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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A Short Moment with the Red Sky & The French, pt 2

December 15, 2009 at 4:07 pm (Uncategorized)
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I awoke, startled, my spine lifting the dead weight of my body out from my covers. The blinds of my windows were open, as they usually are, and the sky outside radiated with an ominous red color. It was reminiscent of winter nights in Denver, when the sky would glow bright orange, full of moisture and pressure. But this was different, this was red. This means something, I thought, this is significant. The night before I had experienced the same thing, awaking suddenly for no reason but to peer at the red sky outside my window, I was starting to think that the red sky itself woke me up. As if it wanted me to see it, if not for a reason but to be seen. Though, I have been accused of being overly romantic at times…

Rachelle and I walked through the organic grocers picking out squashes and seasonings and oils. She had the idea to make a Moroccan stew for dinner, and I was flattered to simply be invited to the meal.

Rachelle and Patrick live in a large gutted out house in the historic district of town. It was a fixer-upper that Patrick has been working on improving since they moved in. Currently, the only furniture in the first floor consists of a piano, couch, and dinette set. Their kitchen is somewhat more equipped, but Patrick is French, and concentration on the culinary arts is to be expected.

As I peeled and chopped the butternut squash, Rachelle toasted and sliced a baguette to be served with goat cheese and olive oil. In a large pot, as Patrick prepared the couscous, we stewed one diced onion, four cloves of garlic, two teaspoons of cumin, two cinnamon sticks, salt, pepper, one pound of squash, three quarters of a pound of red potatoes (diced large), two cups of chickpeas, a can of diced tomatoes (organic), a pinch of saffron threads and one cup of brined green olives with chopped lemon (to replace the preserved lemon’s the recipe called for but we could not find).

We ate in the dark and empty dining room, by candle light, with a bottle of dry Australian risling. The stew was served with plain yogurt and toasted almonds, along with fresh cilantro added to taste. Several times, through several glasses of wine, Patrick smiled large enough to show his teeth and gums. We talked about past adventures, I told stories about Matt and Alex, delighted by the effort I made in using less abstract words that Patrick could understand well. Their cat, D’artanian, sat next to me on the piano bench that substituted a dining chair. For dessert, Rachelle presented peach gelato.

At the end of the evening, Patrick stood from his seat to go on his way to bed. He extended his hand to me, expressed that he wished to see me again before he and Rachelle went to France for Christmas, and then thanked me profusely for the evening. Flabbergasted, I refused thanks, my evening was perfect, due entirely to the French.

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You! Young Immortals!

December 10, 2009 at 4:03 pm (Uncategorized)

I had to open my eyes a few times to reassure myself that the room was in fact, not spinning. It is a strange sensation, when everything feels as if though its moving rapidly in a spiral even though there are no shapes or colors or lights to establish any type of relation to anything else, but rather dark and perennial blackness. I opened my eyes again. The room would spin as I drifted to sleep often as a child, and I realized that this was happening more and more regularly in recent nights. Even now, things seem wobbly. I was arguably much more unhinged as a youth, and so, am I again becoming unhinged? And, perhaps even more alarming, why does that sensation seem so appealing to me?

On a different note, here is something that annoys me, bastard though it may make me appear to be:

- People who thank God for small and miniscule things, such as finding their keys or remembering the combination to a safe. Everyday prayers are lifted up to God asking Him to heal the sick or save a loved one or prevent a disease, and yet those prayers are not answered. If God turns a deaf ear to several instances of real, true suffering, then who are we to assume that the Holy Spirit lead us to our keys so we wouldnt be late for work?

I am in a very irritable mood today.

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X-Rayed Dinosaur Bones

December 8, 2009 at 8:05 pm (Uncategorized)
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The way it worked in Chile was, the first of the morning was breakfast. Then a half hour commute to the seminary by walking and under ground train. Then we would have classes until lunch time, then lunch with the students who were there from South America to learn English. After that, we were cut loose for the day.

On one such specific day, I found my self wondering around the Plaza De Armas (the exact center of not only San Tiago, but also Chile itself). I was well aware that I looked like a tourist, being that I was wearing very American clothes and had an old camera around my neck. I was at the top of a large hill looking around an old ruined Church when a group of young people started speaking to me in Spanish.

I was able to spurt out that I didn’t know much Spanish and that I was in the country to learn what I could. Luckily the leader of the group (a sassy young girl) knew enough English to communicate with me. They had wanted me to take their picture (which I gladly did). After which she asked me if I wanted to go to the Museum of Natural history with them. Of course I did. In the group of young hip Chileans I looked like I belonged, they all had dark hair and pale skin and dressed as I was. Thankfully, most of them also wore cameras.

