They live upon shifting sands,
sullen people who mark their days
with soft marches through each moment.
Such work seems to get them nowhere.
Sullen people who mark their days
reflect but never give in to rest.
Such work seems to get them nowhere,
and still without fail they pause to consider.
Reflect, but never give in to rest,
lest there exist time to rejuvenate.
And still, without fail they pause to consider
what it must be to give one’s self to stillness.
Lest there exist time to rejuvenate
they move to the same tired beat.
What it must be, to give one’s self to stillness
and walk with a steady pace just because.
They move to the same tired beat,
with soft marches through each moment,
and walk with a steady pace. Just because
they live upon shifting sands.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Saturday, June 16, 2007
The Four Great Vows
To touch decay,
and feel the sharp grass
beneath your feet speaks
of promise that gets washed
away when a 3 year old
sips a beer and wonders
why he isn't loved.
The only things left were
its eyes. Green glass like
the marbles imply...and
it seemed to stare back
with mild regret because
it looked how you felt
only its soul was still
in Samsara.
"You're a little bitch,
you know that?"
Those thoughts still
in your head, the moment
you went to bed and
dreamt of freedom.
But what? Those
words could have
just as easily come from you.
Remember that sweet taste?
Cheap juice and stolen Tequila?
Call it a sunrise, and pour
another glass before you
lose the nerve. And all
you can recall is your
brothers face right before
the door slams. Just like the
cat's, barely touched with
disappointment.
Move on, as moments
are fleeting. The you
that's left can't help
the you that's left behind.
Just carry his picture and
hope you'll see each other
in the future.
Yet your conscience lends a hand
back and brings the past into tomorrow.
It wipes the suds
from the little one's lips, justifies
the middle one's moods, and
still you struggle to make sense
of the present.
Ah...Samsara...
and feel the sharp grass
beneath your feet speaks
of promise that gets washed
away when a 3 year old
sips a beer and wonders
why he isn't loved.
The only things left were
its eyes. Green glass like
the marbles imply...and
it seemed to stare back
with mild regret because
it looked how you felt
only its soul was still
in Samsara.
"You're a little bitch,
you know that?"
Those thoughts still
in your head, the moment
you went to bed and
dreamt of freedom.
But what? Those
words could have
just as easily come from you.
Remember that sweet taste?
Cheap juice and stolen Tequila?
Call it a sunrise, and pour
another glass before you
lose the nerve. And all
you can recall is your
brothers face right before
the door slams. Just like the
cat's, barely touched with
disappointment.
Move on, as moments
are fleeting. The you
that's left can't help
the you that's left behind.
Just carry his picture and
hope you'll see each other
in the future.
Yet your conscience lends a hand
back and brings the past into tomorrow.
It wipes the suds
from the little one's lips, justifies
the middle one's moods, and
still you struggle to make sense
of the present.
Ah...Samsara...
A Son of the South
Sing true,
and mourn of Southern Sorrow.
Speak sure this shade of blue,
a Kind of which you find in
Flamenco Sketches.
But what I see, feels more for
mother's soil than father's sun,
Who's rays beat upon my back
as it did the heat baked earth.
So I left...
and found myself miles from home
sleeping in purple lights and waking alone.
To this light I sang of Southern Sorrow
and showed it a shade of Blue.
So I found new warmth, well outside
of the Southern Sun, and hoped
such light would heal my wounds.
So my tune changed, and my
songs of sorrow became ballads.
Like an Island, I said, that I dwell
on most times of day. Such other
things that one thinks when they
sing. But before long I slipped
into darkness.
And it returned,
this shade of blue. That sits
every so slightly over my
shoulder, and makes my
world monochromatic.
But I remain, a son of Southern
Sorrow in a strange land. I'll
see if the Son rises different here,
and gives me new songs to sing.
and mourn of Southern Sorrow.
Speak sure this shade of blue,
a Kind of which you find in
Flamenco Sketches.
But what I see, feels more for
mother's soil than father's sun,
Who's rays beat upon my back
as it did the heat baked earth.
So I left...
and found myself miles from home
sleeping in purple lights and waking alone.
