Monday, June 22, 2009

Looking through his glasses.

Two stories about an unusual way of seeing.

Ceahorse’s

Skins

Today is Tuesday. Nothing interesting ever happens on Tuesday, and today will end like any other. Tomorrow is going to be the mid week bipolar day. This Saturday, however, is going to be quiet intriguing. It is going to be the day I find out just how strange and carefree Kevan, my best friend, is.

On Saturday, I will wake up late, as usual for a weekend. I’ll get dressed; grab a breakfast of undercooked toast slabbed with peanut butter. The sticky knife will sit in the sink, and the crumbs will be left on the counter – no plate necessary. My shirt will hold a slight stink of a few days of usage, but not enough that it stands out like the obvious balled-up wrinkles.

When I get to his house, he will still be asleep. I’ll knock on his basement window as I pass by to the back door. He will meet me there, open then door with a lethargic hello, followed by a rub of the eyes. I will follow him down stairs into his gloomy bedroom. We will sit down on his folded up futon, the one that’s too troublesome to be unfolded to make a bed.

Then we will smoke. I’ll grab the bag off the tea table, without asking. I’ll reach in and take out a nice size bud for a satisfying early afternoon wake up tok.

After I finish cutting it up into tiny pieces, I’ll search and not find a packet of rolling papers. I’ll ask him, sincerely worried, but knowing there is always a bong as a substitute.

This is when I’ll get a taste of his insensitivity to what is common. His strange ignorance to what most would take for granted in knowing. He is going to point to a book on the edge of the table. I’ll look down at it leather cover and it’s single word title and grin and utter a giggle. He is going to raise his eye brow and tell me he is serious. I’ll open the cover and notice that a few pages will be already missing. When I see this, I am going to turn to him and ask him if he is worried about the consequences of using the pages of this particular book. He will respond with an unexpected answer along the line of the pages being ideal based on the thinness, and as for the ink, how bad can it be? This will cause pause in me. I’ll then ask him if he knows what book this in fact is after I end my assumption that he should. He will tell me that he found it in a box of paint cans, a used up sponge and a coil of RCA cable. We will then add that he tried to read it and that found it to be a messily written work. The main character not properly developed in the beginning but referred to a lot through out. He will tell me that he is not really interested in reading short stories, especially ones written in the strange form of English that he finds this one to be. I’ll pause before he reminds me that he doesn’t have any Zig Zags, and then I’ll tear a page of Genesis.

Lion’s

I Can See Orion

“I can see Orion”

“Where… I can’t find it.”

“See those three stars in a row just by the wispy cloud that looks like a guitar… and then the two above and below them.”

“No.”

“Right there!”

“Oh, there.”

“Yeah, there. That’s the belt.”

“What’s the belt?”

“The three, the three in a row, that’s the belt; and then the shoulders and knees of the Hunter are above and below it. And those three hanging from the belt, that is his sword.”

“More like a dong.”

“Is he tucking it up?”

“What?”

“Sure. What is Orion anyway? I mean how long have people been seeing that one figure in the stars?”

“Well, I know from Grecian times but I’ve got no idea of how long he’s been floating around. Why’s that?”

“I was just thinking they could use an update. I mean when is the last time you’ve seen a person hunt with a sword? Or a Medusa? Or a scale without a digital read out?”

“Well, what would you change it to? A man with a tuck up hunting beaver?”

“No, Look here: That Orion could be a rock star, extend the legs and turn the shield to the neck of an 60’s Fender Strat and have those stars above his right shoulder turn into an arm waiting for the right time to strike the cord.”

“Where?”

“See? There.”

“Awe, I see.”

“Cool right, a good up date?”

“That’s a good one but what would the rest of them be, stockbrokers, actors, directors, corrupt senators, and stacks of dollar bills?”

Friday, June 5, 2009

Tongues

Two stories about overcoming the barrier of language.

