A long time ago, in the land of Gaul near the village of Ghrebh, there lived a creature called Tasa. The villagers didn’t particularly like Tasa, but Tasa did a job that nobody else wanted to do. Tasa took care of the garbage. Every evening, before the streetlamps were lit to keep the goblins away, the villagers took their garbage to the hill past the village gates and dumped it over the side. All manner of foul things rolled down the hill, and each night, Tasa would sort them. The things of the earth would be returned to the earth, but the things that the villagers had made were left for a while. Eventually, the things were covered up by new layers, and the villagers couldn’t see them anymore, and thought they were gone.
Tasa took great interest in all the things that were sorted. Here were some eggshells from this morning’s breakfast, and over there some clippings from a young girl’s haircut. Tasa’s claws touched everything in the dump, carefully placing each where it belonged. Sometimes Tasa would find things that didn’t belong in the dump, things that were there too early. Tasa knew this, and would place them where the villagers could see them. They would arrive to dump the day’s load down the hill, and they would see the things that Tasa left on top, and sometimes they would want to get them back.
Tasa’s place was not a safe place for the villagers. The things that the earth didn’t want, sharp things and poisonous things and evil things waited for villagers who regretted tossing something in the dump. Tasa readily took anything the villagers wanted to throw away, but once on the heap, they belonged to Tasa.
It happened one day that two village children met on the path to the dump, each carrying something for Tasa to sort.
“Hello, Elizabeth,” said the first child.
“Hello, Christopher,” said the second. “Carrying your family’s scraps to Tasa, are you?”
“I wish it were scraps,” said Christopher. “I wish more than anything it was scraps I have in my basket.”
“Whatever do you mean?”
“It’s Kadiska. Kadiska is in my basket,” and with that, Christopher started to cry. Kadiska the cat had been part of the family for as long as Christopher had been alive. “Last night he curled up near the fireplace like he always does, but this morning, he was still there. I tried to get him awake so we could play, but he laid still. Mum looked at him and touched him too, but he didn’t move. We watched him for a while, then she said I should take him to Tasa. I wanted to wait, but Mum said to put him in the basket and take him to Tasa this minute.” Tears splashed atop the basket he carried close to his chest as he walked toward the dump.
“I don’t have anything but scraps,” said Elizabeth as she walked with Christopher. She didn’t pay any attention to his crying.
The two children stopped at the top of the hill and looked over the dump that yawned below them. A breeze tousled their hair and ruffled their clothing. “Oh I hate it here!” said Elizabeth. “It stinks here! I don’t know why I should ever have to come to such a horrid place!”
“We have to come here,” said Christopher. He knelt down with his basket at the top of the hill overlooking the place of Tasa, and tried to find the will to empty it. He couldn’t just throw the dead cat onto the pile and walk away, nor could he let it roll down the hill. His mother had made a bright blue velvet bow for Kadiska’s basket, and he could not toss it away like so much chicken bones and dust. Wracked with sobs, he said to Elizabeth, “I cannot throw this basket, and I don’t want to open it. I will walk down the hill and set it at the edge of the pile. Tasa will be able to find it. Tasa will know what to do with it.”
“Don’t be silly!” said Elizabeth. “It’s not alive and it doesn’t mean anything anymore! I’ll show you how to get rid of trash,” and with that, she flung open her basket and dropped the contents into the dump. As an afterthought, she pulled from her dress pocket a tattered doll with a blue dress, and in one motion, dropped and kicked it into the dump with the other refuse. As she turned to leave, Christopher was carefully making his way down the steep hill toward the edge of the garbage pile. She called over her shoulder, “You’re going to slip and cut yourself down there, and you’ll be sick for the rest of your life! Serves you right!” Her voice carried across the dump as she walked away and did not look back.
When Christopher got to the bottom of the hill, he stood at the edge of the heap. It was a sea of garbage. He could hear things skittering, moving beneath it. He set his basket with Kadiska in it down. He hated to leave it here, because this was the place of things unwanted, and he still wanted Kadiska. He looked at the basket for a few minutes, then a breeze wafted past him, carrying the stench of the dump. He turned and started up the hill, tears burning his eyes and the smell burning his nose. He had a lump in his throat that he couldn’t swallow. He sobbed as he climbed, and he promised himself he would never get that close to the dump again.
