My second backyard was a rectangular patch like the first, but it was two or three times the size. When I was old enough to judge area I pressured my dad into conceding that it might be a quarter acre. The yard sloped down from the house. The first half of the backyard was terraced into three roughly even levels. Each section was held in place by a wall made from old railroad ties laid lengthwise, stacked 3 high. On the hottest summer days the smell of creosote reminded us of the their former life under steel tracks. The top terrace was home to the garbage cans, the dog dishes, and a pecan tree so old and tired it gave up making nuts. There was also a jungle gym, with its dull aluminum alloy pipes in a perfect symmetry of stacked cubes. We also called them “monkey bars” which was far more apt, especially when my brother was climbing on them. I rarely played on the monkey bars. I never liked the way my hands smelled after climbing on them. Also, once you’d climbed to the top and hung upside down by your knees, you’d done pretty much everything worth doing there. My brother, 7 years my senior, found the view through the window of the door to the garage especially useful when he sat on top with his friends, passing a joint between them, the sweet smoke drifting around the corner of the house. I had great disdain for that particular activity, and would give them wide berth, which further limited my use of the monkey bars.
The second level of the terrace, for years, was a grassy space with nothing but a metal chair at the base of a towering pine tree. One Christmas Eve, a few years after moving in, three men in white lab coats with “Sears and Roebuck” patches on the breast walked brazenly into the backyard. My indignation at the trespass changed to unadulterated delight and hopping up and down excitement, and much triumphant strutting as they assembled a trampoline. That trampoline provided many years of harmless entertainment punctuated by a few ephemerally tragic gonadal incidents. I quickly learned the sit, the swivel hips, and the somersault, both backward and forward, in that order. But by far my favorite trick was, when jumping with a partner, to syncopate my jump just ahead of theirs so that they lost their impetus and their knees would buckle.
The third level of the yard had a rusty two-swing swingset that leaned and rocked under the weight of adults who invariably sat on it, usually with a cigarette in one hand and a cocktail in the other, during the infrequent cast parties hosted by my mother. I spent very little time in this area. At the bottom of this terrace was a drop off to a creek that split the yard in half. I usually ran to get to the bridge which crossed the creek to the back lot.
The creek had coursed a small canyon into the yard. On maps the creek has no name, but my mother called it Savage Creek. In fact, our creek emptied into Savage Creek a few hundred yards past our property line. Savage Creek, in turn, empties into Echeconee Creek a few miles down. The canyon in our back yard was about 4 feet deep and 5 feet across. The bridge was made with two lengths of telephone pole crossing the creek; two-by-sixes provided a sturdy bridge deck. A branch or baby aspen trunk, weathered and silky smooth, provided the handrail along the upstream side. The handrail always smelled wet even on the driest day in August. The downstream side of the bridge had no rail. The creek itself was a shallow narrow stream with a tang of iron from the red Georgia clay it cut through upstream.
As carefully cared for as the first half of the back yard was, the second half was barely managed. My dad would mow it about once a year, mostly to keep the poison oak and ivy down. In summer every breeze carried the fragrance of honeysuckle and wild mint, in the winter it was moss and mud and moldering leaves. There were more haphazard trees, but it was not exactly wooded. The back lot is where the craw dads built their battlements: spitballs of mud in a tower around their own little hole in the ground. The back lot is where the lightening bugs paraded their private neon "open" signs. So if you were lucky enough to be in that back yard after a summer sunset, perhaps with a drink in your hand, the swings were the best seats in the house.
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Sunday, May 23, 2010
Thursday, May 20, 2010
Snow White Redux, Part One (from a 10 minute free write: rewrite a fairy tale)
Snow White missed her mother desperately. The house was so empty without her, meals were so quiet. Snow's father was an excellent provider, but he did not like to talk and had never been affectionate.
One day at dinner, Snow startled to hear her father's voice, "I have found a new wife. We will be married in a month. You will meet her at the wedding. I want you to be a witness at the registrar's." And that was that. Nothing more was said, the arrangements had all been made.
When the day came, Snow White took the dress from the hanger over the door, slipped it out of the plastic protective cover and put it on, smoothing the taffeta and lace. Off the the registrar's they went.
She was beautiful, Snow thought, she might be a bit old for her dad, or maybe too severe... but she decided she shouldn't be judgmental. The wedding was short, the vows taken from the the marriage text, with 3 attendees, not including Snow White and the registrar. There were two men that Snow White's father worked with, and there was the registrar's wife, who rarely got to attend the weddings her husband officiated. She looked on with a smile and a tear. Snow signed the certificate of marriage as the first witness. One of the work men signed in the other place.