To this light I sang of Southern Sorrow
and showed it a shade of Blue.
So I found new warmth, well outside
of the Southern Sun, and hoped
such light would heal my wounds.
So my tune changed, and my
songs of sorrow became ballads.
Like an Island, I said, that I dwell
on most times of day. Such other
things that one thinks when they
sing. But before long I slipped
into darkness.
And it returned,
this shade of blue. That sits
every so slightly over my
shoulder, and makes my
world monochromatic.
But I remain, a son of Southern
Sorrow in a strange land. I'll
see if the Son rises different here,
and gives me new songs to sing.
Aaron Rodriguez 2010
It rained upon the poet's head
this pain of doubt and mounting dread
that shook his mind and fed his fear
grew greater as the time drew near
To steady hands and calm his nerves
he met his task with nouns and verbs
to rid himself of fear that lurks
he grabbed a pen and set to work
Yet lacking thoughts or muse without
his blood held neither rum nor stout
both dry of mouth and bare of drug
he sought his poems inside a pub
With one swift gulp he drank his pint
and laughed with friends until the night
he stumbled home with fear flung far
and found his things upon the yard.
this pain of doubt and mounting dread
that shook his mind and fed his fear
grew greater as the time drew near
To steady hands and calm his nerves
he met his task with nouns and verbs
to rid himself of fear that lurks
he grabbed a pen and set to work
Yet lacking thoughts or muse without
his blood held neither rum nor stout
both dry of mouth and bare of drug
he sought his poems inside a pub
With one swift gulp he drank his pint
and laughed with friends until the night
he stumbled home with fear flung far
and found his things upon the yard.
Nexus
It's far too difficult. Hovering around 55th and Ellis on purple nights. But there's a singularity on that corner. Black and gray against the night, and I watch it letting rain soak into a once pristine white t-shirt. Can't feel it though. The rain runs through me, and I orbit the corner.
And to think that I could so easily walk away from 51st and North...but the lemon lime leaves would draw me two blocks to sanctuary. I always returned to the point at which I was struck with stark reality. A life lived in a way smaller than today, but grand all the same.
The center of the Universe lies at Oakland and North. Oddly enough you'll find liquor and pretension there. In four directions I could emerse myself in escapism. East towards blue waters and reflective rocks. South towards art and conformity. North towards the past and future. And West towards rejuvination.
I missed such things. And I based disappointment on the fact that I could not mark my life off in neat little sections. Who gave a shit where Flintlock lead? It all looped back in on the same 2 streets. Both so trecherous in their design. An artery and a vein carrying blood to and from a tumor.
Why would there exist long stretches of desolate asphalt not meant for walking? Tree lined streets are meant for long journeys and a desire to breathe. Such a horrible thing to make it a trap. In this state they compound
problems, when they should put them in perspective.
So I circle the singularity on 55th and Ellis. Around it all time has stopped, and the past meges with the present, and the future looks uncertain. It's enticing, but there exists a fear of being trapped in a moment where tomorrow never comes. And it's tempting to reach out and touch it, to throw myself in to its onyx depths, and dissipate this built up passion. And even now, when there is as much between us as time and space, I feel it pulling me, out of sleep, out of bed, down many blocks, and through many streets just to be in its orbit.
And to think that I could so easily walk away from 51st and North...but the lemon lime leaves would draw me two blocks to sanctuary. I always returned to the point at which I was struck with stark reality. A life lived in a way smaller than today, but grand all the same.
The center of the Universe lies at Oakland and North. Oddly enough you'll find liquor and pretension there. In four directions I could emerse myself in escapism. East towards blue waters and reflective rocks. South towards art and conformity. North towards the past and future. And West towards rejuvination.
I missed such things. And I based disappointment on the fact that I could not mark my life off in neat little sections. Who gave a shit where Flintlock lead? It all looped back in on the same 2 streets. Both so trecherous in their design. An artery and a vein carrying blood to and from a tumor.
Why would there exist long stretches of desolate asphalt not meant for walking? Tree lined streets are meant for long journeys and a desire to breathe. Such a horrible thing to make it a trap. In this state they compound
problems, when they should put them in perspective.
