigorously inspect the bulletin board in the usual fashion. Thoughts of this transaction plagued Mrs. Manchuck’s thoughts all afternoon, not about the content, but about the unusually coherent delivery the Ostrich Man’s final statement. She wouldn’t be going alone to the church anymore.
Episode 3
It was another damp spring day as Lizzie sat in the ditch crying. A light, misty rain was falling creating large shallow puddles on the highway; one of which Lizzie was wearing after the passing of a 2006 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 Plainfield 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 collar and dripping hair. This fortress made a private space for her cold, wet face to be warmed by her tears.
Squish sqweesh squish sqwash, Lizzie looked over her right shoulder. A decrepit, 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 that silent company there was a certain amount of peace that was finding its way into Lizzie and the tears were coming 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 opposite side of the ditch.
“I…” she was beginning to cry more violently “I…just couldn’t…see him.” She sobbed for a few more seconds and then brought herself under control. “You see I really liked the boy that works there on the weekends. And so last weekend, I decided to be brave and just come out and say it. He didn’t feel the same. He told a bunch of his friends, even though he promised he wouldn’t tell anyone! And now it is over the whole school that I was rejected…I feel so stupid!”
Tired of being sad, and tired of crying she was beginning to reach down for some anger from the pit of her stomach, but then she felt something strange and wonderful. It was the feeling that someone is catching you from a hard fall, or at least holding on to you as you look over an edge. Melvin had wrapped his jacket around the girl.
“One minute,” Melvin said getting up leaving a clean handkerchief in her hand. He returned five minutes later to find Lizzie mostly recovered. “I filled the tank of the minivan with extra gas that I had in the back of the truck. There is probably enough in there that you can make a trip to town and back home…and then you wouldn’t have to swing by the gas station.”
“Thank you” Lizzie said wiping the tears from her cheeks. She pushed herself on to her feet and walked over to Melvin. “Here is your coat.”
“Thanks.”
“Thank you…” she didn’t exactly know how to address him, but she knew she didn’t want to call him Ostrich Man, “Thank you.”
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.
Episode 4
“What can we learn from this kind of death?”
* * * * *
Melvin walked, hands in his pockets gently holding two twenty dollar bills. Melvin thought very little, at this point, about what he was about to do, but he knew he knew that there is a time for peace and a time for war, a time for mercy and a time for the full justice. Melvin was not going to allow for one of the persons under his care 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.
* * * * *
“Where might we find the lesson in all of this?” The voice went out into the already sun baked morning air, finally 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 Patkin’s farm.
Robert Paktin still lived there and 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 and plastic. The tractor had a wicked sense of humour 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 evil) was not going to give up in the face adversity. A fine steed indeed.
* * * * *
“Is our lesson in courage, or rationality; pessimism or hope?”
* * * * *
Thick dark clouds were setting in and the once gentle spring rain was now a fierce some storm. Melvin turned the fog lights of the garden tractor on and due to some electrical error, they shone extra bright. As the tractor popped and clanked its way down main-street, the rain became more and more forceful, and the drops began to sting his face a little. But luckily, because of Melvin’s thorough surveys of Plainfield, he knew exactly where this boy lived.
A large thunderclap sounded overhead as Melvin cranked the steering wheel and turned on to the Dawson family’s extensive front lawn. Melvin pushed the gear shift forward and the tractor kicked into its top speed as it rumbled and whined its way towards the large picture window of the living room.
Melvin, hearing the adrenaline pump in his ears ploughed up the lawn with an expressionless face. When he had covered almost half the distance of the lawn, he prepared for the final push, he took a breath and then holding it in, made three succinct and satisfying smackering sounds with his large lips. Melvin was king.
A large boom thundered and echoed its way down all the streets, alleys, and back yards of Plainfield. Melvin now lay with his chest slowly rising and falling, listening to the rain pound down on the neatly cut grass beside him. And he knew he was going to lose it all. Melvin was bleeding and shaking…but he soon stilled. The open door of the house creaked on its hinges as the bewildered man lowered a rifle. The tractor’s engine sputtered and stopped with no turning of key, the wheels rolled in silence for a few more feet and stopped yards short of the picture window. The rain poured down on the newly silent scene. The lights of the tractor dimmed sporadically then went out. The tractor stood there, soaked in glory, giving a mystified look as 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.” Lizzie paused and listened to the birds singing for a few moments. “And spring comes with hope that ashes will bring forth flowers 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.