And so they returned home a family. Snow's stepmother's first act as the lady of the house was to paint the kitchen and rearrange the pots and pans. Her father showed more interest in the new look than he had showed in anything in the home in over 2 years. "Snow White" he called, "Come see. What do you think of the color?"
"It's very pleasant, ma'am."
Snow White's stepmother chuckled and stared Snow White in the face, "Call me Cilla."
One day at dinner, Snow startled to hear her father's voice, "I have found a new wife. We will be married in a month. You will meet her at the wedding. I want you to be a witness at the registrar's." And that was that. Nothing more was said, the arrangements had all been made.
When the day came, Snow White took the dress from the hanger over the door, slipped it out of the plastic protective cover and put it on, smoothing the taffeta and lace. Off the the registrar's they went.
She was beautiful, Snow thought, she might be a bit old for her dad, or maybe too severe... but she decided she shouldn't be judgmental. The wedding was short, the vows taken from the the marriage text, with 3 attendees, not including Snow White and the registrar. There were two men that Snow White's father worked with, and there was the registrar's wife, who rarely got to attend the weddings her husband officiated. She looked on with a smile and a tear. Snow signed the certificate of marriage as the first witness. One of the work men signed in the other place.
And so they returned home a family. Snow's stepmother's first act as the lady of the house was to paint the kitchen and rearrange the pots and pans. Her father showed more interest in the new look than he had showed in anything in the home in over 2 years. "Snow White" he called, "Come see. What do you think of the color?"
"It's very pleasant, ma'am."
Snow White's stepmother chuckled and stared Snow White in the face, "Call me Cilla."
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Everything You Need To Know About Unicorns
Chapter One
Perhaps there are a few ignorant persons that aren't yet acquainted with what a Unicorn is. This chapter is for them. A unicorn has very many distinctive marks, not the least of which is the single horn protruding from the middle of the forehead.
This horn is most often a tight spiral leading to a point sharp enough to pierce a man. The horns can be anywhere from one to three feet in length and are often used in self defense. But rarely for unprovoked attacks.
In color, a unicorn is almost invariably a startling white. Although a few brown or beige ones have been recorded, they are very rare.
Another distinctive feature of the unicorn is his cloven hooves. Most breeds have cloven hooves which contrast dramatically with their horse-like bodies.
There is one breed of unicorn known to be different from all the rest in that they resemble donkeys rather than horses. With long ears, short stature, and a mule face, these unicorns lack the cloven hooves and twisted horn. Their horns are straight, short, and upturned. This breed is particularly defensive and vengeful, stopping at little if nothing to avenge the death of one of them. An injured unicorn of this kind is extremely dangerous and should be avoided at all times.
The size of a unicorn ranges from about the size of a Great Dane to that of a Wild Elephant, or so says Marco Polo. Most attain the average size of a horse though. The mane of the unicorn is usually long thick and wildly unkempt, having a teased appearance, giving the animal somewhat of an air of hysteria or madness, often striking fear into the hearts of those that do not know the true nature of a unicorn.
The unicorn is as unmanageable and as hard to tame as the African buffalo. There are very few ways of capturing a unicorn. However, the most efficient way is to use a beautiful virgin to entice the unicorn into submission. The unicorn sees the virgin and is attracted by her fidelity, it cannot resist the temptation to lay its head in her lap and offer its services. From this point the unicorn is easily captured or killed.
(I found this "chapter" amongst some other writing from High School. I was about 17 when I wrote this)
Perhaps there are a few ignorant persons that aren't yet acquainted with what a Unicorn is. This chapter is for them. A unicorn has very many distinctive marks, not the least of which is the single horn protruding from the middle of the forehead.
This horn is most often a tight spiral leading to a point sharp enough to pierce a man. The horns can be anywhere from one to three feet in length and are often used in self defense. But rarely for unprovoked attacks.
In color, a unicorn is almost invariably a startling white. Although a few brown or beige ones have been recorded, they are very rare.
Another distinctive feature of the unicorn is his cloven hooves. Most breeds have cloven hooves which contrast dramatically with their horse-like bodies.
There is one breed of unicorn known to be different from all the rest in that they resemble donkeys rather than horses. With long ears, short stature, and a mule face, these unicorns lack the cloven hooves and twisted horn. Their horns are straight, short, and upturned. This breed is particularly defensive and vengeful, stopping at little if nothing to avenge the death of one of them. An injured unicorn of this kind is extremely dangerous and should be avoided at all times.