So I circle the singularity on 55th and Ellis. Around it all time has stopped, and the past meges with the present, and the future looks uncertain. It's enticing, but there exists a fear of being trapped in a moment where tomorrow never comes. And it's tempting to reach out and touch it, to throw myself in to its onyx depths, and dissipate this built up passion. And even now, when there is as much between us as time and space, I feel it pulling me, out of sleep, out of bed, down many blocks, and through many streets just to be in its orbit.
A Visit From an Old Friend
Tracked down,
months and miles ahead, dozing hat in hand on a park bench,
and it found me.
Naive perhaps, but as are all thoughts when
that fresh burst of freedom first hits your skin,
and your away...harsh thoughts are left
somewhere fending for themselves, bumming
a ride in I-95.
My mind was left in a haze of purple and
a maze beautiful clarity on clear mornings
when I was awake before the world. So
wrapped up in happiness I didn't see it
sneak up behind me and leave its
familiar hand on my shoulder.
And that sense of dread, that dull anger
that creeps along fast and reminds of
regrets and resentment...it's tainted flesh
smelling of burnt and bitter history.
But it smiles at you old friend, and wonders
why you thought you'd left it in the dust.
It latches its shackles back on and takes its
favorite spot on my left, matching my movements
through muscle memory as if it had never left.
We're well aquainted.
You remember now, what it's like to feel that weight,
and it grows harder to remember those brief months
without it. Your true companion, who you leave
but can't lose...why search for a better soulmate?
My eyes avoid its gaze. How dare I, it seems to say
through tugs at my chains. How dare I choose to live
a life without it? And its manner slowly changes from jealousy to rage,
as it screams in my face, "I'm here forever".
months and miles ahead, dozing hat in hand on a park bench,
and it found me.
Naive perhaps, but as are all thoughts when
that fresh burst of freedom first hits your skin,
and your away...harsh thoughts are left
somewhere fending for themselves, bumming
a ride in I-95.
My mind was left in a haze of purple and
a maze beautiful clarity on clear mornings
when I was awake before the world. So
wrapped up in happiness I didn't see it
sneak up behind me and leave its
familiar hand on my shoulder.
And that sense of dread, that dull anger
that creeps along fast and reminds of
regrets and resentment...it's tainted flesh
smelling of burnt and bitter history.
But it smiles at you old friend, and wonders
why you thought you'd left it in the dust.
It latches its shackles back on and takes its
favorite spot on my left, matching my movements
through muscle memory as if it had never left.
We're well aquainted.
You remember now, what it's like to feel that weight,
and it grows harder to remember those brief months
without it. Your true companion, who you leave
but can't lose...why search for a better soulmate?
My eyes avoid its gaze. How dare I, it seems to say
through tugs at my chains. How dare I choose to live
a life without it? And its manner slowly changes from jealousy to rage,
as it screams in my face, "I'm here forever".
Friday, March 09, 2007
La Isla Nena
It was through chance that I washed up upon the shore, ragged and worn, breathless and beaten. A mere strand on a sandy bar, silenced by the winds brought down by heaven in cold retribution. For what crime was I so deserving of a blessed curse? Stranded in paradise, lost in heaven. I suffer in a land of pleasure for want of happiness. One need only see my strand pulled taught by the norns before me.
On my self I lay blame, for I sailed far from home, forsaking family and friends. To strange seas I wandered, certain I’d find many treasures denied to me before. A rich life to be found in far off lands, where I’d see the markets of the world stretched before me to the horizon. Long was my labor, and poverty my reward. I amassed no fleet, no wealth but the stench of a pauper, and my coffers sat as dry as the deserts I’d scoured in search of gold.
From each land I saw misery in a different tongue. No consolation was to be found, though I could now roll the R’s in my sorrow. Thus my spirit was broken, and I relinquished all notions of riches that remained in my head. I kept my being in modesty, half by choice, half by fate. What could I don to make myself shine like a king? What did I rule to deserve princely robes? So I remained to the shadows ever present, but never seen.
Then by the grace of god, I saw a sign that led me away.