I have also been skateboarding… May 25, 2008
Posted by david in Creative Non-Fiction, Musings.1 comment so far
This is an excerpt from my diary…
For Those of You Who Have Been Wondering What I’ve Been Up To Lately… May 23, 2008
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I’ve been working/going to empty lots and Wainwright, sporting my new pump-up shoes and being a little showy-off with my new cool haircut…here’s the video of a passer-by…
The Pakistani Trees of a Childhood Memory: My Final English Assignment April 8, 2008
Posted by david in Creative Non-Fiction.1 comment so far
My head fell soft against the grass, and the hideous expression upon my face faded into the most peaceful death-mask. I took a deep breath, even though warriors lying face down on the battle field aren’t supposed to breathe. The cool air above me and the cool grass below lapped away the heat from my small, incandescent body. I was six.
We had been running our selves dizzy on the playing field sandwiched between the dormitory and the forest. My schoolmates and I were in the throes of some game based on an ancient civil war, where we carved turning and returning footpaths on the field of grass till all the faces and limbs blurred in our eyes, due to the dizziness. At full speed, we ducked in and out of each other, firing shots with our imaginary long-bows. Then, when fatal wound number twenty one (or forty one) was inflicted, we would pirouette, and fall to the ground. I was one of the best in the art of faking death. Many of the other boys would fall in silence (my brother often fell smiling!) but I would always let out a hideous scream as I died. Then the face of agony would slowly fade into a quiet visage. It was in this peaceful sleep that Joel had jumped on my back.
I struggled, arching my small back; pressing my palms into the grass trying to rise. This attempt utterly failed and after a few seconds I resumed my death pose. “I think this one is still alive.” Joel whispered in my ear. “I think this one is still alive!” He repeated. “I think this one is still alive.” I smile now thinking about Joel’s lack of creativity in attempts to produce a response, but I smiled then because we were children at play and I wasn’t actually dead. Since he had found me out, I was obligated and out of a deep joy for play, my lips curled.
I turned my body to face his. He had become distracted by the still raging war and was watching the carnage that had continued without us. I had never been taught to punch, and thinking back on it now, a good sock to the gut would have been my best chance for release, but lacking this gift, I grabbed his wrists in an attempt to throw him. I kicked and flailed in my attempt to remove him, but he was stronger than I, and in a much better position. Soon, I was struggling to breathe as he had now centered himself on my chest. Joel was smiling, but for me, this game was becoming less and less fun. “Joel” I coughed, “I can’t…breathe!” He, thinking I was playing the game, didn’t relent. I started to become fearful, which further constricted my breathing. When I thought I could take no more – he rolled off. I lay there paralyzed by my new freedom of air. The reason for Joel’s rather sudden departure became quite clear in the next few moments.
A small Pakistani boy was heading over towards us, and Joel had rolled off to avoid him. The boy was maybe two years old and propelled himself towards Joel and I on awkward steps, leaning forward and letting his weight carry him onward. He was smiling, eyes wide and full. He obviously had seen the fun Joel and I were having and wanted to join us. Joel at this point was looking frightened, I’m sure, because he never questioned the older boys’ mythology, which recently included a disease. The boy, which was pedaling towards me, was covered in sores. He had a pox of some sort on the full length of his body. He wore only a shirt that was unbuttoned, leaving his belly and his bottom half exposed. I sat there frightened more by his nakedness than by the blistering sores.
“How could he have had a disease,” I asked the boys later that evening, “If he was smiling and happy?” Diseased people in my young mind never smiled and never slept, they walked the dark city streets with palms outstretched under the moonlight. When they got a few coins they hid in a corner, or went down into a man-hole and ate them.
The boy came close, extremely close, and it is this moment that is etched as one of my most vivid memories of that era. He reached out a small arm ready to topple on top of me. I looked at the clean palm of his hand reaching for my white shirt. But he was jerked away. His sister had run from the door of their small home; the only building that belonged to the woods and not to the school. The look on his face was changed from overflowing joy to broken sorrow; his mouth dropped and tears filled his eyes. She pulled him away and he stared back in despair at what he had lost. As she brought him up to her hip he began to wail openly. She was dressed in a red salwar kameez; it was the last thing I saw when the two disappeared through the dark doorway of their one-room house.
Joel ran off to tell the older boys about how I had just about got the disease, but how I was okay because he had pulled me away – right when the boy was about to touch me. Joel also had another story like this, where I just about drown and he had pulled me to the surface. Actually, he just kicked me and used me for leverage as he scrapped for his own breath of air. Later, his stories for the older boys included a scene where he comes up and doesn’t see me; amidst all his fear he goes back down to save me.