The size of a unicorn ranges from about the size of a Great Dane to that of a Wild Elephant, or so says Marco Polo. Most attain the average size of a horse though. The mane of the unicorn is usually long thick and wildly unkempt, having a teased appearance, giving the animal somewhat of an air of hysteria or madness, often striking fear into the hearts of those that do not know the true nature of a unicorn.
The unicorn is as unmanageable and as hard to tame as the African buffalo. There are very few ways of capturing a unicorn. However, the most efficient way is to use a beautiful virgin to entice the unicorn into submission. The unicorn sees the virgin and is attracted by her fidelity, it cannot resist the temptation to lay its head in her lap and offer its services. From this point the unicorn is easily captured or killed.
(I found this "chapter" amongst some other writing from High School. I was about 17 when I wrote this)
Saturday, May 15, 2010
Yards (Part One)
Yards
As a child, my first back yard was a large rectangle of grass kept short each year by earlier mowing and later drought. A swingset sat perfectly perpendicular to the house. A peeling red wooden picnic table with matching benches sat similarly perpendicular but closer to the house about halfway between the swingset and the far end of the house. There was only one tree in the yard, an old crippled apple tree that never bore fruit. A permanently shadowed Georgia pine forest bordered the back yard on three sides. A brown margin of fallen needles framed the yard. I rarely ventured into or beyond that margin. A stray ball was retrieved speedily. No one ever told stories about those woods, and I never saw anyone going into or coming out of them. I just knew I didn’t want to go in there. I imagined wolves lowering their heads to look at the house from between the trees as they loped past on their hunt. There are no wolves in Georgia. I often heard dogs barking in the distance.
I once returned, as a teenager, on summer break visiting my grandmother who lived across the street. The yard was the same rectangle, though the swingset and picnic table were gone. There were no chairs or even brown spots in the grass to indicate that anyone ever used the backyard. I walked to the pine needle margin, stepped into the woods. and was not immediately swallowed up. I was surprised at how sparse the trees were. As dark and as cool as it felt, the pine trees were so far apart that I could not touch two at a time. And there was very little in the way of underbrush growing between them. The ground was covered with long brown needles. The upper story of branches blocked out most of the light, but the lowest branches were 20 feet high. I walked a few steps in and turned to look at the house, the view the wolves would have had. The house sat quietly, brightest white in the midday sun, unbothered by my betrayal.
My earliest memory is of lying on a blanket in that yard. You may not believe me; I was too young to sit up on my own. Our dog stood over me, smiling, licking my face, smothering me in the love for which most people spend a lifetime yearning and searching. I remember looking to the house for help, unable to call out, knowing my mother was scrubbing and drying and putting away the breakfast dishes.
As a child, my first back yard was a large rectangle of grass kept short each year by earlier mowing and later drought. A swingset sat perfectly perpendicular to the house. A peeling red wooden picnic table with matching benches sat similarly perpendicular but closer to the house about halfway between the swingset and the far end of the house. There was only one tree in the yard, an old crippled apple tree that never bore fruit. A permanently shadowed Georgia pine forest bordered the back yard on three sides. A brown margin of fallen needles framed the yard. I rarely ventured into or beyond that margin. A stray ball was retrieved speedily. No one ever told stories about those woods, and I never saw anyone going into or coming out of them. I just knew I didn’t want to go in there. I imagined wolves lowering their heads to look at the house from between the trees as they loped past on their hunt. There are no wolves in Georgia. I often heard dogs barking in the distance.
I once returned, as a teenager, on summer break visiting my grandmother who lived across the street. The yard was the same rectangle, though the swingset and picnic table were gone. There were no chairs or even brown spots in the grass to indicate that anyone ever used the backyard. I walked to the pine needle margin, stepped into the woods. and was not immediately swallowed up. I was surprised at how sparse the trees were. As dark and as cool as it felt, the pine trees were so far apart that I could not touch two at a time. And there was very little in the way of underbrush growing between them. The ground was covered with long brown needles. The upper story of branches blocked out most of the light, but the lowest branches were 20 feet high. I walked a few steps in and turned to look at the house, the view the wolves would have had. The house sat quietly, brightest white in the midday sun, unbothered by my betrayal.
My earliest memory is of lying on a blanket in that yard. You may not believe me; I was too young to sit up on my own. Our dog stood over me, smiling, licking my face, smothering me in the love for which most people spend a lifetime yearning and searching. I remember looking to the house for help, unable to call out, knowing my mother was scrubbing and drying and putting away the breakfast dishes.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
10 MInute Prompt: Start with a word you love....
I know there's a word I love, but I can't think of it just now. Nothing much comes to mind, mostly fog and wind. I can hear the dull boom of a fog horn, the seeking cry of a seagull, asking for scraps, asking for a friend, asking the way home. I can hear a distant highway shushing in the still light evening, white lights on the left, red lights on the right. A wise ship travels the middle channel. I hear a barking dog in the distance, everything is in the distance. The dog doesn't know why he's barking. I hear my breath running the gauntlet into my head before settling into my lungs, and leaving by a quieter rout.
