Memory

February 4, 2010 at 7:05 pm (Uncategorized)
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We walked into Perkits, my cousin, grandparents and I, as we do most often after filling our gullets with greek frood from the adjacent Gondolier. My cousin and grandfather, Daddy Pem, share a connection over their love of vanilla yogurt and wet walnuts. I stay true to my love of chocolate yogurt with chocolate bits broken up, generally achieving a snide remark or two. Sitting in the parlor, as if awaiting our arrival, was David Fisher and a friend of his (loudly pointed out by Daddy Pem as a “pretty girl”). Daddy Pem leaned over to David as we walked by and asked “are you a Fisher of men or a fisher elsewhere?” David, being the kind young man he is, simply replied “both.”

At the table, my grandmother, Mamma Dot, asked if we had ordered yet (of course, we were almost half way done with our yogurt). Daddy Pem nudged my shoulder, pointed to his skull and whispered, albeit loudly, “memory.” He then leaned in close and asked me if I had heard the joke he told David.

“Yeah,” I said, faining that I understood it.

“I asked him if he was a Fisher of men,” he repeated, “Or a fisher elsewhere. You know, like when you get a hemroid, a fisher.”Amazment grew soundly across my face as I realized what my grandfather meant. He asked David is he was a “fisser,” a pain in the ass.

“Ha,” I pretended.

Little David’s adventures in Slumberland

I was sleeping in a house with my father and brother, the house was composed of random pieces of all the houses I have lived in. I remember my bedroom was from Yakima and my Father’s bedroom was from Denver.

We were all watching a movie, though I decided to cut the event short and head off to bed. Soon after returning to my room I heard a knocking coming form somewhere in the house. I walked back into my parent’s room where my brother and father still where, and outside the window was a giant (as in Godzilla) spider attempting to tap his way in through the window. The spider soon gave up and moved to another part of the house. My brother and I quickly opened the window and began to climb down, leaving my father and promising to return with help. Once outside, we were at the apartment complex my parents now live in, and we began running towards our car.

I woke up, and my clock read 4:15. I went back to sleep.

When I returned to the dream I was back in my room, and locked in the bathroom that was adjoined to my bedroom was my cousin Nick. The spider was somewhat smaller now (about the size of a person) and standing outside of the door to my room, trying to force his way in. As I held the door at bay, I could hear my cousin screaming from the bathroom. The spider started, I assume, to fill the room with acid from underneath the crack in the door. I climbed up the wall to avoid this, but it acid kept growing higher and higher until, eventually, I again awoke.

I really wish my dreams had better plot structure.

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Americana

January 28, 2010 at 2:50 pm (Uncategorized)
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The corner of 23rd and Holtzclaw is that part of Chattanooga that every newly hip city has. The boundaries of the cool style that erupted, years ago, in the center of Market street have spread, like a circle, to the north, pushing the gruff and grime that once existed therein into the outlying streets of the edge of town. It is the home of liquor stores, tiendas, drugs, Americana. It is also the closest and most economical source of food, when traveling from my Habitat for Humanity office building.

I opted for the intimate interior of the Burger King in place of the drive through, figuring such course of action would save me at least fifteen minutes of waiting. Walking in, though, I was confronted by one of the great archetypical American characters: The Drug Addled Whore. “Hey goodlookin’,” she said. “Wanna eat? S’free…”

“No thank you,” I said. “I am on my lunch break, and I don’t have that long.”

“It won’t take long,” she said. I smiled, not really knowing what to do in this situation. I wanted to be polite, but nothing about the scene was polite.

“I have a very short break, I don’t think my employers would understand.” I ordered my value meal, waited for it to speedily be stuffed into what I am fairly sure was an already grease stained bag. I left the lobby, passing my new friend. I winked at her and said “stay out of trouble.” I’m not really sure why I did that.

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Handicapped

January 19, 2010 at 7:17 pm (Uncategorized)
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A wheel squeaked in slow rotation over the hardwood of my grandmother’s kitchen as she pulled her wheelchair forward with her left foot, her only arguably functional appendage.  Her broken leg has yet to heal, and it seems as if though it may never. Being that she is 83, her body most likely realizes that spending time on fixing something with little use left in it is a waste, focusing its healing powers on more important things such as her heart and lungs, perhaps. I attempted to read through the last half of “Cloud Atlas” while on her couch, but the squeal was far too loud.

The next day I spent volunteering at The Caring Place in Cleveland. It is a requirement for Americoprs VISTAs to do outside service on MLK day, and this is where I had set up to perform mine. The other VISTA at my affiliate never showed up, he claimed he decided to rake leaves in his neighborhood for his project (as if though there are leaves in January).