The next day, when we were supposed to be playing in the front of the dormitory, I snuck out back. Alone in the huge field of grass, I made my way to the edge of the wood. We had seen monkeys on the fringe of the forest, and gypsies a little further in, some boys had claimed to have looked jackals in the eyes – but despite the blurred lines our society of boys had made between myth and reality, we were really quite sure that all of the most fervent life dwelt in the deep deep reaches, and rarely came to the outer gates. I stood there alone, staring at the cold green face. I was a dramatic child, and mostly copying my current stare from some movie I had watched earlier that month as part of our weekly viewings. A light breeze was up, rustling through the tangled patch of ferns and weeds that stretched toward me, but the massive evergreens stood stone-still. Many souls wandering these Pakistani mountain ranges would only need to look to the great snow caps of the Himalayas, or the fiery white stars that cut through our thin mountain air – but for me it was the trees that made me feel small. I looked over; there was a dim yellow light in the window of the small mud house. Or was I imagining? More importantly, which was I looking for: the boy, or his sister?
the muscles of a crying man February 25, 2008
Posted by david in Creative Non-Fiction, Poetry.1 comment so far
David wants to run away.
maybe david is a little boy,
and maybe,
he is confused.
maybe he might find something buried in the woods. underneath a thick, green, and shady silence, he might find a play. falling out of an elderly balsam tree; an old play, with tattered pages and a good title.
maybe david is afraid; ashamed.
maybe david has made some mistakes.
.
maybe david will go on. telling people that he made the shape of a bonfire in their coffee’s bubles, or a picture of their grandmother with the crème fresh that tops their soup.
maybe he has lost something that was something.
.
maybe he is not a little boy, david, who wants to run away. maybe he is that prophet of the old testament, who, walked over men with his sword
and then washed his hands of their blood.
who called down fire from heaven and turned away as it shattered the stones
and burned a divine glow onto the face of the ticket-holders
turned sons.
.
that prophet
is not a little boy, he has big muscles and dark pools for eyes –
in all the sunday school posters.
his cloak is made of rough cloth, that is, until it reaches his apprentice, with a softer name, and thus a softer picture drawn for the little children
with clean faces.
.
that prophet is not a little boy, but he ran like one,
away from the girl that stuck out her tongue at him, and pulled his hair.
have i just offended you?
and your old testament hero
turned pants-wetting child?
he is, though, me,
maybe.
a man without big muscles, as the artists would believe.
but a man who, at one time, had
faith the size of a
mustard seed.
now,
with no face,
covered,
weeping for the sake of a whisper.
hopeing for
a
moving on,
a
making good
on his
jelousy.
the bed-time story January 24, 2008
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david’s facebook status: david is weary, and with his imagination a broken down 1984 toyota carola, he is stumbling into bed as if it were 4 am.
that was 4 hours ago, at 8:30, and i am still awake. sometimes i think life is a joke that we will only truly appreciate laughing at when it is all over.
what i could use right now is a bed-time story. not a thomas bed-time story. thomas, my oldest brother, used to read to matthew (the middle child) and i, going on into what seemed like the wee hours of the silent morning. but it was probably just 9:30. i would listen to the story, usually a mythological world filled with rather dimwitted characters. the words falling upon interested ears as sleep evaded me. or i would listen to the story, a most eggresiously boring plot, the words falling upon my uninterested ears, and being one of short attention span, i would spend the rest of story time focused on my burning eyes, periodically whining about how the light burned my eyes, wondering how i could get thomas in trouble for keeping us up so late, and seriously contemplating yelling ’shut-up!’ at the top of my lungs. the problem with my last plan of action was that i knew that my father could yell louder than i.
as much as i did, for the most part, earnestly enjoy thomas’ story time, it was not the same as mother’s bed-time story.
my mother and, i imagine, all mothers have a bed-time story voice. something really physical, like a warm set of pajamas they also draped over our vulnerable childish frames. i can remember my mother’s bed-time story voice. i remember no stories just the voice. and not even the cadence or the personality, just the feeling, the softness mostly. my memory is blurry, like hearing a song booming through your living room wall compliments of the neighbor, or looking up at your old life from a watery grave.
i probably don’t remember any stories because i doubt i ever finished one. by the time the last page was to be turned i would be soundly asleep; mother’s bed-time story a soft but sturdy bridge into a world of dreams: dreams where we, alone, must confront our hope, faith, fear, our unbridled imagination, and our doubt — not unlike current reality.