I'm still trying to think of my favorite word. I think of things I like to look at. But rainbow is not among my favorite words. And bird doesn't sound particularly nice. For a while black-tailed gull was my favorite word. Crashing is a good one too, like the waves on the beach, pushing the tiny pebbles to rub and grind against each other so that they sound like that distant highway.
Ocean could be my favorite word, with its intimation of unexplored depths and deceptive surface where whitecaps can look like a table top before they bowl themselves over into whitecaps again. Ocean is the vastness, with an assumption of boundaries, in the center of which we are completely vulnerable, completely dependent, completely at the whim of the thing itself which feels like infinity. Ocean bears us up, buoys us. Ocean feels like the home we knew before we were borne into the arms of the world. Ocean is my favorite word today.
I'm still trying to think of my favorite word. I think of things I like to look at. But rainbow is not among my favorite words. And bird doesn't sound particularly nice. For a while black-tailed gull was my favorite word. Crashing is a good one too, like the waves on the beach, pushing the tiny pebbles to rub and grind against each other so that they sound like that distant highway.
Ocean could be my favorite word, with its intimation of unexplored depths and deceptive surface where whitecaps can look like a table top before they bowl themselves over into whitecaps again. Ocean is the vastness, with an assumption of boundaries, in the center of which we are completely vulnerable, completely dependent, completely at the whim of the thing itself which feels like infinity. Ocean bears us up, buoys us. Ocean feels like the home we knew before we were borne into the arms of the world. Ocean is my favorite word today.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Tricycle
We looked like sisters. We were the same height. We had the same silky hair the same warm chestnut, worn the same length below our shoulders. Our skin was the same shade of Pale Late Spring Tan with Olive Undertones. Only her eyes were brown and mine were green. Kim and I had been sent outside to play while the grownups stayed inside to talk about grownup things.
My family was moving to another town. Her family wanted to buy our house, the only home I’d ever known, the house across the street from my grandmother. I had become used to finishing breakfast and running across the quiet street to visit with my grandmother until lunch time. There had been other families come to look at the house, but none with children to play with, and none had come back, and they were never mentioned again. I had felt secure that we wouldn’t really leave until Kim’s family showed up. Now I was trusted with the job of entertaining Kim like a good hostess, like the good hostess my mother was to Kim's parents.
Outside, the yard was surrounded by pine woods which sighed softly in the breeze. We roamed around the back yard for a while. We tried out the swings. Kim swung her legs and sent the swing into overdrive quickly pushing up over my head. But my legs and arms were desultory, limp, dissatisfied. We headed to the driveway, where my red tricycle winked at us. Without sitting I grabbed the handle bars and put my left foot on the step behind the seat. I pushed off with my right foot and rode the trike down the driveway, standing behind the seat. Kim ran along behind me while I used the wind in my face and the screeching jay birds to forget she was there.
At the bottom of the driveway, down a slope, at the edge of the quiet street, I stopped the trike and got off, ready to push it back up the slope for another ride down. Kim caught up with me there, and reached for the handlebars. I jerked it away from her. What was she thinking? This is my tricycle. I’m not sure what I said to her, but she ran crying all the way back up the driveway to the house. At least now I would get to play by myself, I thought, kind of knowing this wasn’t the end of it.
Sure enough, no sooner had she gone inside than my mother came out, walking straight toward me, with a hard look in her face, Kim in tow by her hand, running to keep up, trying not to trip. My mother shook her finger at me, ordered me to share my toys and play nice. I glared at Kim, trying to make her disappear in the heat of my stare. I scuffed the ground with my shoe. I felt my eyebrows knit together and my lips set hard and tight. Why should I share my tricycle with her? She’s getting the house.
My family was moving to another town. Her family wanted to buy our house, the only home I’d ever known, the house across the street from my grandmother. I had become used to finishing breakfast and running across the quiet street to visit with my grandmother until lunch time. There had been other families come to look at the house, but none with children to play with, and none had come back, and they were never mentioned again. I had felt secure that we wouldn’t really leave until Kim’s family showed up. Now I was trusted with the job of entertaining Kim like a good hostess, like the good hostess my mother was to Kim's parents.
