tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35428759615576985842024-02-20T12:56:21.667-05:00SchlabotnickBrian Fayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06421550048487521540noreply@blogger.comBlogger55125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-19076840244658478382015-07-01T16:19:00.003-04:002015-07-01T16:19:43.127-04:00Flood Warnings Have Been Posted<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Last night the rain came hard. My oldest daughter got up at a crack of thunder. She smiled at us. More time with Mom and Dad. Her sister, so deep in her sleep, nothing could rouse her. I opened the garage door. Started downstairs. Come on, I said. She hesitated. I said, it’s beautiful, a hard rain at night. Come with me. I went on, trusting she would follow or that I would be okay if she didn’t. I have to accept some things. Standing in the garage, the rain roaring in the driveway, I looked across the street. Beneath a tree stood shadows. A car passed, wipers beating fiercely. Headlights showed a deer and two fawns. My daughter came to my side. Her mother behind her. I pointed. Look, I said. What, my daughter asked. I held my finger extended, leaned into her. She looked. Then saw. The deer stood beneath the tree. The rain fell harder. Wind blew. Lightning. Thunder. The deer stood still. We did too. I breathed as easy as the little girl still up in bed. My daughter whispered, will they be okay? The rain and the darkness were the answer. </span>bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-54199728357342589072014-12-26T08:35:00.001-05:002014-12-26T08:35:18.447-05:00Inside Your Headfor Stephanie<br />
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In the cave you’re supposed to watch for shadows. Try to understand the world. But this cave is dark. The mouth is closed. It’s not really a cave. And somehow you’re able to see writing on the walls instead of drawing. Your handwriting. The walls like old paper. Yellowed, creased, stained by time. Blue ink moves left to right. Pages of what had been your thoughts. Stories, a few poems, love notes sent and unsent. This one here that you’re reading is from troubled times. Real darkness. Written when you should have been asleep. It says things you can’t believe you believed. You wonder who you could have been. Who you thought you were. There is room at the bottom to change the ending. Space on the wall to rewrite it all. You hold the pen in your hand. Shadows move across the wall. Memories perhaps. No. There are things happening now. Out there. The cave is open. There’s the mouth. Tree branches move in grey morning light. The wind whispers. The walls are drawings, ancient and strange. No words. You put the pen in your pocket. From outside the cave you hear a voice. Calling you to come out now, wherever you are. bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-39292905893152741412014-12-05T06:04:00.004-05:002014-12-07T12:46:28.136-05:00When the River Ices Over<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">An old woman goes walking. Early morning. Before dawn. Her husband sleeps in his bed. She leaves hers. Goes out silently, remembering the dog that raised such a fuss. Woke the whole house. Now she goes unnoticed. No fuss. She crosses the yard, steps carefully down beside the dock. Out onto December ice dusted with November snow, she walks. And dreams of a thin coating of ice over the river under her feet. Of listening to the spiderweb of cracks pluck one against the other. The feel of gravity before it pulls her down. She breathes easy. Holds herself still. Lets the ice of dreams collapse and black water swallow her, carrying her away. But this ice is too thick for her dreaming. No cracks. No openings. Just a silent expanse of emptiness upriver and down. The wind blows and she wishes for her scarf. A long rope of yarn she made long ago. Left on the hook up in the house. Too far to go back. She walks upriver. Against the wind, the frozen current. An old woman walking. In frozen darkness long before day. Above her head a billion stars swirl and eddy down onto the ice. Beneath which some mysterious life goes on in the impossible cold and dark of December. </span>bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-2812311235043839972013-11-11T07:01:00.000-05:002013-11-11T07:01:10.101-05:00Remember ThisRemember Senior Ball. You’re with the girl who had to ask <i>you</i> out. You were too scared of yourself to risk dating. And you'd never have thought to ask her. Of all people. But here you are. Your tux looks good. She looks great. An ivory dress. It’s antique. She makes it look new. You’ve got your arms around her waist. Your hands on that dress. On her body. And those are her arms around your neck. Her fingers brushing spasms up and down your spine. Her favorite song plays slow. Romantic to high school kids