Lion’s

Foreign Poet

When you’re on a beach in the tropics with the sun going down and there is a person beside you that has a rolled cigarette and they offer a bump, you don’t ask what’s inside, you just smoke it. You do that, nod in agreement to whatever you’re smoking, and try to make small talk.

I pointed to the horizon and nodded, “pretty good one today,” I said not really knowing if my compadre on the beach spoke my language.

“The red sun falls good today” he said. When you don’t speak the language well, poetic language comes naturally. It’s a gift to be limited in the way that you speak but still know how to speak. I was once a poet until I started to study comparative literature. With all my knowledge I’ve forgotten how simple beautiful can be and how beautiful can be simple.

“I’ve never seen fireflies on a beach before,” I said.

“Yes the light bugs are beautiful on water moon light view.” He said and gave me another puff.

I thought of the world of simple language that I had left behind after all my study on my own. It was here that I decided that I would become a poet. I would learn a language by grammar and a base of the parts of speech needed to place and describe objects. Then, I would write. If I became too versed in one language I would move to a new area and start to learn another. I would be one of the few poets that wrote in a tongue other than their native.

And in the middle of my thought, he handed me the rolled cigarette and said, “The world magic and the mind are magic.” And right then I promised to start looking for it.

Ceahorse’s

The Translator

I met my wife when I was living in Beijing. She grew up there; I was there working. We married and I, or we, stayed there to remain near her family which was more important to her than my family is to me. Then we had a son; we named him John.

He was 8 when it first happened, or at least when he first mentioned it to us. He came into our room late one night, after we were all asleep. He told us that there was a person in his room. I freaked, thinking it was a burglar, and ran to his room, grabbing the first thing I could as a weapon – the hairdryer.

His room was empty, and there was no sign of a break in. My first conclusion was that he had confused dream with reality. I talked to him about it, but he was too afraid to contradict his hero, his pa.

The next time it happened I came into his room hearing him scream. I was watching a movie with the wife. As I entered the room he jumped up and ran to hug me. Safe in my arms he pointed to the empty corner. “She is there” was all he said before he began to sob.

I knew there was a problem. After consulting with my wife, we decided we need to take him to a doctor for a check up. Our family doctor wasn’t able to help so we found a specialist through the internet.

Late in the next week the three of us were sitting in the office of Dr. Wang, of Hong Kong. We went through the questions together, and the doctor ordered up an MRI. The week later we were back, the results in. The doctor diagnosed John with classic schizophrenia and encouraged a treatment with clopimozide. When I asked him for the side effects, one stood out alone, ringing loud my ear. “A lost in creativity.” I told him we needed to think about it.

Back at home, my wife asked why I didn’t take the doctors advice. My response was as follows. “He is our son. Perhaps he is mentally ill and in need of medication, but perhaps he is not” She got angry and asked what I was suggesting. I responded “I’m not saying I believe in ghosts. But clearly John does, for whatever reason. And I think we should face this problem not run from it with medication that will stop our boy from seeing anything.”

It made me think about my childhood. I used to see colors. Colors in everything. Not just the color of objects, but the colors of abstract things. Like blue for and intense math problem. And red for an angry girl that was frightened by a bully with a bug. My parents took the doctors advice, and my colors went away. I also became a bore.

The next time my son saw her I was ready. Safe in my arms I guided him. He told me she was back. I asked him to be strong and I told him I would let her hurt him. He stopped crying and asked what he was to do. I told him to ask her if she was ok. He told me she didn’t say anything that perhaps she didn’t understand, that she looked Chinese. I asked him to translate what I was saying in to Chinese. He did it, and told me she responded. She said that she didn’t feel good, and that she was lost. I told him to tell her that we might be able to help her. She smiled, and said thank you. I offered our help again, building her trust. Next I looked deep in my son’s eyes, intensely, and told him that the next part was very important. I told him that the next thing he said had to be worded and said very softly, like your talking to a puppy. He said he understood and then translated. “You appear to be a ghost to us”.

He never saw her again. He never screamed or came running into our room at night. But there were times when, on my way past his room to bed, I heard him whispering in his room.