For a few days, Christopher’s mother did not make him go to the dump with the family trash, and for his part, he avoided the area completely. On the sixth day after Kadiska died, there was a great commotion at the dump, and all of the villagers clamored around to see what was happening. Christopher heard the excitement, and although he didn’t want to go near the dump, curiosity compelled him. As he approached it, he could see people standing at the top of the hill, looking down. It was very windy at the crest of the hill, and some of the people held their noses or had kerchiefs over their faces. Christopher got to the top of the hill and looked to see what all the fuss was about. He could see two men walking very carefully through the garbage. They were coming back to the edge. One man held the other’s hand to steady him; the second man had something over his shoulder. It was Elizabeth.
“What happened?” said Christopher to another child standing next to him.
“Elizabeth got in trouble because she threw something to Tasa that didn’t belong to her! She borrowed a doll and kept it, then threw it away! Her mother was going to punish her, but Elizabeth thought if she could get the doll back, she wouldn’t be in trouble anymore! She fell down in the garbage and now she’s going to die!” All the children talked excitedly of it, but Christopher wasn’t really listening. He didn’t want to, but he looked where he had placed Kadiska’s basket. It was gone. He felt the lump growing in his throat, not for Elizabeth, but for his cat. The wind blew again, and Christopher felt it carry something out of the dump to touch his leg. He looked down and saw it was the bow his mother had put on Kadiska’s basket. He put it in his pocket and walked away from the dump.
For weeks, Elizabeth lay with a fever. She was very sick. Even the village doctor did not know how to cure her, and he didn’t know how long it would last. The fever took all it could from her, and when it finally broke, Elizabeth was very thin and very weak. Her hands curled up like claws, never to be the same again, and she could not speak. Sounds came from her lips, but she could not make words, save for one: Tasa.
Years later, when Christopher was older and had a family of his own, he was dumping trash for Tasa when he heard a noise coming from the heap. He carefully crawled down the hill and there, at the edge of the stinking pile, was a crying kitten. Its fur was dirty, but its eyes were bright. It had gotten wedged beneath an old table. It was pinned and could not move. Christopher knelt down, and carefully, so as not to cut himself, pulled the kitten free. He stood up to leave, and the kitten looked up at him, still crying. He squatted back down, holding out his hands, and the kitten trotted right into them. He held it out to look at it; it was a mess. It meowed a tiny meow, and licked his thumb. For the third time in his life, he got a lump in his throat at the edge of the garbage pile. This lump was much easier to swallow, though, and it happened when, after carrying the kitten home and cleaning it up, he put the blue bow on it he had saved from Kadiska’s basket so long ago.
And what of Tasa? Tasa still sorts the trash for the villagers, arranging each thing to its place and keeping every unwanted thing tossed into the dump.
23 June 2007
16 June 2007
"Smokey Joe"
I wish I could sing. I wish I had a voice that made people stop what they’re doing, no matter what it is, and make them feel compelled to loudly announce to everyone within earshot “I love this song!” I’ve done that, and so have you, if you’re normal. Sometimes you’ve got an air guitar or an air organ or air drums or an air microphone, and sometimes, if the song really moves you, you can play all air instruments and sing simultaneously. Sometimes you burst out to a less than sympathetic reception. You don’t get to pick the times that the music moves you, but when it happens, there ain’t no shyin’ away from it.
I hate to sound like an old fart, but when I was a kid, the only music you got was on the AM radio. You could buy 45’s, and that was cool, but unless you had a ton of money, you couldn’t have all the good songs, because there was a new hit every week, and anybody who listened to the radio knew what they were. Some say the music scene in the mid-twentieth century was homogenous, but they don’t understand. I challenge them to name just one song in the past few years that had America and the world singing and dancing at the same time. Aretha Franklin did it. So did Dusty Springfield and Otis Redding and a host of other acts that made up the “pop” scene of the 60’s. Everybody knew what the British Invasion was because every radio station played them. For that brief era, much of the world danced to the same tunes.