like you and her. You should kiss her. Now. But you’ve never kissed a girl. Senior year and you’ve yet to taste lips and tongue. Not that you haven’t dreamed. You’ve dreamed alright. Other than self-doubt you think of little else. You sway with the girl in the antique dress to her song. Her lips are perfect red. Her eyes say, yes. They say, I’m waiting. For you. You sway. You want to believe. You say, it doesn’t get any better than this. But she says that it could. You haven't kissed her, but now you've decided to. And you pull her just that much closer. You lean across the distance between who you have been and want to be. Remember that moment just before you kiss her. Don't you ever forget.bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-21871246006212953592013-10-27T06:26:00.001-04:002013-10-27T06:26:07.569-04:00Buried TreasureI’m still digging holes in the backyard. The dog sits on the steps. She can't figure it and wants to go inside. I've lost count of the holes I've dug. The map in my back pocket is stained and ripped. An ancient thing. Like the maps I drew as a child having buried some thing in a corner of the yard. Long ago. Far away. I walk off paces. Make turns. Follow vague directions. Arriving at an imagined X on the ground in a pirate font. I spear the spade into the ground, jump on with both feet, lean back hard, pull up the sod. I dig slowly now. The first holes went faster. Dirt flew. The dog was delighted. She stood close. Her whole body shook. She imagined me knowing something. Now, she tries to sleep and I rest after only a moment. Leaning hard on the shovel. I close my eyes and pass my hand over my face. Rub dirt into my eyes. The yard is a field of holes and heaps of earth. I keep hearing that Beatles song. The holes. They had to count them all. And now they know. I push the spade in again. The ground is frozen cold. Too hard. I’m getting nowhere. I sing the song to myself. Going back to the beginning, about a lucky man who made the grade. The dog whimpers. She wants out of this. I tell her to hang on. It’s alright, I say. I know it’s here somewhere. But she knows better. I consult the map. My fingers spoil it with dirt. Another crease becomes a tear. I count twenty paces in a direction that might be east. Turn ninety degrees. Walk to a patch of unturned sod. I sing the song. Dig in. Push. And pull. The dog shakes her head hard. Her tags jangling like an alarm. She lies her snout down on the steps. Sighs. We both know I'm doing it wrong. It’s getting late. And dark.<br />
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bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-59400431832115887152013-06-26T13:57:00.004-04:002013-06-26T13:59:23.857-04:00Thurible, You Say<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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That pain in your calf. That’s a candle. You know, the kind on your birthday cake. So is the crick in your neck. The outward curve of your belly. Your carpal tunnel too. And the feeling you get around seven o’clock when you’re more than ready for a drink. Candles. Striped birthday candles. Lit. Dripping wax all over the brown frosting. You blow and blow, but why bother. You’re short of breath. And those migraines. You can’t seem to sleep and your bladder is a walnut. All those candles. And the song. Listen. It’s your friends gathered around your bed, singing “Happy Birthday.” They carry you out to a field. A priest walks ahead. He swings a thurible, trailing clouds of incense. Thurible, you say. A special type of censer. A word you just learned this morning. You say it again. Over and over. You imagine a wind carrying the incense up toward heaven. Blowing the candles out.<br />
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bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-2765479175517294692013-05-24T11:48:00.003-04:002013-05-24T11:48:53.565-04:00The Story I Haven’t Written<br />
In the story I haven’t written a man is killed. He reads a newspaper as he walks. The Daily News. A story of a boy shot dead outside a school in White Plains. The man reads and walks and is shot dead by a bus. A local travelling from Manhattan out to Queens. Moving fast. Through a construction zone. The man appears from behind a concrete barrier. The bus strikes him in profile. His body explodes against the bus. Slams into a concrete barrier. It is far behind by the time I understand that it was his glasses I saw. They picked up the light of the evening sun. Flashed as they tumbled and flew. The bus slows. My body tells me that we have hit a man. I feel it in my spine. There is no blood on the windshield. No crack in the glass. The driver says, no, no, no. My notebook is open on my lap. Today’s date. The words, I am riding on the local. That is all. No story. It just happened. There is no story. Just a man and a paper. Walking. Reading. Then a physical shock to my spine. Transmitted through metal, fiberglass, and plastic. A bus causes the sudden flight of a body. A pair of glasses. The evening light. Perhaps there is a soul floating away. A spirit telling the story of life and afterlife. But that’s a different kind of story. Not the kind I can tell. Not the kind I even know how to hear. <br />