When we got to the Museum I was surprised to find that it was filled mostly with ancient Dinosaurs (bones and models and paintings). I took several pictures as we walked through. Of course, my camera was old and required a little more than just pointing and clicking. The other Chileans asked the girl who spoke English what I was doing. She asked me if I was a famous American Photographer. I explained to her that I wasn’t, but she told all of her friends that I was anyways. She said that it was better to lie and give them a good story. So, of course, everyone in the group begged me to take their photo with my old (and presumably very professional) camera.

When we parted ways, the girl kissed me on the cheek and gave me her email. I’ve never written her. I wasn’t able to develop any film in Chile; I had to wait until I came back to America to see how all my photos turned out.

Sadly, it was with that roll that I realized that film can become over exposed by x-rays used most commonly in airports. The pictures never came out, lost in time. If I were a worse (or perhaps much better) writer, I might make some analogy to my photographs and the extinction of the dinosaurs at this point, to end this essay with some kind of zinger, making it mean something. Maybe I would write “and as x-rays wash away all color, save bones not dissimilar to those of the ancient beast with us that day, my memories have developed blurred” to the applaud of critics and audiences alike.

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Charismania

December 1, 2009 at 8:56 pm (Uncategorized)
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I was in the half sleep you experience between being awake and being unconscious, when the line between what you imagine and what is real blurs, and you are likely to imagine slipping on a banana peel and wake up to your body’s embrace of the fall. It was during a chapel service at Faith Christian Academy, a high school I attended while living in Denver. It was a great school, very lenient and progressive, especially for a private academy. On this particular Monday, the chapel preacher had been a word of faith healer. Our chapel services generally strayed away from the more fanatic components of religion, but I suppose one or two events like this were bound to happen in the schools long and proud history. I awoke to what would later be described as “what started everything.” It was my friend Judson, sitting a few seats down from me, screaming out fanatically “David needs a spleen!” When I was ten I lost my spleen in a car accident (though that is a different story all together). As my vision came into focus, I could see the proud smile of the old white haired man gleaming towards me, the bright colors of his Hawaiian shirt hurting my eyes. With microphone in hand, he asked me to stand up. Of course, I didn’t really know what to do, the house lights were down and there was a spotlight on the two of us. I was completely at his mercy, being that as most teenage boys, the thing I feared most was looking silly in front of my peers. Though, had I though it out, I might not have listened to him. I stood, smoothing out the wrinkles in my tie. He smiled, maniacally, and asked the microphone if I wanted a new spleen. He put the microphone an uncomfortably close distance from my mouth, and an answered it “sure.” He chuckled, like a grandfather might after giving his grandson a new train set, and contorted his hand into the shape of a gun and pointed it at my gut, where I assume he assumed a spleen should be. He then recoiled his hand, as if though some magic bullet had left his body at an incredible speed, he even made a ridiculous gun noise with his mouth, if memory serves correctly. Now, this is where the situation gets hairy. Despite my best efforts, and general disbelief in whatever God-given power this fellow might have (I had, after all, been asleep during his sermon), whatever magic did come out of his hands completely knocked me back in my seat. I did not loose conscience, I did not flail, but I was pushed backwards and I can guarantee that this flower printed gentlemen did not touch me. And yet, I was pushed back, by something. He quickly walked away, convinced that I was now spleen filled, and asked the crowd “Who’s next?” And, of course, a multitude of hands rose to the air. The hoopla went on for some time, and eventually I left the auditorium once I realized that this was no longer a normal school day. I found a class room filled with a few students and a few teachers, and everyone began discussing what was going on. The great thing about FCA was that it was a diverse pool of students, several Jews, a few Catholics, even a Mormon or two. So the explosion of charismatic excitement had been a little more than abrasive to the spiritual beliefs of a few other students. Of course, I have no spleen. A few students claimed I had little faith, but, they were very unpopular and so easily ignored. The whole situation was bizarre, and to this day I am not sure what to think of it. Had I , or more appropriately the preacher, been gored by a bull near the end, well, I at least could say it had been a nice Flannery O’connor moment.

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A Dark Continent

December 1, 2009 at 6:24 pm (Uncategorized)
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The brocoli on my plate was sitting in a patter closely resembling the lower half of Africa, the Cape of Good Hope, I thought. I sailed my fork around the porcelain sea, moving from the top of the dark continent and on south, to good hope. And then, a squall.

I am still unsure if it was an intervention or not, I had always assumed that interventions would be more formal. But it was clear by the way that my parents were looking at one another that they had, at least to some extent, preemptive discussed this discussion, making waves in my never lucid trail of thought.