Half way through sweeping out the Caring Place’s food warehouse, the back loading dock opened and my friend, Jen, and another man entered in a van filled with food. While Jen and I exchanged pleasantries, the man began unloading the boxes. During one pass, he knocked over a mug that consequently shattered. Broom in hand, I approached to sweep it up, but the man put his hand out to stop me. “Broom,” he said.

In an attempt to put off his adhesiveness, I replied “It’s alright, I’m already sweeping, let me take care of it.” He shook his head.

“Broom,” he again demanded. So, I handed him the broom. He slowly and awkwardly bent to sweep the pieces, I leaned down and picked up the broken off handle. He stood again and reached out his hand, which was now filled with the pieces of the mug from the floor. I reached out mine to take the pieces from him, but he withdrew. Then he reached out again, and I responded the same, but he withdrew. I glared at him for a moment, he shook, stuttered and then said “mine, piece is mine.”

He reached out his hand again and I placed the broken off handle and placed it atop the pile of pieces that was cupped in his hand.

That night was beautiful, the weather had taken un unexpected turn and it felt like spring. I ran farther than I had in a long while, until my legs grew sore and my lungs shallow.

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Owls

January 15, 2010 at 4:14 pm (Uncategorized)
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I applied to Lee University only three weeks before the fall semester began in the summer of 2005. I had just graduated from FCA in Denver and, much like some malicious mirror formed to reflect future events, I had no idea what I wanted to do with my self, let alone my life. I had made application to move to Israel with my friend, Zac. However, things were uncertain concerning my visa, and rather than wait around to hear from a foreign government, I decided to go to college, to the delight of parents and grandparents a like.

I moved into Medlin dormitory, a legendary hall known for its age and deprecation. It was so old, in fact, that my grandfather had lived there when he attended Lee, just after the campus was purchased by the Church of God from Bob Jones University. If I unlocked my door, it would glide open, pulled down by gravity. My room was underground, literally, and sinking. The foundation of the building had begun to shift, and because of this book and cd and thing in my room leaned to the left, just a little.

For the first few months, I would sit alone in my dorm room, the door stopped open by natural forces, listening to what would later be described as “indie shit” music.

This is the story of how I met Josh Moblo, and subsequently, everyonne else. He walked past my room and heard music blaring from my modest speakers. “Hey cheif,” he said. “Is that the ‘Owls’?” In an instant I went from knowing no one in Cleveland to knowing everyone. Josh introduced me to all of his friends, whom all swiftly became my friends. There was Josh of course, and Jaime, Alex and Jesse (room mates my sophomore year), Kevin and Chalcraft (room mates my senior year) Amy, Nathan, BJ, Grant, Lauren (x2), Chainsaw (also known as Aleighsa) and Matt (a childhood friend that I reconnected with through Josh). Because of Josh, my entire life in Cleveland was different, bearable even. Sometimes great.

None of these friends live in Cleveland anymore, and I lament that. I find myself propping my apartment door open sometimes when I play music.

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January 14, 2010 at 1:50 pm (Uncategorized)

We spend a lot of time and energy trying to give meaning to things, or purpose or destiny or whatever you’d call it. We want events to be more than events, we want them to be occasions. But there is an inherit problem in that, because sometimes things just happen. There is chaos in the world, there is meaninglessness. People die, bad things happen, and there is no fate behind it, no God. We create theologies around trying to avoid this truth, we tell our selves it was God’s will or that God has a plan. But if all this is God’s will, if all of this is God’s plan, then I don’t want to follow what God has mapped out. If we are to believe that God is sovereign and good and infallible, then we have to accept that, on occasion, He just isnt there.

I hate my commute. From my apartment to my office, the entire drive is almost completely encapsulated in shadows. The sun is hidden by trees and mountains and buildings, because it just isnt high enough yet.  I know the sun is there, but it cant reach where I am.

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Blood Bought Camera

January 12, 2010 at 4:37 pm (Uncategorized)
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Downtown Cleveland is full of old rotting brick buildings covered in green moss and lined with weeds and dandelions. Many of the buildings are empty and uninhabited. On the weekends, few cars drive down any road there save Broad or Ocoee. If you ever want to seek out that kind of loneliness, where not only are you the only person where you are, but the only person who still is, these few densely packed buildings are where you need to be. A post-apocalyptic sensation will wash over you, and if you arent careful, you might feel the urge to begin society anew. When I was a carless freshmen at Lee University, it was a wonderful place to go and take pictures.

Jaime, Josh, Alex and myself would brave the barren streets, accompanied by old SLR cameras and, on occasion, Jaime would carry a pair of brass knuckles. I had recently bought my camera with money gained from selling plasma. I loved to tell people that I had bought the camera with my blood, which, essentially, was true.