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bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-48922377065422494602013-04-26T12:58:00.000-04:002013-04-26T12:58:23.004-04:00The Man Goes on Knocking at a Door<b id="docs-internal-guid-56994b1d-4742-6a33-08f9-dbc722194d37" style="font-weight: normal;"></b><br />
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<b id="docs-internal-guid-56994b1d-4742-6a33-08f9-dbc722194d37" style="font-weight: normal;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-56994b1d-4742-6a33-08f9-dbc722194d37" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It might be a metaphoric door. He might be me. The man goes on knocking at a door. Not pounding. Not banging it down. Soft knocks. Like clearing his throat. To say, I’m here. There is no wall to either side. No ceiling above. Just a frame, a door, a stout lock. There are probably hinges. He is on a path that led him to this door. He is sure the path goes through. To somewhere. To someone. He’s sure. As sure as he’s sure of anything he’s not sure of. He goes on knocking. Waiting for any answer. He thinks he called ahead. He remembers a letter he wrote or a vow he swore. Something. He remembers, but not clearly. Not how we expect to remember words we recite in whispers to ourselves or speak with hand on heart. He keeps knocking. Whispering again. Saying, it has been so long. His hand is cracking. He is hungry. He thirsts. He closes his eyes as if to sleep. But the man goes on. Knocking at a door. </span></b></b></div>
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bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-18941797466410318102013-04-24T12:59:00.000-04:002013-04-24T12:59:28.263-04:00A Lull Complete<br />
I am a child. In a too hot summer. No wind, only sweat and burning skin. This is the shore of Maine. Blue Hill Bay. The tide is far, far out. I sit with my mother on rocks. The gulls have taken the day off. But not the sailors. A sailboat race is stalled on the still ocean. In the still air. A lull complete. Our neighbor is out there. His sails slack, hanging. Sheets without wind. Others pull down their canvases. They start motors and are gone. But our neighbor is steadfast. He waits on the wind. Mother admires this. Sings his praises. She says amen. But I see a boat unmoved. A man stranded. The sun drips down the melting sky. It fades. The heat does not. The tide comes in. Mother and I move to high ground. The sailor waits. I watch. My mother sighs. Hers, the smallest breeze. My skin is crisp, roasted. I am thirsty. I blink into the setting sun and the boat is gone. The sailor too. And also my mother. Time has passed and passes. Yet there is still no wind.<br />
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bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-54646431558573352972013-04-18T07:15:00.002-04:002013-04-18T07:15:34.576-04:00GhostsThe ghosts take the bus into town. They board quietly. Perhaps silently. But that’s hard to believe. They collect transfer tickets. Take a second bus to my door. They arrive in the evening, these ghosts. Before bed. A few slip inside as I let the dog out. The rest as I let her back in. I feel their pull as I go up the stairs. Kiss my sleeping daughters. Keep myself awake. I almost see them around the bed as my wife climbs in. When I fade into sleep they cover me. Clench my jaw. Roll my body. I feel their chill through a scrim of sweat. By morning they’ve risen. Clouds of a grey day. A threat of rain. I’m tired. Clammy. My jaw aches. Am I getting sick? I’m awake to dreams and nightmares of the past. And questions. The ghosts aren’t talking. They hang in the air quiet as memory. Perhaps silently. But that’s hard to believe.<br />
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<br />bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-52244866510181081682013-03-20T19:23:00.002-04:002013-03-20T19:25:27.309-04:00From NPR News: How To Be The Good Guy With A Gun At School<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b id="internal-source-marker_0.20778520754538476" style="font-weight: normal;"><b id="internal-source-marker_0.20778520754538476" style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">First, resist the urge to just point it at students. You are a teacher. Aiming at students is a mistake. They’ll expect you to fire and be disappointed if you don’t. To have any authority, you'll have to take one out. Preferably without aiming. Choosing targets is too difficult. The