courtney: 4 right handed wins, one left handed — david: 4 right handed losses, one particularly hard, and a long fought battle with the left (not in his favor) January 14, 2008
Posted by david in Creative Non-Fiction.2 comments
my arm hurts. do you know why my arm hurts? i was arm wrestling a girl. a girl named courtney, she is 14, i think.
she never made any facial expressions as she defeated again and again. i think the grand total was courtney: 4 right handed wins, one left handed — david: 4 right handed losses, one particularly hard, and a long fought battle with the left (not in his favor).
so i’ve decided to do more revaluation of my life, i’ve been doing an extreme amount of that lately. i mostly just run circles in my brain, but not in a funny way — a frustrating way. its like when i decided that i would face courtney with my left hand. i really thought that i could beat her. did i mention that there were probably 12-14 spectators, most that did not mind making fun of my classy but effeminate tendencies, before i decided to arm wrestle a junior high aged girl. but as we go to the left hand, i thought for sure, this is my event — this is my event. i lost after twenty or so seconds of agonizing pain, at a certain point i realized i had nothing left and gave up.
courtney holds another place in david’s favorite lore, but one in which they teamed up for a touch down to answer the question of matt merkly. i think we should stay as a team courtney, i just seem to embarrass myselft when i go against the natural order of things.
.
i want to write more, and write something more meaningful for my readers, something that makes sense, but nothing really seems to be coming. i’m sorry, but hey, hold out and maybe i’ll come up with something brilliant later this month. see, this post, it doesn’t answer the question ‘what do you do when you don’t understand why you keep loosing a brute strength challenge against someone with probably half your muscle mass?’ i don’t answer it, cause i don’t understand my life, i don’t understand why all my mental, physical and spiritual toil seems to be leading utterly nowhere. no where can be a frustrating place, as you stand there (which is nowhere) out of breath, painfully weary and alone.
i have so many more questions than answers. so i wait.
my writing and perhaps lack of writing might reflect this waiting, for the skies to clear — and maybe even the ice to melt. but hopefully i can spin off a poem or something like that later this month. deal? deal.
much love to my faithful readers (if you exist)
violent serenity, the silent night: exploring communion in advent December 3, 2007
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so i was sitting there in a church, staring at a small cup of juice, noticing that this church used glass communion cups instead the regular plastic disposables. i liked those plastic ones, there was a certain humility to them. i was siting there, and all the pastor was talking about was peace. peace this, peace that, our symbol of peace, and he was right. but as i pondered i couldn’t help but form the image of a dying man in my mind. a hardened, sharpened, heavy chunk of metal forcing its way under his ribs, a voice saying ‘this is my blood’.
i wonder what john thought at that moment watching his rabbi pinned to an olive tree, his blood streaking down its trunk and spreading over its roots. i wonder if he remembered his voice saying ’this is my blood’. if he did, i wonder if he questioned what he had really been involved in the previous night. i wonder how tightly fear pressed all around his heart. a violent death, no doubters will contest, but as i sat there, i could feel that peace the pastor spoke of.
a certain serenity deep within. a deep hope.
back to the scene at the foot of the cross we feel the roman empire rising ominously overhead. wasn’t this the great prophet? signs never seen before preformed by his healing hands? another hope of israel vanishes among the sands of time. maybe God has finally abandoned us. you can sense this attiditude in the chaotic remains of the disciples, so what can you expect from the masses? when Christ had told them that they must eat of His flesh the crowds got lost, only the disciples remained, and if this core group was faltering now, then what can we expect of israel and her sons and daughters. but Christ never meant to fill the hearts of the jews with war and hate, a new covenant was coming when the jews would not be freed from rome, a dark oppressive giant rising over the horizon, but from their own dark and oppressive hearts.
this blood would pave the way for not only for israel’s freedom, but my freedom, and the world’s salvation.
that’s a deep hope. that the world can be changed for the better. i think too much of my life i spend looking at the world as this wall, wide and tall, deep and strong and dark. i push and i push trying to knock it over, only to find i’m farther back when i started. do i throw my hands up? scream when i’m in empty places? curse? i try not to. i try to see the beauty in life, for even in a dark time, when God had not spoken to his people in 400 years there came a beauty so profound and powerful it acts on the heart of every man and woman. a rabbi pinned to a tree releasing a electricity in the air never to be made silent. God laying his life down, a power that can never be vanquished, a peace that can never be stolen. and that is why i see a violent serenity in that little plastic cup.