We would explore the damp and moldy alley ways, the easily climbable low-level billboard signs, the parking lot structures no longer safe enough to hold any amount of weight. One of our favorite area’s was the old woolen mill, and empty building (for the most part) which was assuredly haunted. Many of the windows had been busted out by rouge rocks thrown by juvenile hands, many of the walls covered in gang signs, or what rich white college kids would assume to be gang signs anyways. One more than one occasion we were chased off the property, though we had nothing more dangerous than camera’s. Whoever claimed right to the building at the time still didn’t trust us.

There was a an old gypsy who owned a store called “Taneeke’s.” She had a camera that, she claimed, would take a photograph of your aura. She sold her own incense, small statues, oils that would bless objects if rubbed upon them. She also sold old maps of Cleveland and, when she had them in stock, fire crackers. She was just across the street from the Old Woolen Mill, and we would visit her often.

I used to wear an old military jacket I was fond of, on the shoulder were stitched three red stripes, the meaning of which I didnt know. I wore this jacket to Taneeke’s once, and only once. I approached the cash register to buy some incense, sitting with Taneeke was a large Indian man, maybe in his 50’s, with long black braids. He saw may jacket and asked “Did you earn those stripes boy?”

“No” I responded.

“Were did you get ‘em?”

Fearing that telling him I bought it at a thrift store would be a bad idea, I said “A friend gave them to me.”

“Hell, he should be beaten with a stick, why, if he were here I’d beat him myself.”

Tanneeke stepped in, “Go easy on the boy, Hawk.” Great, his name was Hawk.

The old indian glared at me until I left the store. Outside awaited Josh, Jaime and Alex. “You look pale,” said Jaime.

“I always look pale,” I said.

I never wore that jacket again.

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You! Young Immortal! pt. 2

January 6, 2010 at 2:07 pm (Uncategorized)

There were three car wrecks on the way to work today. Despite the eerie  frequency of these events, the wrecks were framed by the absurdity of the overturned SUV I saw yesterday. And, upon passing the third wreck (perhaps this isn’t a healthy emotion) I began to feel unnatural. That is to say, I began to feel immortal, not that foolish youth that all children feel as they toy with fire or leap of bridges or inhale alcohol, no, but a rather more protected feeling. And that feeling spread, and soon I began to feel better about everything, as if though it all were protected, immortal perhaps. I felt like God was taking care of me. I felt immortal.

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A Very Simple Self Portrait

January 5, 2010 at 3:08 pm (Uncategorized)
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I woke up as Pete Townsend this morning, flailing my arm from under the covers in a windmill motion, smashing the top of my brand new alarm clock, which plays a lovely tone that is no doubt similar to the electric hum that comes just after an atomic blast. Pulling myself from a shallow four hours of sleep, I started my day a new.

It was 12F this morning, as I drove shiveringly to work. Traffic slowed unreasonably as I advanced towards exit 183. On the shoulder sped by a stream of lights and sirens, one stream after another. Not to far ahead was their destination: a car wreck, a terrible omen. A black SUVwas on its side, all of the windows were cracked enough to prevent seeing if anyone was inside but not enough to have been smashed out. Soon after the accident, the lanes opened up and I was able to finish the rest of my commute very quickly. And even know, as I think about it, I feel guilty for just driving off, as if though there were anything I could have done.

——–

I’ve started painting again, which may or may not have been a good idea. I started with a portrait of a girl and made the mistake of attempting to create a light source. However, I am not so talented. After a moment of deep breathing, I began to gesso over the portrait, then painting over that several different spatches of green. I then went to a bar.

Painting has the marvelous ability to stress me out. I came home from the bar with more beer and finished the painting, a very simple self-portrait.

I don’t know why painting has this effect on me, nor why it might possibly drive me mad. I only wish I were talented enough to validate going insane.

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The French pt. 3

January 2, 2010 at 11:00 pm (Uncategorized)
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I was surprised that I knew so many of the wait staff, Mr. Miller made a light remark as to the fact during our stroll to the dinner table, “David, I didn’t know you were in charge of public relations for La Place.” It was the opening night for the restaurant and, as literary fate would have it, the first night I had met Laura Marie and Luke’s parents and also New Years Eve. If my life is a novel, this means something.

I had used this as an excuse to dress up. I was wearing gray slacks and black boots, a light  khaki merona sweater over a black western cut shirt and a khaki long double breasted coat.

The Millers ordered a bottle of house wine and the medeterainian hors d’oeuvres plate, consisting of pasta salad, eggplant caviar and tuna and anchovies over fresh greens. Our waitress was Isabel, not surprisingly a friend from college. It was awkward to have her pouring our wine so carefully. I suppose I feel better when I’m being taken care of by someone I don’t know (which must speak volumes of my love life).

By the second bottle, Mr. Miller’s face had begun to bloom a light blush while Mrs. Miller’s voice was becoming unlocked, with an odd but regal deep tone added to the beginning of each word. In the midst of conversation, the scar on my left hand, just below the thumb on the dorsal side, caught my eye (the same scar I procured during “The Pacific Coast Bloody Kneed Cap”). It has begun to heal to the point of being invisible. I lamented this for a moment, as the track lighting from above glimmered through my wine glass and, newly dyed red, onto my scar. I liked the gash, and the mark it left, and I didn’t want it to go away.