obvious choice is that big pain in your ass of a kid. But he’s kind of funny. Shoot him and the classroom will be dull. That’s no good. What about the girl who won’t put down her phone? Tempting. But she tests well. If you take her out of the equation (so to speak) the whole school suffers. Really you shouldn’t aim. Just let loose. Fire a few times if that helps. Order must be maintained. Respect too. Fire away. In this manner, you can be a good guy with a gun at school. And if anyone argues the point, you know what to do. </span></b></b><b id="internal-source-marker_0.20778520754538476" style="font-weight: normal;"></b></span><br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.20778520754538476" style="font-weight: normal;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><i>(Okay, here's the obligatory note saying that this poem is ironic. It's mocking Wayne LaPierre's suggestions that teachers should be armed. Given all the pressures on teachers, the volatility of students, and the stupidity of Wayne's idea, I'm not a fan of guns in any classroom.)</i></span></span></b></b></div>
bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-73819608503131001052013-03-19T12:22:00.002-04:002013-03-19T12:22:49.628-04:00From NPR News: Some People Really Can Taste the RainbowIn fact, most of us can. It’s sherbert flavored, of course. But not rainbow sherbert. It’s some kind of berry. We don’t know which one. Tasting it is easy. Finding it is tough. You find rainbows out there but can’t track them down. Some people—scientists and meteorologists mostly but plumbers and social workers too—claim that one can’t find the end of a rainbow. The point where it touches down. And they’re right. One can’t. But if you travel in pairs and threes and fours, most anything can be tracked down. I’ve been on expeditions to the dividing moment between day and night and the point at which fog ends. Finding the ends of rainbows is easy. And when we do, we eat up its berry goodness as though it will melt away. Because it does. Leaving just the hint of some berry on our tongues. We don’t know which one.bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-88627205553958111322012-12-03T18:07:00.001-05:002012-12-04T08:46:05.641-05:00The Trees Overhanging the Bedroom<div dir="ltr">
My brother assures me that the trees overhanging the bedroom are just fine. But what does he know? He’s an architect. We need an arborist. My wife and me. Because at night I hear things. Wind. Falling leaves. Branches breaking over our bed. At night I fear that the trees will crash down on us. A collection of maples. Mistakes that grew for decades. Chances. Now overhanging the house. Casting shadows on our bedroom. My brother says, they’re hardwoods. Strong. They will last forever. Almost. But he lives by himself. No wife beside him in the night. No trees over his bedroom. The interweaving of our trees is complicated. And the way they hang suspended over us is more than I can understand. The dark is deep and the wind is strong. I lie awake some nights wondering what will happen. I hear branches whisper, til death do us part. The wind roars. My brother knows nothing. </div>
bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-39992351000806364432012-04-02T14:04:00.002-04:002012-04-02T14:04:08.499-04:00Cliffs Notes<b id="internal-source-marker_0.09985507023520768"><span style="font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">At the bookstore I send my children on their way. Stay together, I tell them. As if together they can face the dangers of this world and their futures. I linger near the front. Holding a book about a woman who has fallen apart. Her father died. Her family scattered. She married. Then divorced. She broke down. I begin reading, trying not to flip to the ending. To the solution. Trying not to cheat. The urge is so strong. The door behind me opens. A woman with three children. Stay together, she tells them. They scatter. She watches for a moment then looks at a book on the table we share. Her hair is dyed blonde. Bobbed. Her face is tan in March. She is lip-gloss moist. Her body is tall and thin. She has sensual fingers. I swear it. She puts down a book and walks away toward new fiction. I write her story in my head as if it were mine to tell. I’ve forgotten the book I hold in my hands. My children run toward me, books in their hands. Can we buy them? Can we? We walk to the register. I pay for three books. At home, I hold the book in my hands and wonder why I bought it. The ending seems so obvious now. </span></span></b>bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-52579540570981210862012-03-27T16:53:00.002-04:002012-03-27T16:53:51.296-04:00The Sacred Bookstore<b id="internal-source-marker_0.5268625738099217"><span style="font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">In the sacred bookstore we kneel in