its a good thing i’m don’t get graded on my blogs because i’m just now getting back to the thesis.
silent night, loved by most, scoffed at by higher theologians who remind us that it was the birth of a baby — hardly a silent one of those in all of history. but i like the song, undoubtedly its what rings in my head as i lay it down on christmas eve. you see, there was a violent serenity about that night too. a baby crying, a mother writhing in pain, some shepards getting the junk scared out of them by shining alien creatures. i imagine fugitives, they have been hiding out from the cia and fbi for years. they twaddle around a grassy slope somewhere in southern argentina when – bam! blinding white spotlights burst out of the cloud cover. helicopters with a chaotic flurry of propeller blades descend on the confused and frightened band of men. the ring of a mega phone and in a stately authoritative voice “do not be afraid!” i mean i think we should get a little more of a giggle out of this when we read it in the bible. maybe we’ve watched to many christmas pageants, where the angels are played by petite blond haired girls with shy smiles. the real specimens were unearthly beings arrayed in light. whatever the spectacle was, i offer it was not serene.
what was serene was their message. the prince of peace has been born. freedom for captive israel has be lowered to the earth from above. the earth that groaned for the touch of God may, for a night, sleep in heavenly peace. i like candle lighting services, and i like silent night.
a woman writhes in a stable; through a voilent labour a Savior is brought to a dirty manger, and through a violent labour 33 years later that child, now man, would complete his mission to bring peace.
we live in a violent world (if you don’t believe me you need to get out more) and we all live with a dark nature brooding within (a question every human must face on their own). i live a violent life, i struggle outwardly and within, but as the preacher preaches of the peace in a plastic cup, i’ll drink it down. thinking of a blood stained olive tree, its warmed bark resting in the stillness following an earthquake. and i will think of a woman and a man bringing a child into a barn without an epidural. pondering how these two, violence and serenity, must co-exist, light feet dancing on the face of human history, a sort of predestined waltz. waltzing toward a time when no pain would be found between them any longer, only a wondrous light – the silent night only a shadow of this coming mystery.
david is thankful for: November 29, 2007
Posted by david in Creative Non-Fiction, Poetry.1 comment so far
david is thankful for:
friends who take him to the symphony
friends who take him to olive garden
friends who open up their freezer and start throwing things into a bag for him to take back to his humble abode
friends who make him laugh
friends who never stop being friends
the fact that he has a warm bed to sleep in, plenty of food, and a nice university to go to
friends who drive out to his gassless car and fill its tank
the sandwich but
david is most thankful for friends with great lines like: “i can’t possibly hate anybodies dancing” — translation “give er biscuits white boy”
and just in case your wondering, after the day that i had, giving er biscuits felt pretty darn good.
cooking! (BA DA BAP BAAAA!) with the green nose! (APPLAUSE) – (cuz he knows — OH I KNOWS! — how to cook good food for every nose, especially a green nose knows) November 1, 2007
Posted by david in Creative Fiction, Creative Non-Fiction, Musings.1 comment so far
1.two packages of 11 cent no name ichi-ban
into the pot. (when i say pot i mean put them in a dirty micro-wave and let er rip.)
2.one disturbingly large frozen chicken breast
into the micro wave. (actually you shouldn’t do this, cuz it stinks up the area and people will call you a green nose)
3. chicken
into the pan.
4. look at your spices, nothing eh? no curry powder? open some weird chicken tikka marinade that smells horrific. close. do not use!
5. cumin, sesame seeds, mike’s red hot with lime, oregano, ginger, and a table spoon of guthry’s apricot jam
into the pan.
6. think about mustard.
7. liquid from ichi ban
into the pan.
8. find a rice cooker top
on top of the pan.
9. let it simmer. have some triscuits as you wait for full effect.
10. chicken, with master blend of spices,
out of the pan
into the ichi ban.
11. try not to be a crazy person and let the entire chem 101 lab know that your not following the exact ”reactants and procedure” seen in your lab manual. and when the TA comes round and smells your amazing breakfast, give her a wink and say that you got confused, then maybe tap the end of your green nose. start singing jamie t’s “if you got the money” cuz that got a good laugh out of your lab partner earlier that day.
your TA might kick you out, or report you to dr. norman gee, but know worries. either bribe them with your dish or tell you you will call
bobby flay
.
.
p.s. make sure to get guthry’s appricot jam back by the next morning or he will bring the pain. also remember the acient proverb “one frozen chicken breast in the back pack = one mediochre grade on the post lab” – nose the cost.