It would be unfair to pick out one as a favorite. Just when you thought you’d heard the coolest song ever, another would come out and replace it. My favorites changed from day to day, and they still do, even though they’re still all the same old songs. So while I can’t say what my definitive favorite is, I still want to add my homage to the man I think has one of the greatest voices I’ve ever heard: William Robinson Sr., better known as “Smokey.”
Smokey Robinson’s voice glides through my head like a pat of butter sliding across a warm skillet. Indeed, after he has sung a word, its velvety smoothness lingers, and it leaves me waiting for the next one. When I’m happy, Smokey’s voice cheers with me, and when I’m sad, the same voice consoles me. There is something about his voice that, for me, anyway, goes beyond mere auditory perception; it touches my soul. I daresay that if I were a woman and Smokey Robinson sung to me, I would melt on the spot and surrender. He writes songs with deceptively simple lyrics about love lost or desired, and he delivers them with that silky voice that could melt the iciest heart.
I’m not alone in thinking that Smokey’s lyrics are a thing of wonder. Bob Dylan called him “America’s greatest living poet,” and I couldn’t agree more. If you’ve ever tried to write poetry, you know how hard it can be to string words together that have the same number of syllables, rhyme, and make sense, all at the same time. So many songs end up sounding like they rhyme, but if you listen carefully, the meter is off. They’re cheating, squeezing extra syllables in, but not Smokey. And again, when he’s got the perfect idea in verse, he perfects it by singing, almost cooing like a dove, sounding for all the world like a divine messenger bearing tidings of great joy and comfort. Thank you, William “Smokey” Robinson.
Songs, of course, are ephemeral; they always end. One of the greatest achievements of humans was the invention of sound recording. The same song played at different times can evoke different feelings. The notes don’t change, but the mood of the listener does. It’s so hard to describe the magic of music. We know how it makes us feel, but how does it do that? Of course the music and the lyrics matter, but I sometimes think that it appeals to us on a much deeper level. Perhaps it’s merely the sounds of it that move us, like wind chimes. Sometimes you hear a song sung in a language you don’t understand but still enjoy. For all you know, the lyrics could be about churning butter, but the proper notes in the proper order can resonate around your brain and strike a chord in your being that can change your mood. That, my friends, is true magic.
EPILOGUE: There is much more to Smokey Robinson than is described above. I just happened to be listening to him when it struck me to make a feeble attempt at describing how his music moves me. A good article on him can be found here. And for the record, I like all the oldies. I like the Temptations, Herman’s Hermits, and all of the one-hit-wonders.
I hate to sound like an old fart, but when I was a kid, the only music you got was on the AM radio. You could buy 45’s, and that was cool, but unless you had a ton of money, you couldn’t have all the good songs, because there was a new hit every week, and anybody who listened to the radio knew what they were. Some say the music scene in the mid-twentieth century was homogenous, but they don’t understand. I challenge them to name just one song in the past few years that had America and the world singing and dancing at the same time. Aretha Franklin did it. So did Dusty Springfield and Otis Redding and a host of other acts that made up the “pop” scene of the 60’s. Everybody knew what the British Invasion was because every radio station played them. For that brief era, much of the world danced to the same tunes.
It would be unfair to pick out one as a favorite. Just when you thought you’d heard the coolest song ever, another would come out and replace it. My favorites changed from day to day, and they still do, even though they’re still all the same old songs. So while I can’t say what my definitive favorite is, I still want to add my homage to the man I think has one of the greatest voices I’ve ever heard: William Robinson Sr., better known as “Smokey.”
Smokey Robinson’s voice glides through my head like a pat of butter sliding across a warm skillet. Indeed, after he has sung a word, its velvety smoothness lingers, and it leaves me waiting for the next one. When I’m happy, Smokey’s voice cheers with me, and when I’m sad, the same voice consoles me. There is something about his voice that, for me, anyway, goes beyond mere auditory perception; it touches my soul. I daresay that if I were a woman and Smokey Robinson sung to me, I would melt on the spot and surrender. He writes songs with deceptively simple lyrics about love lost or desired, and he delivers them with that silky voice that could melt the iciest heart.
