It wasn’t what he said that changed me forever.
It wasn’t how he taught that forces me to remember him.
It wasn’t what he had us put in our notes, or memorize for the tests.
It wasn’t the subject matter of his class: the poems he shared, and read aloud.
It wasn’t even that one poem, that he loved so much.
It was the way he held his breath before he spoke the last line.
And the way his voice trailed off in a painful whisper.
It was the way he put his hand on his chest when he was done.
It was the way his eyes filled with wetness as he gave himself over to the Words, again and again, class after class.
Every single time he read that poem.
It was the way we left his class, walking in silence and awe down the halls.
Eyes wide open.
The Earth of each of us, aching.
Each of us sharing that same longing… to be the writer whose poem could move someone.
Again and again.
And again.
Maybe he wasn’t a classically gifted teacher.
Maybe he wasn’t the smartest or the most talented.
But he was the one that let us see it.
He was the one that showed it to me:
The mark a good writer can leave on another soul.
The movement.
The ache.
The again and again.
September 23, 2008
September 22, 2008
Moon
We sat on the side of the road on the hood of the car on the Pacific Coast Highway in the sunset. We watched the sky turn apricot and lavender, we watched the world give way to the night. I didn’t know it would be the last time.
We had no place to be. We had no needs beyond that moment. We had nothing but each other, a bottle of wine, the sunset, and all the time in the world. At least that’s how it felt. At least, that’s what I felt.
We were so close. And then she was gone. I had been warned by others she would do that to me. But I didn’t believe them. I thought what she and I shared must have been different. I remember sitting in that sunset and feeling safe, feeling as if she’d somehow remain by my side. I didn’t know.
The last time I saw her was at the farewell lunch. I went thinking she was just taking me out for lunch. I didn’t know. But she did. She said good-bye and she meant it.
I remember the things she left behind. A chair and a table. A Jansport backpack. A skirt. And that sunset.
It wasn’t until after she was gone that I realized how much I had said. How much I had shared. Corners of my soul, forever stained apricot and lavender. Whispers across the pillows in the middle of the night that I thought would echo for many nights to come. Whispers that can still be heard, asking what did I do wrong. Echoes, that answer: How much of this was in your head?
Secrets, sunsets,
And time.
Sam - “Not everybody likes laying their guts out on the table like that, Tara.”
Tara - “Yeah they may not like it, but they all dream about finding somebody they can do it with."
- True Blood
.
We had no place to be. We had no needs beyond that moment. We had nothing but each other, a bottle of wine, the sunset, and all the time in the world. At least that’s how it felt. At least, that’s what I felt.
We were so close. And then she was gone. I had been warned by others she would do that to me. But I didn’t believe them. I thought what she and I shared must have been different. I remember sitting in that sunset and feeling safe, feeling as if she’d somehow remain by my side. I didn’t know.
The last time I saw her was at the farewell lunch. I went thinking she was just taking me out for lunch. I didn’t know. But she did. She said good-bye and she meant it.
I remember the things she left behind. A chair and a table. A Jansport backpack. A skirt. And that sunset.
It wasn’t until after she was gone that I realized how much I had said. How much I had shared. Corners of my soul, forever stained apricot and lavender. Whispers across the pillows in the middle of the night that I thought would echo for many nights to come. Whispers that can still be heard, asking what did I do wrong. Echoes, that answer: How much of this was in your head?
Secrets, sunsets,
And time.
Sam - “Not everybody likes laying their guts out on the table like that, Tara.”
Tara - “Yeah they may not like it, but they all dream about finding somebody they can do it with."
- True Blood
.
September 16, 2008
The Penis Plural
“See what you have to ask yourself is - what kind of person are you? Are you the kind that sees signs, sees miracles? Or do you believe that people just get lucky? Or, look at the question this way: Is it possible that there are no coincidences?”
- Graham Hess, in M. Night Shyamalan's Signs
LD – I saw the movie Signs again last night. I love that movie.
Me - I do too. I love the quote about coincidence. I really love M Night Shyamalan's work. BUT, as much as I really liked the movie, I rooted for the aliens. I really hoped Graham Hess would get slaughtered.
LD – Why?? What the fuck!
Me - Because that family left the dog outside to die! And they listened while that poor dog was killed. Fuck them. Anyone who forgets their dog?? Not a hero. No fucking way. Can not be rooted for.
Pause.
LD – I apologize. I’ve known you for…. ever, and I know this about you, and I should have figured that out.
Me – Stop. You’re a great friend. You get me. And I’m really gonna miss you, Alabama.... jesus christ.
LD, lifting her drink, - To the aliens.
Me, lifting mine, – To the aliens.
