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| Art by Kaitlin |
"Are you a shark or are you just labeled 'shark'?" I asked.
"What are we if not a collection of labels?" the shark rejoined.
"Surely there's a truth though - are you a shark?"
"No, I'm just a drawing."
"What?"
"I'm merely a few squiggles with, apparently, a pyramid on top and the word 'shark' written on my body."
What are you even talking about?" You're a fish of some sort.
"Big words for a stick figure!"
Happy (almost) New Year! In the spirit of "out with the old and in with the new" here's a rant.
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| A palate-cleanser. Feel free to look at this when you're done. |
I am not the best housemate. I have clutter. I sometimes leave dishes in the sink overnight. I'm sure there are a dozen other things that would drive another housemate insane - including my complaining about the shit that they do. But here's the thing: I am capable of change.
Let me introduce you to my housemates: CAN'T and WON'T. They're both stuck in some pre-pubescent developmental stage where one can not learn new things and one chooses not to learn new things. I'm not sure which is worse. I'm very tired of looking after them. So tired, in fact, I've stopped doing things in my house. We need a new faucet, but I know if I install one it'll be broken in a week. I've had broken lights in the kitchen, two bedrooms, and the basement for years because one of them doesn't know the difference between a pull-chain and a lawnmower pull-start. There's a gas clothes dryer in the basement waiting to be hooked up, but I know - I know- the second I hook it up one of the two is going to burn my house down.
What can I do? Well, rant about it for a bit. With apologies for pictures of my dirty house - I simply cannot clean up after three grown men (including myself).
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| Art by Griff |
“To being there.” I added after a moment of performed reflection.
The nomad nodded, but I felt he wanted more. We sat for a second.
“Who are you?” He asked.
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| Art by Jen |
A fractal meeting place.
Infinite collisions on the coast.
Water meeting rocks making sand.
Algae floating and sinking and, maybe, in a million, transforming.
I watched a beached boat rock back and forth as the water massaged it. I felt like an interloper - someone in the sitting room of a hospice facility. This boat had been born, lived its life, and now Sat here rotting. I had never experienced it in its halcyon days. I had never even seen it float. I knew it only as the boat on the beach. The rotting boat on the beach. It would eventually rot completely or be taken away to whatever dump they put boats in.
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| Art by Jered |
I was met with a curse and a dead line - he'd hung up on me.
"So much for that," I muttered to myself. I don't know why I'm supposed to have the answers to the recent killing spree, but I kept getting the calls. It seemed to me this was more of a job for the sheriff or someone more senior in government. Why involve a lowly lumberjack like myself was beyond me, but I wasn't a lumberjack because of my brains.
The killings had shaken the village. They were gristly affairs - either the result of a wild animal or a wild man masquerading as such. The first death - the killing of a town drunk - had been excused as a man who'd stumbled into trouble. The second was an unfortunate coincidence - a farmer who'd probably been protecting his animals from an unknown assailant. It was the third killing, however, that had roused the community to action. Little Suzie had just turned ten the week before. Her body - or what was left of it - had been found by her seven year old brother.
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| Art by Peter |
I prostrated myself in front of the priest.
A heavy silence blanketed the catacomb.
The air was thick. The cold stones pressed into my forehead and elbows and knees. The crenulated piece of wood that separated the consecrator from the consecratee seemed like a two-story rampart. Then he spoke.
I dutifully listened to his words.
Father, Son, Holy Spirit.
Tripartite. Singular. Three leaves of a clover. Three points of a triangle. Three arms of a cross.
The cross. The sacrifice. The mystery.
How does the Almighty inhabit flesh? How does an immortal die?
Questions wrestled for my attention with the more pressing issues in my body. A pose, held, becomes its own torture. A mortification. A requirement for purification.
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| Art by Wyatt |
"Hoarse," he said raspily.
"I see," I said. Was this horse a Pokémon or something?
"No, hoarse," he said again with emphasis. "Water?"
"Sure?" I said, confused. "What about it?"
"Where?" Another single syllable spilled from his lips.
"Oh, just around the corner." I jerked my thumb in the direction of the self-service jug.
"Thanks," he said, trotting off in that direction.
After a moment or two, he was back in front of me.
How do you write a good poem?
I literally googled 'octave'.
If only I could hire a gnome
so that I could write everyone's fave.
Alas, blank sheets I'll roam.
While in search of that inspirational knave.
Talent or muse or a kick to the dome
are the only things that can save
this poem.
&&&
I miss you
I miss your touch
I miss you so much
I know your stress
Has made you a mess
But I miss you nonetheless.
So there I was, no shit, in my electric boat with a shark swimming nearby. I'd heard about this scenario somewhere, but couldn't recall the exact specifics of the situation. In any case, a storm was raging, I was far from shore, and my emotional support llama was of absolutely no use.
In short, I was screwed.
It seemed like this was going to be a 'man versus' nature story with myself as the protagonist. Some real gritty stuff could happen - how would I weather the storm? Would I have to fix a leak in my boat as part of the road of trials? Would the third act be a confrontation with the shark where something set up earlier pays off? A new skill or tool or knowledge of myself?
John Jolie was pretty pickled. As he carefully navigated one more sip of beer to his lips, he reflected on what all had transpired that day - no, week - that had led him to this particular besotted condition.
"It all started Tuesday," he spoke to no one. "It was that fucking goat."
He was referring to a goat that had locked eyes with him on - you guessed it - Tuesday. By 'locked eyes with' I mean looked in his direction. Goats, with their rectangular pupils and approximately 320 degrees of vision, don't really 'lock eyes' with anyone. Regardless, the goat had pointed its head in Joh's direction and promptly died. It was a whole thing.
Shocked by this development, John had made his way to the farmhouse where he presumed the goat's owner lived. He'd knocked on the door and - having waited a few minutes - began writing a not on a scrap of paper mentioning the goat's demise. At the precise moment he reached out to wedge the note between the door and door jamb, the door opened.