They suggested therapy and pills. It wasnt the therapy that startled me, as much as it was the medication. Little pastels that alter the way chemicals function in your brain, stopping this from producing too much of that. But, then, if our brains are made of chemicals, and those chemicals are products of our emotions, and we are the sum of our emotions, then if I take a pill to change my chemicals then I take a pill to change myself. Even now, I feel a tinge of fear that such and idea would seem so appealing.

I am broken, completely. I am a cog with spokes that do not fit the major machine. And so when placed in a mechanism to function, I shatter. I don’t fit.  Sometimes I wonder if that is a good thing or not, being that it creates an urgent sense of loneliness in me for most of the time. Like a shadow that faces inward instead of spreading out.

But I sail on, I suppose. Towards something, if not better than at least different. I am a dark continent.

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Over Imbibed

November 25, 2009 at 3:36 pm (Uncategorized)
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Like a prophet’s words speaking through time to give us some glimpse of how things might be, John-Erik, with much authority in his voice, yelled from the back seat of my minivan “David, I think you have a flat tire.” In the literary world, this is what we might call the “inciting incident.”

Needless to say I was already in a somber mood, that is to say, depressed. Though this was several months ago, I believe I can pinpoint my downfall to this evening. Not that this evening was the cause, but rather the beginning. This is where the slope began.

It was the last night of Americorps training, and being that I was one of the only volunteers who had lived  close enough to the convention to drive, I was one of the only volunteers with a car, more than that, a minivan, capable of busing the young too and fro from bar to bar. I was instantly very popular. During the course of the week I had most befriended Devon, a wolfish looking vegetarian, and John-Erik, the character mentioned above, without whom my minivan most certainly would have been in much worse trouble.

Once we were safely in the confines of the hotel parking garage, Devon and John-Erik graciously began to change the flattened back tire with the doughnut that was bolted to the bottom end of my minivan. Though, as fate would have it, once the lug nuts were removed neither Devon nor John-Erik nor myself was able to remove the tire from the van. After several moments of struggling, we lowered the jack down just enough and left the van to rot in the garage.

John-Erik and Devon left in a cab for the lights of the city; I opted to stay behind, not knowing why my minivan was being so ornery, nor how much money it would cost me to fix it. So, I resigned to the warm embrace of the hotel’s hot tub, with a bottle of wine in hand of course.

And, if I might, a tangent.  Modern hot tubs can be heated to a maximum of 104 degrees Fahrenheit. Heat expands the blood vessels and increases the body’s temperature. Alcohol also expands the blood vessels and increases the body’s temperature. The combination can be too much for the body to take, raising your temperature so high that it results in a stroke or heart attack. At the very least it stops the oxygen from flowing to your brain, and in that, makes you more susceptible to saying things you don’t mean.

I was alone in the pool room of the hotel until the last drop of my wine had been imbibed. Luckily (or perhaps much to my chagrin) a girl I had spent most of the week avoiding apperated with a bottle of champagne and a philanthropic heart. Her name was Cassie, and during the conference she wore several vintage dresses and vibrant red lipstick. I knew I should stay away from her when I heard her singing “Hallelujah.” Also, she was engaged. But there was no escape now, so we sat and we drank and we spoke. We were in the hot tub for what seemed like hours, talking about things that seemed important but in the light of sober eyes might have been a bit pithy.

She told me she played the accordion. This was too much to take, so I removed myself from the water and wrapped myself in a robe. “Goodnight,” I said, as I walked away from what surely would have become an embarrassing moment.

On the outside patio of the hotel were more Americorps VISTA’s. Forgive me, because this is where the story becomes hazy. I laughed and yelled and partook of several revelries with several people, whose names I did not know then nor do I know now. I only knew that I was lonely, and that I didn’t want to go to sleep. So, wearing a bathing suit and a robe, I socialized. I found myself on a bridge with four or five other volunteers. It was dark and the high walls of the bridge provided enough cover to keep us hidden.

A bearded fellow (I think) began to pass around a glass pipe filled with marijuana. Up until this point in my life I had abstained from anything that might arguably be referenced as a drug. But, I was upset, my brain suffering from a lack of oxygen and whatever natural occurring chemicals that are produced when you are sad. I inhaled, trying to hold it in my lungs, because that’s what characters on TV always said to do.

The next morning I awoke with not white in my eyes. The day was a painful haze of last minute oaths and signatures. I was upset with myself, embarrassed, ashamed. Still, I am ashamed. When I walked into the last conference room, where we would be given our Americorps certificates, a row of people stood and applauded me, shaking my hand, saying things “I was there” and “I partied with David Pemberton,” as if though it were some badge of honor. I wanted to crawl out of my own skin.