I’m not alone in thinking that Smokey’s lyrics are a thing of wonder. Bob Dylan called him “America’s greatest living poet,” and I couldn’t agree more. If you’ve ever tried to write poetry, you know how hard it can be to string words together that have the same number of syllables, rhyme, and make sense, all at the same time. So many songs end up sounding like they rhyme, but if you listen carefully, the meter is off. They’re cheating, squeezing extra syllables in, but not Smokey. And again, when he’s got the perfect idea in verse, he perfects it by singing, almost cooing like a dove, sounding for all the world like a divine messenger bearing tidings of great joy and comfort. Thank you, William “Smokey” Robinson.
Songs, of course, are ephemeral; they always end. One of the greatest achievements of humans was the invention of sound recording. The same song played at different times can evoke different feelings. The notes don’t change, but the mood of the listener does. It’s so hard to describe the magic of music. We know how it makes us feel, but how does it do that? Of course the music and the lyrics matter, but I sometimes think that it appeals to us on a much deeper level. Perhaps it’s merely the sounds of it that move us, like wind chimes. Sometimes you hear a song sung in a language you don’t understand but still enjoy. For all you know, the lyrics could be about churning butter, but the proper notes in the proper order can resonate around your brain and strike a chord in your being that can change your mood. That, my friends, is true magic.
EPILOGUE: There is much more to Smokey Robinson than is described above. I just happened to be listening to him when it struck me to make a feeble attempt at describing how his music moves me. A good article on him can be found here. And for the record, I like all the oldies. I like the Temptations, Herman’s Hermits, and all of the one-hit-wonders.
12 June 2007
Pus 'N Boats
I took a motorcycle ride today, and it was good. It was good to get out of the house and spend the day riding up and down the coast. It was very hot; even the breeze that normally cools me off on the road was sweltering at times, but that was OK, because as long as I was moving, I wasn’t covered with a sheen of sweat. I didn’t even notice the ridiculous sunburn I got.
I took a ride to Fort Matanzas, just south of St. Augustine, the oldest European settlement in what is now America. It’s a state park here in Florida, complete with nature trails and picnic areas. The actual “fort” is on the other side of the river, though, and a ferry takes visitors there every hour. Since I was close to the time of the next ferry departure, and I had nothing else to do, and the ferry ride was free, I decided I would go and see a bit of history. I wasn’t the only visitor there, but as a (very) amateur history buff, I would like to have seen more people looking to learn what happened before we got here. In any case, I shared the boat ride with about 15 other people. Among my fellow passengers was a teenage girl with an absolutely horrible case of acne, and braces to boot. She was truly a pitiful figure, appearance-wise, and when I saw her I remembered that there are worse things than being broke.
She had a couple of friends with her, and they were being chaperoned by someone I assumed was somebody’s dad. The two friends were, as far as teenage girls go, cute, and I’m sure they’re popular in their circle. I noticed, though, that the two “normal” girls spent a lot more time talking to each other than they did talking to the girl with the skin ailment, who spent most of her time quietly taking in the sights and sounds of a gentle ferry ride across the azure Matanzas River.
I struck up a conversation with the acne girl; to not speak would have been awkward, since we were sitting directly across from each other. Our conversation was friendly but banal; neither of us said anything earth shaking or profound, and I certainly didn’t say anything about her condition. There was, however, something unspoken between us, something much larger going on than two strangers chatting idly, and it was simply this: It didn’t matter to me what she looked like, and she knew it. I didn’t console or condescend to her one bit, and I’m sure she was grateful for that. In fact, I know she was. How? Because I have walked in her shoes.
When I was in high school, I had what is known as cystic acne. Large and unsightly (to say the least) boils covered my cheeks and back, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. My mother took me to dermatologists, but they were little more than medieval torture chambers, dispensing tetracycline and performing what they called “extraction”, a horrifying process I will leave to your imagination. It was agonizingly painful, both physically and psychologically. There were pretty young nurses working there, and the only reason I was there was because I looked like a monster. For a horny teenaged boy, it was hell on earth.
I had friends in high school, but I always wondered if I would have had more if I had been more normal looking. Some people were downright cruel, but I think the worst ones were those who utterly ignored me, or those who looked away with thinly disguised revulsion, as if I somehow chose and enjoyed my appearance.