the aisles to turn the pages of our scripture. Our voices drop to a hush. Our eyes look downward. We all turn off our phones. My daughters float in baptismal gowns reading about fairies and girls who tame wolves. My wife searches for words about her pain, lips moving, eyes nearly closed. My mother reads to my father in a whisper that carries. Priests and nuns, rabbis and imams, saints and sinners gather in the sacred bookstore. They pass notes and collection baskets. Sip coffee and eat wafer thin biscuits. Outside, cars roar through the streets. The market is down. Politicians stand on street corners shouting their way to salvation. The sky itself falls. In the sacred bookstore clerks murmur an incantation. The customers respond. We all say amen. I look up to the vaulted ceiling. Frescoed on the stone, God hands Adam an apple. Eve sits nearby, reading a book, paying them no mind. I kiss the binding of my book. Close my eyes. And pray the words written inside the pages. </span></span></b>bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-69336497914321485842012-03-19T21:27:00.001-04:002012-03-19T21:27:23.760-04:00Daylight Savings<b id="internal-source-marker_0.23907282971777022"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In the dark morning after the time change you wonder about all the lies you’ve been told. Work hard and you’ll succeed. True love lasts. Father knows best. There is a God. You have tried hard to believe in these things. But the light is gone from the morning and the clocks are all wrong. You’re awake but not hungry. You just know you should be somewhere else. You aren’t sure where. You’re no longer sure who you were meant to be. You feel alone and out of time. So you stand very still. In the kitchen. Facing the window over the sink. Arms stretched out away from your body. Toes pointed. That’s when you feel it. The Earth. Your home. It spins on its axis. You feel the shape of that sphere below you. There’s the sun at the center of things. The galaxy of its sister stars. The universe that is everything. And there you are. When you open your eyes, the morning sun has dawned. Your heart beats a steady rhythm in perfect standard time. </span></b>bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-26509260017072602582012-03-07T17:42:00.001-05:002012-03-08T15:35:42.463-05:00The Cat Told Me She Was Dead<b id="internal-source-marker_0.6108964877203107"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 15px; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The cat told me she was dead. My mother. I looked into the cat's eyes. How would you know? I asked. And how would you tell me. The cat said again, She is gone. I waited, but cats don’t elaborate. The cat bit at its claws. It licked its paw clean. The cat shook its head. It blinked, then stared at me. I tried to stare back. But you know how cats are. They’ve had more practice. I didn’t stand a chance. Looking down, I saw that the floor needed sweeping. So much hair. I couldn’t remember when I had last mopped. And the dishes, the drainboard, the ketchup spilled inside the fridge. I wondered what my mother would have thought of these things. How had she gone so wrong with me. I felt her disappointment. And I felt the phone ringing in my pocket. The cat walked out of the room. It found a place in the sun and lay down. I looked at the phone and saw that it was my mother calling. From the other room, I heard the cat say, I wouldn’t answer that. Some things you trust your cat about. </span></b>bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-56239320937119041482012-01-23T18:48:00.003-05:002012-01-23T18:57:23.572-05:00All the Way to Disney World<span id="internal-source-marker_0.8179190319497138"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Your father could have shut the engine off and lit up a Camel, and you could have coasted all the way to Disney World, the warm wind wafting through the open windows, the wind lifting your sombreros up a little, then working its way out the window again.</span><blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">"After The Reading, Driving Back to Massachusetts With Jim Bescht, I Think Of The Men Who Hold The World In Their Hand"</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Except your dad smoked Winchesters—little cigars, they were called—and your mom smoked Kents one after another. And you had only one brother. He sat in the back seat while you rode in the way-back, staring at where you had come from. You had no sombrero. You organized your things. Tried to sleep. Counted miles. Told yourself stories. You imagined who you might be someday.