I returned to my minivan, raised the jack, and pulled the tire as hard as I could. Still, it wouldn’t budge. A technician at the hotel let me borrow a sledge hammer, he told me that I might be able to crawl under the minivan and bang the tire off, because it was most likely just rusted on to the car. I lay on the concrete, in oil and grease, and hit the tire with the hammer as hard as I could. “Come off,” I commanded. The minivan shook above me, the jack swayed; I began to wonder how well it was built. “Come off,” I said, as I again hit the tire with the hammer. The van shook more violently. “Come down,” I said, as I threw my last swing at the tire, unlocking steel from steel as metal ground against metal, squeaking and sputtering. “Come down.”

 

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Black Children

November 21, 2009 at 7:57 pm (Uncategorized)
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I felt a tug on the bottom half of my jeans, staring up at me was a small black child with large still eyes. He reached his arms up towards my face, flexing his fingers in and out of his palms as if to motion in some naturally pre-verbal language that he needed to be held, to be lifted, to rest. Instinctively, I bent over to gather him, placing my hands under his raised arms, my fingers almost meeting each other around the tininess of his back. As soon as he was within reach, he wrapped his arms around my neck and buried his face into the space between my chin and my collar bone, releasing from himself a soft and breathless sigh. He was comforted, and I wanted very much to protect him, from whatever a small child might need protecting.

His mother cocked her head at this event. Her red hair twisting against her fair skin, and in a drawn out southern drawl she said “Why he never does that to nobody.” I handed him to hi smother, rightly who should be holding him, and we walked outside to the front porch of the house. I stepped down to the drive way and turned back to wish them a happy thanksgiving, but as I turned, in the distance, what I like to think was a fire cracker or a shotty car engine or some piece of metal hitting some piece of metal rang out with a black and alarming echo. The mother gasped and quickly took her child inside, slamming the door shut, leaving me outside with the whatever the noise was.

She was afraid, and rightly so, without hesitation as some kind of learned reaction, protecting her child from what could arguably have been a gun. I stood motionless, expecting her to open the door after a few moments when she felt it was safe. The longer I waited for this the hotter my face began to feel. I was angry, enraged, not just at the noise but at whatever noise had in the past taught her to run. I gave up waiting and returned to my car, and as I drove home I contemplated what blissful terror it would be to become a father.

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White People

November 18, 2009 at 3:15 pm (Events & Things)
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The lights in the gallery were a mixture of low hanging bulbs covered in rice paper, whose shades ranged from white to beige to off white, in an attempt to create some kind of mood, or perhaps an emotion. White/beige/off white light gleamed down on the industrial art that littered the walls. Large portraits of people and bicycles and trees, composed of compost and trash and discarded metals, all striving to make the same point, all moving in the same direction.

The spaces between art were filled with slender white folk in expensively cut suits and slacks, all facing one another with small plates of hors doeuvres and glasses of off brand red wines, fodder for their conversations about community out reach and capacity building efforts and including all demographics in their campaigns to save the world. I made my way around the gallery, avoiding the open bar (despite my better judgment), trying my best to belong in my canvas shoes and faded jeans. I found myself talking to a young girl about the local zoo, sad to say, the most rewarding moment of my evening. Everything felt pithy and surreal, a banquet to make us all feel better about our humble and noble career paths.

As I trotted towards our booth to take down our photos of poor families and new houses, I realized that the art in the gallery had lost its function, if it ever had one at all. Though the images were re-arranged and newly painted bits of trash, they were still trash. Framed in a way to make them more appealing, yes, but they were still trash. These items were still garbage, only now they had conformed to the eye of the artist. But re-arranging them gave them no greater value, no matter how good the artist felt about it. The only difference between the trash on the wall and the trash on the street was that the trash on the wall was glared at, respectively, as the audience swelled with a feeling of self worth.

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Dauntlessly Daydreaming David

November 16, 2009 at 10:27 pm (Uncategorized)

I drove down North 75 towards what would arguably be called my home, surrounded by trees, lit up by the moon. I crossed over a bridge that bisected a large body of water that, in the night time, reflected the stars and the moon and the shadows of the forest and the lights of oncoming traffic, and for a moment the line between what was being reflected and what was reflecting blured and my entire vision was filled with and endless expanse of light and dark and waves. An explosion of minuscule fire erupted from the road ahead of me as a discarded cigarette split open, releasing the red hot embers of tobacco, but not high enough to be reflected by anything. The flash of color brought me to my senses again, and the lines that separated image from image returned.

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