After the bill was payed, Mr. Miller placed his hand on my shoulder after I buttoned up my khaki long coat. “You wear this with both comfort and confidence,” he said. I was please.

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Stories From Christmas

December 29, 2009 at 6:09 am (Uncategorized)
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I. Communion in the snow

We were both surprised that my Pontiac Sun Fire made it through the first water crossing. The paved road had given up far down the mountain side and we had been driving up slow gravel for at least an hour, being sidetracked by the occasional misturned tangent. When we finally found the opening to Rice Camp trail most of the afternoon had gotten away from us, so John and I quickly layered on are extra clothes and headed down the easy to moderately difficult path. The walk was thick with dark and barren branches, each one topped with freshly white snow. The contrast between the two colors made each easier to see, just as the creek that ran next to the path made everything easier to hear. We stopped soon, in interest of saving daylight, and found a spot next to the water to unload. John pulled from his pack several different neatly handkerchief wrapped packages. In one was a baguette with a knife. From my pack I pulled out a canteen filled with wine, which John and I separated between two cups. He sat gingerly on a rock that was coming up from the shallow waters, and in the silence that can only come from being so far removed, we ate our bread and drank our wine. When we were done, John unwrapped another package and pulled from it vegan chocolate cake. I don’t think the Lords Supper generally consist of ending in chocolate cake (vegan or otherwise), nor taking place in the Georgia mountains. But dammit, it should have.

II. Roasted Duck

There was a wreck on Chapman highway, half way between Seiverville and Knoxville. Amber only  knew how to get to Market Square by taking the back highway, and I am terrible with directions, so we traveled the dark and well wooded road, slowed by the head on collision. We arrived at La Costa just before they closed for the evening. I was surprised at the menu, none of the dishes had names, just elaborate descriptions. Pan seared chicken breast with a cheddar dijon yukon potato gratin, broccolini, and a mango port reduction, or a rich and rustic tomato sauce made with capers and olives served over caramelized onion and goat cheese mashers with shallot sautéed Haricot Verts, or some such nonsense. I settled on the smoked duck breast quesadilla with caramelized onions, dried apricot and manchego cheese and Amber ordered the smoked duck salad with goat cheese.

After we ate we found a funnel cake vendor and shared an order as we walked around Market Square. I was light headed from the two dos equis ( I love redundancy) that accompanied my duck. We walked to the edge of the Bijou and then turned around and headed back, just in time to catch a very well dressed crowd leaving the Tennessee theater. As we pushed our way through the crowd, I blurted out phrases like “my stocks are doing terribly” and “those dividends are killing me.” Amber laughed, and we soldiered on in the cold, back to the Pontiac Sun Fire.

III. Jesus Crackers

It was unseasonably warm, especially for a Christmas day. I had just finished running through my sisters neighborhood, and before I could unlace my tennis shoes my youngest niece, Gabbi, asked if I would take her for a walk.

I held her hand off and on, the roads of her newly developed neighborhood were scarcely populated and the wide stretches of pavement felt easy and safe. She said “last night we ate Jesus crackers, but they were stale.” Of course, I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Like, Crackers in the shape of Jesus?”

“No, like crackers you eat for Jesus. They weren’t very good, but the juice was good, but it was only a little little bit.”

“Oh,” I said. “You mean communion.”

“Yeah, comyoonuhn. But the Jesus crackers were awful.”

IV. Ticky Tacky

I have been distant from my family this holiday season, for reasons I don’t entirely understand nor will explain here. I haven’t felt included, nor well thought of. Though in turn I have grown weary of trying, so have spent most of my time here lounging at Nick’s. During one such evening, I talked with my uncle about my grandfather, who I have felt a certain estranged relation for some time. My uncle told me that my grandfather had mention that he doesnt know how to relate to me, but wants to. He said my grandfather fears that my family has abandoned me, left me with nothing and no support. I’ll admit, this doesnt help my recent ruminations of loneliness.

When I came back to my parents apartment that evening, sitting on the guest bed were I sleep was a small silver box. On the edge was inscribed “A writer doesnt say what he has to, he writes it- Ernest Hemingway.” It was a gift from my mother, she had mentioned finding something she thought I should have.

I sat on the edge of the bed, holding the box, and did my best to keep composure. This wasn’t the touching moment when I realized that I was wrong, that my family still supported and that I really wasnt alone at all. This was my mother trying to buy my love, something I am starting to understand she does often. I began to hate the box, not because of what it was but because of what it was supposed to be. It was a replacement for support. Even in writing that, I don’t feel comfortable believing it.

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