I had no choice but to learn how to live with my condition. I carried on as best I could, and even had a few awkward dates, but not many. There was one girl in particular whom I really liked, but she was popular and extremely good looking, and I knew I had no chance with her. She was a cheerleader and she was in almost all of my teen fantasies, wearing her amply-filled sweater, a short skirt and her little cowboy boots with the tassels...Ooo, she was fine. Her name was Becky, and she was one of the very few popular kids who talked to me. She was genuinely nice, I think, and I fairly jumped with joy when she asked me to help her with a paper we had to write in an English class. For a blissful half hour, she talked to only me, and because I was a foolish, love struck teenager, I forgot I was ugly. It was great.
As we finished her paper, which she was very happy with, I took a chance and asked her if I could take her out to dinner. She touched my arm (heavenly) and declined, saying she had a boyfriend. I knew that, of course; girls like her always have boyfriends, and I also knew who he was, and further, that he would probably pummel me to death if he knew I had the audacity to hit on his girl. But she smiled when she turned me down, and as she gathered up her books and walked away, I congratulated myself for having the courage to at least try to be normal. Things weren’t as bad as I thought they were.
Still basking in the glow of Becky’s presence, I began to gather up my papers and books, and I heard a small sound, like a drop of water on paper. I looked down, and there, right in front of me, on a bright white page, was a fresh rusty colored splotch. In a nanosecond, I felt all of my insides drop to my feet. I gingerly touched my cheek, smile fading fast, and realized that all the time I had been sitting with Becky, smiling and laughing and having a rare, normal interlude, my pustule covered cheeks had been oozing a brownish cocktail of blood and pus. I had asked the best looking girl at school to dinner looking for all the world like a fresh Frankenstein. I wanted to crawl under a rock.
I talked to the girl on the boat because I know how she feels. I know her pain, and I remember mine. It doesn’t bother me like it used to, but I will never forget it. I like to think that she will remember a stranger who didn’t treat her as anything other than normal.
I took a ride to Fort Matanzas, just south of St. Augustine, the oldest European settlement in what is now America. It’s a state park here in Florida, complete with nature trails and picnic areas. The actual “fort” is on the other side of the river, though, and a ferry takes visitors there every hour. Since I was close to the time of the next ferry departure, and I had nothing else to do, and the ferry ride was free, I decided I would go and see a bit of history. I wasn’t the only visitor there, but as a (very) amateur history buff, I would like to have seen more people looking to learn what happened before we got here. In any case, I shared the boat ride with about 15 other people. Among my fellow passengers was a teenage girl with an absolutely horrible case of acne, and braces to boot. She was truly a pitiful figure, appearance-wise, and when I saw her I remembered that there are worse things than being broke.
She had a couple of friends with her, and they were being chaperoned by someone I assumed was somebody’s dad. The two friends were, as far as teenage girls go, cute, and I’m sure they’re popular in their circle. I noticed, though, that the two “normal” girls spent a lot more time talking to each other than they did talking to the girl with the skin ailment, who spent most of her time quietly taking in the sights and sounds of a gentle ferry ride across the azure Matanzas River.
I struck up a conversation with the acne girl; to not speak would have been awkward, since we were sitting directly across from each other. Our conversation was friendly but banal; neither of us said anything earth shaking or profound, and I certainly didn’t say anything about her condition. There was, however, something unspoken between us, something much larger going on than two strangers chatting idly, and it was simply this: It didn’t matter to me what she looked like, and she knew it. I didn’t console or condescend to her one bit, and I’m sure she was grateful for that. In fact, I know she was. How? Because I have walked in her shoes.
When I was in high school, I had what is known as cystic acne. Large and unsightly (to say the least) boils covered my cheeks and back, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it. My mother took me to dermatologists, but they were little more than medieval torture chambers, dispensing tetracycline and performing what they called “extraction”, a horrifying process I will leave to your imagination. It was agonizingly painful, both physically and psychologically. There were pretty young nurses working there, and the only reason I was there was because I looked like a monster. For a horny teenaged boy, it was hell on earth.
I had friends in high school, but I always wondered if I would have had more if I had been more normal looking. Some people were downright cruel, but I think the worst ones were those who utterly ignored me, or those who looked away with thinly disguised revulsion, as if I somehow chose and enjoyed my appearance.