<br class="kix-line-break" /><br class="kix-line-break" />I see you looking backward at me through the windshield. I wave. But there’s no way to communicate. No way to tell you the secrets of what you will become. I look at your face. I know you. I remember. I miss you so much. </span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><br /><span style="font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The car stalls. I pull over. Lean my head back and close my eyes. There’s nothing I could tell you anyway. You’re already so far away. Your brother wants you to listen to something. Your mother passes a sandwich back. Your father drives. You ask, how much farther, Dad? He says, it’s a ways away. I can’t remember if you believe him or if you feel sure that you will never arrive. The road is so long, forward and back, moving fast or sitting still. </span></span>bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-54056307159361178692012-01-21T08:52:00.000-05:002012-01-21T08:52:07.153-05:00Geology<b id="internal-source-marker_0.9320185834076256"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I ask my friend, a geologist, could the glacial ice really have been a mile thick. I hold my hand a mile over my head. He says, yes, without having to think for even a moment. Without having to make himself believe in this scripture. I hear the awe in his answer. Reverence. I nod, closing my eyes. We bow together at the altar of true grandeur. Our eyes scan the topographic map spread before us. He points there, there, there at drumlins. Glacial deposits particular to this region. He says, see how they are all inline. A wonder. Two nights from now, lying in bed, I will try to read Robert Bly’s poems from a Florida Key looking at </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">the Jesuitical Florida waters</span><span style="font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. I will be distracted from his words by the wind blowing snow and ice hard against the house. My mind frozen in a mile of ice. The microscopic motion of it. The momentum. It’s impossible power to erase the world. I’ll listen hard. Straining to hear if the glacier is advancing. I’ll close the book and my eyes. I’ll try to sleep. Wondering what world I will find when I awake.</span></span></b>bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-85951093981427066662012-01-19T11:37:00.004-05:002012-01-20T15:36:51.330-05:00Far Away, The Forest<br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.12715771235525608"><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">You take the afternoon off. Tell them you’re not feeling well. Need to lie down. But you aren’t really sick. You just have to get away. There is a forest. You need to go where the air is clean. So you tell them you’re sick. Your manager looks at you. She agrees. She says, you don’t look good. Go home. Take the day. Get better. You nod. At the elevator you see your face in the silver doors. It looks ashen. Are you sweating? You ride to the ground floor. Push through the revolving door. Outside, you feel your bowels loosen. You shiver. You ride the bus to your stop. You walk home tired. Worn down. As you lie in your bed, you think of the forest again. The trees. The pine needles. You sniff, imagining the scent. Your wife checks your head. You have a fever now. As the afternoon fades into dusk, she takes you to the hospital. The doctors are mystified. A nurse rolls you into the ICU. The sun sets. The room is beige. The window shows only dark, empty sky. No stars. A faint glow of street lights. Gasping into a mask you say, I just need some fresh air. They push the mask back over your face. Gently they lay you back down. You think of the forest. So far away. You just know you’ll never make it. </span></span></b></div>bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-57371766234486501942012-01-13T21:41:00.002-05:002012-01-13T21:41:31.727-05:00I'm Still Seeking Wisdom. You?<br />
Tonight's entry ought to be a bit different. I'm away from home visiting my in-laws including my wife's sister who is visiting from Florida. We have just returned from dinner out together and I have some thoughts about how different things are for me than they used to be. I might as well share those thoughts since the only other thing I can think of to talk about is the weather and who really wants to read 750 words about that?<br />
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I'm a man who had grown up with anxiety and taken it on as the only way to go. When meeting someone new I invariably forget that person's name as soon as it is told to me because I am too busy trying to think of something charming to say. My concern has always been to insure that the person likes me. It just never occurred to me that one of the best ways to get people to like me is to pay attention to them and know them instead of focusing on myself.<br />