“The Riches of Kings”, it read, letters gilded and gleaming, “A new life in a wondrous land. Beauty springs from every corner and crevice of its surface. Striking natives, wise and true, shaped by hands from on high. All this awaits you across the ocean, a life only fit for the brave!”
My mind decided, I made my way aboard the ship. Its dank underbelly smelled of rot, and it leaked in every cabin. From my arrival I was put to work, learning here that which I could not have learned back home. My tasks demanded of me every fiber of my being; they starved me of sleep and eroded my will. But for what would I live if fun remained alive?
This tale begins with a torrent. A fearsome wind that shook my bones like chimes in a breeze. The ship pitched in the gale, and its wooden frame shattered as planks were ripped from its ribs. And I sat, neurotic and scared, my tongue darting between my lips to moisten what fear had parched. The boat perished for want of a crew, not this assortment of vagabonds that scramble for life in desperation. Among them I found my self, tossed by the drink, bruised by salty and brash hands. It was something to behold, tentative peaks, green and capped with white, rolling hills that descended upon me in destructive grace. The sea took out my anger on me, and I was driven through the ship, far beneath my salvation.
No life flashed before my eyes, and to that I credit my ascension. No water tomb could bar me from an existence unlived, as such my eyes emerged and I searched the water for a savior. Within the wreckage I found my way to a shard of oak, flesh scourged from the back of the ship in tidal flails. All around bobbed the shapes of my comrades, devoid of substance. For millennia I set adrift, neither paddling nor navigating for fear I’d make unrest in the grave. In time I was apart from them, and the shells of my brothers floated away in the distance.
Ages passed and the sea carried me close to nowhere. Perpetually my head would nod and the waves would prolong my exhaustion. I became delirious for need of sleep and in the distance I beheld my prize. A land of riches, just as the sign had lain before me. Trees like brass snakes rose from the earth, their emerald heads broad and handsome. From the center rose a mount so tall as breach the heavens. Smoke rolled down its jagged walls and beneath my line of sight.
No sound came to disturb this vision, nor a specter to explain it. Only present was this island, and an insect on a twig in a puddle. By day as my mind grew enfeebled and my body shorn away, this vision grew in size and morphed in composition. The mountain remained still, as did the trees, but its form filled with a lush jungle pleasing to the eye and glorious to the mind. I held back from releasing my desires for I knew not to hold on to a mirage, it was an image, nothing more, and an image I should let it remain.
At day break my suffering eyes caught glimpse of a flight, and my weary ears heard a piercing cry. To my surprise and delight came a fickle bird, who is duke to three domains. He sits in shallows, holds court in the air, and makes war on earth. I saw him circle a small stretch of water, eyes darting in a search for sustenance, and for his presence I would gladly serve him a pound of my flesh should he ask it. To my mind he brought knowledge that I harbored no hallucinations. The island was real.
My bruised frame could not propel me towards my goal any faster than the waves could carry me. So I floated on, not sure if I’d only see the land of milk and honey. Though it so happens that by midday the lord pushed my on to land, and the waves drove me deep in to the sand. And I lie there, a nothing in no where, but happy to be alive all the same. That is what came to me several hours later, as my eyes forced the salt from their edges and strained to take in the sunlight, for once I was alive.
As the sun faded I could do no more than crawl further away from the waves. I made it no farther than the first dune, only enough so I was at last away from the salty brine. I dare not look deeper into the island; it would make me wonder what I would find there. What flora and fauna, what food and what drink. It was better that I remain on the beach for now, so the night could purge away my past experience, and I could begin on the island anew. Still, my mind did wander and by extension of previous luck I faced life with optimism.
At daybreak, even exhaustion could not contain me, and I broke away from my granular bed. I was dry inside and wet without, but facing me lounged beauty incarnate. I forgot my throat and my bruises, and walked deep into a jungle. My mind and mouth remained speechless; I could do nothing but touch the viridian leaves and luminescent petals. In no tongue exists the words to describe this splendor, for it was an exquisite contradiction. Lush and slight, mannered and wild, loving and harsh. From tree to tree I stepped admiring the past that had come to make this place. For centuries had it built many things greater than myself, no garden could man plant to compare. That which hung from Babylon was a mere park, a bush, a blade of grass. One could not help but believe that man did not lose Eden; rather it shrank and shriveled away in envy of this island.