LD, after finishing her drink, - Hey. Did you happen to notice if the aliens had penises? Peni? What is the penis plural, anyway?
~~~~
Ladies and gentlemen, LD has left the building.
She has moved to Alabama to start fresh.
Best to you, LD.
Namaste, my friend.
.
- Graham Hess, in M. Night Shyamalan's Signs
LD – I saw the movie Signs again last night. I love that movie.
Me - I do too. I love the quote about coincidence. I really love M Night Shyamalan's work. BUT, as much as I really liked the movie, I rooted for the aliens. I really hoped Graham Hess would get slaughtered.
LD – Why?? What the fuck!
Me - Because that family left the dog outside to die! And they listened while that poor dog was killed. Fuck them. Anyone who forgets their dog?? Not a hero. No fucking way. Can not be rooted for.
Pause.
LD – I apologize. I’ve known you for…. ever, and I know this about you, and I should have figured that out.
Me – Stop. You’re a great friend. You get me. And I’m really gonna miss you, Alabama.... jesus christ.
LD, lifting her drink, - To the aliens.
Me, lifting mine, – To the aliens.
LD, after finishing her drink, - Hey. Did you happen to notice if the aliens had penises? Peni? What is the penis plural, anyway?
~~~~
Ladies and gentlemen, LD has left the building.
She has moved to Alabama to start fresh.
Best to you, LD.
Namaste, my friend.
.
September 14, 2008
The Ability
He sat at the booth in the corner of the diner, the one near the bathroom, the one that had not yet been bused. The one that feels kind of tucked away, yet catches the eye of every waitress that comes out from behind the counter on that side, so you can always get your coffee refilled.
I think I noticed him because he had a book in his hand. I notice books. I tried to make out the title, but I couldn’t. He drank 4 or 5 cups of coffee, a little milk no sugar, over the course of an hour. He read his book without looking up much at all. I watched his expressions, his slightly squinting eyes. I watched at the part where he went back and reread a page. I watched when he lifted his eyebrows as if he wasn’t quite expecting a turn the Words had taken. I watched him grimace a little at the last cup of an old pot of coffee.
When the waitress left the check it was a little before 3:00 am, and she looked tired. She wasn’t paying a lot of attention. She seemed focused on just getting through the rest of her shift. She didn’t notice, as I did, that he had pulled three dollars from his pocket and tapped his pants looking for more money.
He looked around with a new awarity, at the waitress who was taking an order from a new table, at the window to the outside, at his check.
He put his book down on the table, and walked outside.
I stretched to see as he unlocked an old Toyota pick-up truck and leaned in toward the console. He returned quietly. Put another few dollars and a handful of change down. Retrieved his book. And he was gone.
I watched him pull out of the parking lot and onto the road in the quiet.
I watched the waitress return to the table. She found his check, and as she counted through the money for the first time that early morning I saw her smile.
.
I think I noticed him because he had a book in his hand. I notice books. I tried to make out the title, but I couldn’t. He drank 4 or 5 cups of coffee, a little milk no sugar, over the course of an hour. He read his book without looking up much at all. I watched his expressions, his slightly squinting eyes. I watched at the part where he went back and reread a page. I watched when he lifted his eyebrows as if he wasn’t quite expecting a turn the Words had taken. I watched him grimace a little at the last cup of an old pot of coffee.
When the waitress left the check it was a little before 3:00 am, and she looked tired. She wasn’t paying a lot of attention. She seemed focused on just getting through the rest of her shift. She didn’t notice, as I did, that he had pulled three dollars from his pocket and tapped his pants looking for more money.
He looked around with a new awarity, at the waitress who was taking an order from a new table, at the window to the outside, at his check.
He put his book down on the table, and walked outside.
I stretched to see as he unlocked an old Toyota pick-up truck and leaned in toward the console. He returned quietly. Put another few dollars and a handful of change down. Retrieved his book. And he was gone.
I watched him pull out of the parking lot and onto the road in the quiet.
I watched the waitress return to the table. She found his check, and as she counted through the money for the first time that early morning I saw her smile.
.
September 08, 2008
Not So Much
It’s not his best work. It doesn’t have the soul his last book did. He was in so much pain back then. And he used it. It translated. It grabbed you.
This one, not so much.
He’s smiling. He’s beaming. He's so young and so beautiful. “I’m really happy with this, I’m so proud of it.”
It’s misdirected happiness. He’s not really happy with this book. He’s happy in his life. He’s in this great place, having this great time. He’s projecting that overwhelming feeling of joy in his life onto this book. There’s really nothing naked about it. Not so much is naked.