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Tonight, my sister-in-law introduced us to her boyfriend for the first time. This was at the restaurant and I had a bourbon in hand, which often helps me relax, but which in this case was superfluous. I was already relaxed and okay with what was going to happen. I was simply there. I wasn't trying to impress. And because of this I was able to listen to the man and to my sister-in-law in a way that surprised me.<br />
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None of this is that new or intriguing, I would imagine, to most of the people reading this. I imagine that there are those people in the world, in fact, most people in the world, who do not approach conversations with as deep a concern as I often have felt. Instead, they are just pleased to meet someone. Me, I've rarely been that relaxed. I've been too wrapped up in myself to really be able to pay attention to the other person.<br />
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I think that the technical term for this is narcissism, but that sounds too depressing so I hope you won't mind if I skip over that right now.<br />
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My therapist and I are working on the idea of just being present. Accepting the situation as it comes. That was what I was practicing tonight and, for the most part, I'm happy with the progress I made. I didn't fixate on how I was being perceived. Just a year ago I wouldn't have been able to imagine how a reasonable person could enter a social situation _not_ thinking about how they were being perceived. It was all so foreign to me.<br />
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It occurs to me that I never expected to be so confused at forty-three years old. I thought that by now I would have a lot more of this living thing figured out. I thought that by now things would be clearer to me. In fact, I imagined that by now I would understand pretty much everything. I thought I would be wise.<br />
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Now, I see that wisdom is something that I won't ever achieve. It's a process not a product and, if I am to be wise in any way, I will work toward wisdom for all my years. I feel very pompous saying this, as if I'm some guru sitting on a high ledge on the side of a lonely mountain. There you are, just reaching my cliff, and I have dispensed my wisdom to you. That's a picture that makes me laugh.<br />
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I'm not a wise man but I'm not a fool either. I have been a fool. I have done things for which I am not proud and for which I am ashamed. But it occurs to me that we have all done these things to one degree or another. Sitting at the dinner table tonight, listening to the conversation, adding my two cents when it felt right, and no longer competing as if there was a spotlight searching for the most interesting person at the table, I once again saw that life isn't about standing out. It seems to me that life is more a process of being with. I don't want to be the center of attention so much as I want to stand hand-in-hand around the circumference with everyone else. I want to be a part, not the only part. And it has taken forty-three years to learn this simple lesson.<br />
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I'm at my in-laws house with my sister-in-law and her new boyfriend. My job isn't to entertain or stand out as something special. Instead, it's to be myself and to be present in this moment. There is so very much to be learned in every contact. So much to learn and so much about which to write on.<br />bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-49803634105591537842012-01-12T17:19:00.001-05:002012-01-12T17:19:48.245-05:00Classified<b id="internal-source-marker_0.8198218340985477"><span style="font-weight: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I called my wife to say that I had published a poem. It’s in today’s newspaper, I told her. She flipped through the pages. I could hear the paper through the phone. I thought about how clear phone signals had become. No matter the distance between. It astonished me. I asked her, Did you find it. She hadn’t. What ad did you write, she asked. My wife always begins with the classifieds. The poem was on the back of the front section. I wanted to tell her that. But I wanted her to have just known. Without my say so. I told her, look in Help Wanted: Professional. The longest ad in the section. Do you see it? It has a blue star on top. A yellow stripe across it like a sash. I told her these things. It wasn’t clear to me what I was saying or why. She must have found the right ad. I could hear her humming as she read. She sighed. She said, it’s so sign-song and lovely. Like a lullaby or a commercial jingle. She sighed again. I could feel her warm breath in my ear. These connections, I thought, are incredible. Oh, she said, it’s just beautiful, I love it. I nodded into the phone, proud that she appreciated it so. I just