I had no choice but to learn how to live with my condition. I carried on as best I could, and even had a few awkward dates, but not many. There was one girl in particular whom I really liked, but she was popular and extremely good looking, and I knew I had no chance with her. She was a cheerleader and she was in almost all of my teen fantasies, wearing her amply-filled sweater, a short skirt and her little cowboy boots with the tassels...Ooo, she was fine. Her name was Becky, and she was one of the very few popular kids who talked to me. She was genuinely nice, I think, and I fairly jumped with joy when she asked me to help her with a paper we had to write in an English class. For a blissful half hour, she talked to only me, and because I was a foolish, love struck teenager, I forgot I was ugly. It was great.
As we finished her paper, which she was very happy with, I took a chance and asked her if I could take her out to dinner. She touched my arm (heavenly) and declined, saying she had a boyfriend. I knew that, of course; girls like her always have boyfriends, and I also knew who he was, and further, that he would probably pummel me to death if he knew I had the audacity to hit on his girl. But she smiled when she turned me down, and as she gathered up her books and walked away, I congratulated myself for having the courage to at least try to be normal. Things weren’t as bad as I thought they were.
Still basking in the glow of Becky’s presence, I began to gather up my papers and books, and I heard a small sound, like a drop of water on paper. I looked down, and there, right in front of me, on a bright white page, was a fresh rusty colored splotch. In a nanosecond, I felt all of my insides drop to my feet. I gingerly touched my cheek, smile fading fast, and realized that all the time I had been sitting with Becky, smiling and laughing and having a rare, normal interlude, my pustule covered cheeks had been oozing a brownish cocktail of blood and pus. I had asked the best looking girl at school to dinner looking for all the world like a fresh Frankenstein. I wanted to crawl under a rock.
I talked to the girl on the boat because I know how she feels. I know her pain, and I remember mine. It doesn’t bother me like it used to, but I will never forget it. I like to think that she will remember a stranger who didn’t treat her as anything other than normal.
04 June 2007
Piss Poor
I’m just about to find out what it’s like to be piss poor. I have no money, very little food, very few cigarettes and I’m just about out of bourbon. I have no insurance (health or auto). I have paid the last of the bills that I can afford to pay. Things will start getting shut off very soon, which means I will no longer be able to post to this blog until I get some money, and as of now, there are more important bills than internet.
As I lamented in a previous entry, I cannot find a job. Even Ace Hardware didn’t call me back. It’s as though I’ve been blacklisted. I got a part time gig writing for a fledgling racing circuit keeping stats and writing race synopses, and I went to my first race ever this past weekend, but it got rained out, so no check from that. I went to South Carolina and back for nothing.
Even if I could afford gas, I can’t go anywhere because some asshole ran around the parking lot of my apartment building and let air out of all the tires. I’ll figure out a way to get the tires filled, but by Florida law, if your insurance lapses, your driver’s license is revoked and the police are notified. I cannot drive my car without breaking the law.
I will post again, probably in July. Until then, I simply don’t have the will to write anything. My mother used to quote Thumper’s Daddy and say, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Nobody wants to hear me whine, so I’m going to shut up for a while. Thanks for reading, and hopefully, I’ll be back soon.
As I lamented in a previous entry, I cannot find a job. Even Ace Hardware didn’t call me back. It’s as though I’ve been blacklisted. I got a part time gig writing for a fledgling racing circuit keeping stats and writing race synopses, and I went to my first race ever this past weekend, but it got rained out, so no check from that. I went to South Carolina and back for nothing.
Even if I could afford gas, I can’t go anywhere because some asshole ran around the parking lot of my apartment building and let air out of all the tires. I’ll figure out a way to get the tires filled, but by Florida law, if your insurance lapses, your driver’s license is revoked and the police are notified. I cannot drive my car without breaking the law.
I will post again, probably in July. Until then, I simply don’t have the will to write anything. My mother used to quote Thumper’s Daddy and say, “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.” Nobody wants to hear me whine, so I’m going to shut up for a while. Thanks for reading, and hopefully, I’ll be back soon.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