To speak simply of its menagerie, there existed such creatures as to be found only in the mind of a child. Crystal snakes, birds emblazoned with silver, and butterflies shining and brilliant like sapphires. Ebony sprites rode crickets from leaf to leaf and tussled my hair as they flew over head. It became a concern that god had hidden this land from men. That in this single place dwelt such astonishing creations, a world’s worth of life contained in a single island.
In my awe I forgot of my thirst and hunger, but in a rush it flowed back and I remembered myself. Then thoughts of beauty left me, what good was this haven if it starved me. And I began to think to myself, “Can it feed me, sustain me, quench my thirsts?” I expected no manna, no ambrosia, or apples of Iðunn. I was no stranger to work, so I would beg the island for nothing. If I was to till the earth so be it, I was no urchin, my palms would remain to the ground. But if I tilled the earth, if I worked and struggled and built. If I cleared the brush, and plowed the fields, and planted seeds. If I walked its forests, and kept my ear to the ground, learned its ways, and hunted its game. If I strived and embraced my new home what would be my reward? Would the island feed me, sustain me, quench my thirsts?
And before me fell a fruit, ripe and smooth, golden and red. It called me with its intoxicating scent. I bit, deep in to its flesh and juice ran down my lips. And the desert of my throat became a marsh from its sticky sweetness. I touched the tree from which it had fallen, it was old and shaky. I thanked it for giving me something new.
The day breathed on and journey continued. I had gorged on fruit and nectar, sleeping off the exhaustion, parting ways with my hunger. So I continued, deeper into this strange new world. My mind had left the past few days on the beach. I ached, I trembled, my bruises met scrapes as I pushed my way through the vines, but I pressed on. Joy had subjugated pain.
I came at length to a clearing. A small field of small green plants, not grass, rather tiny ferns making a soft bed on which I could sleep. It was not the ideal home for me in this land. Far from the place where I wanted to be, but I knew the island would permit me no further. It seemed to say my place was here for now, it still held secrets from me. Things I could only know in good time. So it presented me with a clearing, a safe house to dwell in, not for the duration of my stay, but for my initiation. This place felt nice, it was a fine place to begin. I could not rush in to the island’s depths, not yet, not before I knew I could live there. So it gave me this space, a staging ground.
It is difficult to build a life on an ancient island. Me being a virgin Crusoe, and no Friday save good and bad days to aid me. It shames me to think I spent most days deciding what tools I required and what tools I needed build them. It is not easy to begin with a blank slate. What did I know of building? What stones were to form axes? What logs to form planks? In the beginning my best days ended in splinters and blisters, at worst bleeding and despair. So for my first few houses, there were stacks of twigs held by vines and mud. As such they collapsed one by one upon my head each night when I turned in my sleep. To my food supply I settled to foraging. I came to know how each plant produced, how to separate the edible from the poisonous. This was a lesson I learned the hard way. I would reach for an orb with a visage of pure delight, and by night I’d be shivering and howling into the air.
By luck I came upon a brook not far from my clearing. It swelled with bubbling water, sweet and cool to my lips. Even on my worst days it was there, when my hand throbbed from a failed attempt at making rope, or my throat burned from a deceitful fruit, the brook remained ever flowing. I could remain there, as its current ran over me, and I could release my fear as it curled around my fingers and washed away my hurt. But I had to leave it everyday. I could not waste its time or my own. There was too much to be done and I know the brook tired of me some days. So to two minutes I shortened my bathing, less if there was more work that day. But even when I was cold, I would go to the brook, because then I could always understand.
In time I came to find a niche. I made a hut, tools, and rope. I made fire, and smoked fish, trapped animals, and made clothes. I imagine that I looked horrid though. My furs were misshapen. For a needle I used fishbone and to cut I sharp rocks. I was feral and in need of a shave and a warm bath, but indeed such things did not concern me. I had become part of the island; I had made myself become part of beauty incarnate. I knew its forest, its creatures, and its plants. I could tell by its winds when a storm would come, or how to tend to its plants so as to preserve the balance.