Outside, the yard was surrounded by pine woods which sighed softly in the breeze. We roamed around the back yard for a while. We tried out the swings. Kim swung her legs and sent the swing into overdrive quickly pushing up over my head. But my legs and arms were desultory, limp, dissatisfied. We headed to the driveway, where my red tricycle winked at us. Without sitting I grabbed the handle bars and put my left foot on the step behind the seat. I pushed off with my right foot and rode the trike down the driveway, standing behind the seat. Kim ran along behind me while I used the wind in my face and the screeching jay birds to forget she was there.
At the bottom of the driveway, down a slope, at the edge of the quiet street, I stopped the trike and got off, ready to push it back up the slope for another ride down. Kim caught up with me there, and reached for the handlebars. I jerked it away from her. What was she thinking? This is my tricycle. I’m not sure what I said to her, but she ran crying all the way back up the driveway to the house. At least now I would get to play by myself, I thought, kind of knowing this wasn’t the end of it.
Sure enough, no sooner had she gone inside than my mother came out, walking straight toward me, with a hard look in her face, Kim in tow by her hand, running to keep up, trying not to trip. My mother shook her finger at me, ordered me to share my toys and play nice. I glared at Kim, trying to make her disappear in the heat of my stare. I scuffed the ground with my shoe. I felt my eyebrows knit together and my lips set hard and tight. Why should I share my tricycle with her? She’s getting the house.
Shutter Island in Review: Eh, So-So...
No, this isn't your typical Martin Scorsese movie. Though there are some moments of sublime beauty and violence, take for instance the beauty of Dinah Washington singing "This Bitter Earth" over the closing credits... Wowsa. And the violence of the raining ash in the dream of Edward's burnt wife. These are peaks in an otherwise flat terrain. Overall I'd say the dreams were the best part of this film. The dreams are a window onto a tortured soul that has seen too much innocence lost, and has stared into the empty eyes of man's inhumanity to man. The dreams and memories of Edward twist the thread of the film beautifully. So the dreams were my favorite, and the cast. Patricia Clarkson! What a treat.
As movies about sinister alternate realities go, this is no Fight Club. And it's only barely better than Gothika. Despite the legendary cast, for all the decent writing, as hard as the menacing and moody set tries, this film does not live up to the Scorsese genius we all know and love. But you know what? Who cares! He's got laurels, let him rest on them.
Shutter Island has a fairly intact arc, but it changes tone too often. Sometimes it's Kafka-esque surrealism, sometimes it's a Hitchcock psychological thriller, sometimes it's a war movie, sometimes it's a horror movie. The sad part is, in a better movie all these tones could compliment each other and make the movie stronger, but in this case they hang too loosely apart from one another, and seem disjointed. It's one thing for the characters to seem disjointed, but we shouldn't necessarily notice it in the movie as a whole.
What really kills Shutter Island for me is the awkward transition from the dark world of paranoia to the brighter world of the awakened psyche. These transitions work best when the intrinsic awkwardness is exploited for it's disorienting quality. Unless I missed something, it wasn't ambiguous enough (I love to be left wondering) and it was too thoroughly explained, as refined as white sugar. This is one of those endings that gets narrated to death by the characters.
And so, regretfully, I file Shutter Island away, perhaps never to be seen again, certainly not to be rhapsodically reminisced about. Next up: The Hurt Locker.
As movies about sinister alternate realities go, this is no Fight Club. And it's only barely better than Gothika. Despite the legendary cast, for all the decent writing, as hard as the menacing and moody set tries, this film does not live up to the Scorsese genius we all know and love. But you know what? Who cares! He's got laurels, let him rest on them.
Shutter Island has a fairly intact arc, but it changes tone too often. Sometimes it's Kafka-esque surrealism, sometimes it's a Hitchcock psychological thriller, sometimes it's a war movie, sometimes it's a horror movie. The sad part is, in a better movie all these tones could compliment each other and make the movie stronger, but in this case they hang too loosely apart from one another, and seem disjointed. It's one thing for the characters to seem disjointed, but we shouldn't necessarily notice it in the movie as a whole.
What really kills Shutter Island for me is the awkward transition from the dark world of paranoia to the brighter world of the awakened psyche. These transitions work best when the intrinsic awkwardness is exploited for it's disorienting quality. Unless I missed something, it wasn't ambiguous enough (I love to be left wondering) and it was too thoroughly explained, as refined as white sugar. This is one of those endings that gets narrated to death by the characters.
And so, regretfully, I file Shutter Island away, perhaps never to be seen again, certainly not to be rhapsodically reminisced about. Next up: The Hurt Locker.
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