He pushes the short sleeves of his T-shirt up nervously and grins at me, searching my face for a reaction. God, it’s so good to see him smile again. It’s all I can see. “I’m so glad you’re happy with it. You deserve to be happy.”
That indelible smile shines as he looks down at his feet under the table to make sure he isn’t kicking me. I wish he was kicking me. I wish someone would.
He fixes his napkin in his lap before raising his eyes back up to mine. I would not break his heart for anything.
He squints at me, and I fear he’s going to try to talk about this. “I was shaky about that one part.” He uses his hands as he describes it. He gestures and tells it in a way that leads me to believe that where this story went isn’t where he had intended.
“Do you think that’s alright?” He’s still smiling a little sheepishly as he picks up the last French fry.
I smile back. “Yes, I think it’s alright.” But not so much.
Some of it is good. Actually, a little of it is pure fucking genius. But only a little. The rest of it, not so much. Parts of it are repetitious. A few lines aren’t even his. The title is used. Most of the punches are played. There’s really nothing unique here. There are no original thoughts. I’m embarrassed for him that he can’t see that. I’m jealous that he’s that happy not seeing that. I’m alone in seeing that.
Overall he’s a good guy. About the worst thing I can say about him is that a lot of the time he acts his age. It was only about a year and a half ago he couldn’t get out of bed he was so depressed. But the work that came out of that dark period was revolutionary. I cerebrally creamed myself when I first read it. That formula doesn’t always work. But that time it did.
This is a let down. And the critics are going to have a field day with it. I touch his hand on the table. He looks at me startled.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
He crinkles his nose at me as he tilts his head. But he’s still smiling. “Not so much, no.” He laughs a little. And it’s genuine. And innocent. Young, and beautiful.
I pray the parts that are genius are the ones he’ll remember.
.
This one, not so much.
He’s smiling. He’s beaming. He's so young and so beautiful. “I’m really happy with this, I’m so proud of it.”
It’s misdirected happiness. He’s not really happy with this book. He’s happy in his life. He’s in this great place, having this great time. He’s projecting that overwhelming feeling of joy in his life onto this book. There’s really nothing naked about it. Not so much is naked.
He pushes the short sleeves of his T-shirt up nervously and grins at me, searching my face for a reaction. God, it’s so good to see him smile again. It’s all I can see. “I’m so glad you’re happy with it. You deserve to be happy.”
That indelible smile shines as he looks down at his feet under the table to make sure he isn’t kicking me. I wish he was kicking me. I wish someone would.
He fixes his napkin in his lap before raising his eyes back up to mine. I would not break his heart for anything.
He squints at me, and I fear he’s going to try to talk about this. “I was shaky about that one part.” He uses his hands as he describes it. He gestures and tells it in a way that leads me to believe that where this story went isn’t where he had intended.
“Do you think that’s alright?” He’s still smiling a little sheepishly as he picks up the last French fry.
I smile back. “Yes, I think it’s alright.” But not so much.
Some of it is good. Actually, a little of it is pure fucking genius. But only a little. The rest of it, not so much. Parts of it are repetitious. A few lines aren’t even his. The title is used. Most of the punches are played. There’s really nothing unique here. There are no original thoughts. I’m embarrassed for him that he can’t see that. I’m jealous that he’s that happy not seeing that. I’m alone in seeing that.
Overall he’s a good guy. About the worst thing I can say about him is that a lot of the time he acts his age. It was only about a year and a half ago he couldn’t get out of bed he was so depressed. But the work that came out of that dark period was revolutionary. I cerebrally creamed myself when I first read it. That formula doesn’t always work. But that time it did.
This is a let down. And the critics are going to have a field day with it. I touch his hand on the table. He looks at me startled.
“Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”
He crinkles his nose at me as he tilts his head. But he’s still smiling. “Not so much, no.” He laughs a little. And it’s genuine. And innocent. Young, and beautiful.
I pray the parts that are genius are the ones he’ll remember.
.
September 06, 2008
Come and Knock on Our Door
LD - I don't think I can ever forgive Suzanne Somers.
Me - Forgive her for what?
LD - That shit she pulled with Three's Company, refusing to work unless she got so much more money than the others. I just can't get passed how selfish that was. Not to mention delusional, thinking she's so much better than Jack and Janet.
Me - I see.
LD - Don't you agree?
Me - Yes. But I am willing to bet you think about this alot more than I do.
Me - Forgive her for what?
LD - That shit she pulled with Three's Company, refusing to work unless she got so much more money than the others. I just can't get passed how selfish that was. Not to mention delusional, thinking she's so much better than Jack and Janet.
Me - I see.
LD - Don't you agree?
Me - Yes. But I am willing to bet you think about this alot more than I do.
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