wondered what exactly my poem had said. I wanted to ask, but the connection had gone dead. </span></span></b>bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-8599516143744916592011-12-20T12:14:00.001-05:002011-12-20T12:14:50.675-05:00Awash<br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.6817343235015869"><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I had trouble holding my lane on the highway this morning. The rain had come on during the night. It fell hard through dawn and by the time I drove to work, the lines on the road were awash. They faded entirely just this side of Liverpool. Then the road gave out beneath me. The car went next, fading slowly around me. My seat gently lifted me before disappearing and I was running through the rain. The path was no longer a road next to the most polluted lake in the state. It was a dirt trail, through thick woods, next to sacred water. My Iroquois brothers ran beside me. We were on the hunt. There was nothing noble about our desire. We found a small settlement of French fools and slaughtered them. Pure murder. I chopped the neck of a woman looking up to the heavens. She screamed a fountain of blood. The face of her God came to me. He spoke in my own voice. I closed my eyes. My hands passed over my face like wiper blades. Switching to and fro as I hurled down the parkway driving to work. I sped under the bridge, past the French Fort, toward the hot dog stand. Wondering how to keep myself on the road, out of the drowning waters. My brothers ran ghostlike beside the car. Their arms raised in fury, their fists stained in blood unwashed by the storm of rain.</span></span></b></div>bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-34610410927921600712011-12-19T13:14:00.003-05:002011-12-19T13:14:30.986-05:00Helping a Girl Drown<br />
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<b id="internal-source-marker_0.5341005870141089"><span style="font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">She called for help. Asked me to swim out to her. She thrashed in the deep water. I stripped naked and stepped in. The water was cold and restless. She called my name. Told me to hurry I waded out to my waist, breathed deep. I dove forward thinking of a man who dove into a rock and broke his spine. I surfaced. She called me names without enthusiasm. She was on the verge of giving up. I swam to her. She said she couldn’t do it. She was failing to drown. The water, she said, wouldn’t pull her down. She asked again for help. I was reluctant, of course. I have my own problems. But I told her to hold her breath. She nodded. Inhaled deeply. Sank just below the surface. I watch her face through the waves. I was so tired. When she was about to burst, her body demanding air, she blew out her lungs. I pushed her head down as the bubbles rose. I held her down and she breathed in the darkness. Struggled. But I was strong and her eyes were so grateful. And she was gone. I treaded water. We had drifted far out to sea. How long, I wondered, will I have to swim if I am ever to find land? </span></span></b></div>bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3542875961557698584.post-17592417452646098542011-12-12T21:18:00.000-05:002011-12-12T21:18:05.857-05:00Campaign Song of the Parasite<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span id="internal-source-marker_0.6751286163926125" style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I was lying on the couch listening to acoustic music when it became clear that I had an invasive parasite in my intestines. How I knew this is no subject for a poem (though it makes a good PBS documentary). I wanted to blame someone. Preferably one of the Republican candidates for president. But I couldn’t make the charge stick. Each had a prepared statement. A byte of sound. They made the rounds of the Sunday talk shows. Their denials were believable. Even to a man suffering from a gut ache. Democrats worked to heal me but their solutions were tangled. I couldn’t follow. Arguments ensued between Republicans and Democrats. Then a slim hand reached out of the radio speaker. A woman’s hand. It touched my cheek. Traced the curve of my ear. She whispered, </span><span style="font-style: italic; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">listen</span><span style="vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. Republicans bowed their heads to pray. Democrats stood barefoot and still in the grass. She sang of tracks being erased, wood smoke, a snake, and disappearing. It was beautiful. But, truth to tell, it did nothing for my digestion. Soon enough, I excused myself to use the bathroom. In grand compromise, both parties looked askance at me as I shuffled quickly from the room hoping for relief.</span></span>bgfay.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08992793292580911273noreply@blogger.com0