Happy Thanksgiving

It's Somewhat Insane That It's Sort of This Way

I Don't Know How This Plays

So here's something.

Hearing. Seeing. Knowing.

It alternates between seeming like the most natural thing in the world and seeming insane.

At this point, I have nothing.

This, friends tell me, means I have nothing to lose.

They're wrong.

There's always something to lose.

Hope. Dreams. Ambitions.

But isn't it better to know than to live with the fantasy?

Maybe. Maybe not.

The fantasy has been around for a while. It knows how I like my food cooked and knows where I keep the booze.

Maybe, you say. Maybe not.



And when the cold rains move through like an angry bull, the fantasy takes its leave.

Leaving behind a stream, a trail, a sign that it's been there.

Is there a chance or not?

I don't know.

I may never know.

But I want to know.

So

I pick up

the phone.

To a Distant Constellation

Storms inside your head can amplify the plight...

The windstorm whispers through the trees: "You'll be there. You'll be there soon."

I dream of neighborhoods in a city I've never lived in. A city I've spent about three weeks in -- spread out over 15 years.

Its tortured curving streets appear to me sometimes at night. And the animals who wander the backyards find their way into my dreams.

When did the details of this city cross over into my dreams?

And why do the animals look up at me and not run away?

In another dream, I'm on the patio. Looking down on the city. Watching the sun set.

I said something then. This was a real conversation.

But what I said has faded in time. Faded with the fabric covering the furniture in that backyard, which has now seen hundreds of additional sunsets.

All that remains of that conversation is the memory of the feelings. Still awake, still alive.

Interrupted by dream-like visions of the other city, the city I have never lived in.

And the animals who wander the backyards of my memory, crossing over from the real city.

Now the wind has died down. Now the rain has stopped.

And I stare at the clouds, which seem like they belong in that other city.

I see an animal cross the street -- but it's not an animal from here. It's an animal from that other city.

The clouds say nothing, give me no clue.

As the animal that shouldn't be here darts out of sight, I wonder what else has crossed over in the moment when worlds and cities briefly overlap, overlay, and open themselves to my heart.

Paid for Entertainment She'd Already Seen

Compare and contrast:

Re-run of Jack O'Lantern Proportions

Beyond the pale [originally published in 2010]

You saw something.

You can't explain it.

So your mind works overtime. And you cling to something, anything.

Because you can't have it unexplained.

That way is madness. That way is horror. That way is terrifying.


Hundreds of years ago, this wouldn't have been a problem.



We knew there were a lot of things we didn't know. And yet our minds still spun in circles.

It's the explanations that were different. Otherworldly. Relying on magic and the supernatural to explain the most sublime of pleasures and the most terrifying of horrors.

We've turned away from that now.

Well, mostly.


Happy Halloween.

The Kind of Murder That's Not a Crime

They Say It's Better to Be Traveling Than To Arrive

Shadows lengthen. Days shorten.

The wet sidewalks groan under the weight of the trucks.

And traffic slows on the overpass. As it always has. Maybe as it always will.

The tree that once was sick got better, grew taller, then died from root rot.

These things happened.


She almost always had a camera strapped around her neck.

Back before digital, back when there was film. And shutter speed, lens opening, and developing labs.

When it took days or a week to see the finished photos. Not 60 minutes or less.

She saw moments. Saw actions and stories. When we all just saw a blurry mass of life.

She'd come in with the camera, snap pictures quickly, then slip out the back.

But when we saw the photos, we were amazed.

They showed things we hadn't noticed. Or hadn't looked at carefully enough.

We almost never recognized the moment, but we always recognized the feeling.

And the feeling was always perfect.

Until Senior Year, when she stopped photographing anything for a month.

And then would only photograph this one guy. In a band. He played guitar. Horribly.

And the photos that had once seemed so truthful and real now were obvious, staged, and devoid of feeling.

But she wasn't. She was suddenly happy. Madly in love.

They went everywhere together. And she stopped obsessively carrying the camera.

She thought she'd die when he went to Europe for a few months.

She started carrying the camera again. But couldn't bring herself to take any more photos.

Except one.

A self-portrait. (It won an award. You've probably seen it.)



She set the camera on a tripod. Looked once through the viewfinder.

That was enough. She knew what she wanted. Knew what it was she needed to capture.

And she pressed the button.

Walked without hurry into the shot.

Her arm stretched north. Up. Towards... something.

Her legs stretched south. Down. As if readying.

It was perfect. A moment. Frozen in the lens. Framed and frozen on the wall.

Frozen for us. By her.

She wound the film up. Took it out of the camera. Left both camera and film for the yearbook staff.

And walked out to catch a plane to Madrid and start the rest of her life.

Kimberley's Back in Denial Again

Frances is Coming Apart at the Seams

There's something going on.

A street closure.

A ferris wheel.

People gathering.

Nothing is quite what it seems.

The girl who lived in the area is gone.

But the shopkeepers miss her still.

They speak her name in low tones.

The vendors at the fair tell stories of how she won the stuffed bear last year. And how they found the bear in a dumpster a few days later.

They talk of the rides she loved. The boyfriends she brought to the fair over the years.

They talk of her. And nothing but her.

Because they all miss her. They all wonder what happened to her.

And they know they'll never, ever see her again.