Or so I believed. I was naïve to think that I could snare some rodents and plant some taro, and suddenly I too was beautiful. To think that I, some castaway had become part of this body. That this island needed me as I needed it. Was I any better than a leech? What did I contribute? By taking its resources and eating its food. By sleeping in it and upon it? I’d wake up and it would feed me, and pity me. Such a fragile thing dependent upon it for life. And on such days, when these thoughts crossed my mind I hated the island. I hated it for being beautiful, and for being so much greater than me. Hated it, because I needed it, and its weather decided when I would sleep. How dependent I had become upon it not just for life but for existence. I hated the island because through its rocks, and its trees, and it creatures, and its plants, and its mercy I was able to eek out an existence.
And I couldn’t hate the island, because it hadn’t hurt me. It never tried to. It was open for me, to wander, taste, breathe, and live. But I couldn’t be more for it, and I couldn’t make it more for me. How I wanted it to bear fruit for me. For me to bring something new from its earth, so that I could be more than just a part of creation. Something that I could share with it, so we would be equals.
My wanderings eased my pain. All alone with the island, walking through the trees, I could apologize silently for my anger. It was truly magnificent, and I’d observe with awe its majesty. I walked with a knife in hand, a small blade of stone on wood. Though I trusted the island harbored no one else like me, fear would overtake me when I considered others here.
On one such journey, I set out in a direction I had forgotten. Towards the mountain, towards the center. With me I brought much food and gourds of water, silently I expected a long journey. And I came to the wall, the edge of the mountain, gray and porous. I felt it, cold and indifferent, it stood against nothing in particular. It was far too steep for climb, even having been trained by the island for difficulty, I was not yet ready to traverse its peak. So I attempted to circumvent. Around its edge I walked, nearly missing the cave. But it could not escape my eye for its roundness. Nearly perfect, chiseled and arched in such a way as to appear made by human hand. So I entered to find a tunnel, long and dark, with only enough light to see my next step before me. Holes ran the length of the ceiling emitting enough sunlight as to quell my fears.
The floor of this path was smooth and unblemished, had there been enough light I’m sure it would have been polished and sparkling. I walked for hours until my feet ached and I stopped to rest at a particularly bright area. I sat and sipped water from my gourd and sighed into the cavern. Why did I want to know more? What would I gain from going deeper in to this depth? I continued still, perhaps out of morbid curiosity.
I was astonished to discover what I’d found. I had been walked for hours, I covered several miles, I was tired and hot, so I hoped my eyes were lying to me out of fatigue. But I could sense not a single deception. A wasteland, barren and dry. No lush garden, not bubbling brooks. Not a creature stirred, and no plants rose from the earth save the skeletons of dead trees. The ground was cracked and scarred, it bled dust. As far as the eye could see the broken ground was crisscrossed with brown lines cut by drought. No mirage, merely desolation.
It is hard to conceive of it as the same island, that beyond the thriving forest lie the end times. I continued on as I saw shapes in the distance, and they beckoned me like a lost child returning home. As I passed I saw familiar shapes with new faces. There were the trees like bronze snakes, their emerald heads severed. The viridian greens now the color of the sun baked mud. I saw the skeletons of silver birds, bleached a hideous white. All around me the earth was wounded.
The deeper I went the grander the distant shapes became. Great stone edifices jutting from the ground. And again I prayed my eyes had deceived me. These buildings so grand, remained silent. This was, I soon discovered, the remnants of a civilization long past. Traces of a once great people, their story now lost to the ages. As I approached the edge of this majestic city, I hesitated for feared I’d discover what I wanted to know.
From street to street I walked silently. No conversation occurred between me and the relics, only observation, me of them and them of me. Each house, made of wood and stone, was open; inside sat the unused necessities of life. Children’s toys remained joyless in the yards, carts of cloth stayed unsold, and everywhere the wind whipped with no one to feel it. I could only guess what each building was for, the island could not tell me their purpose. A store house, a mill, a bakery, and a school house. Far to the left were the fields, once filled with cassava and squash I imagine. Near the center was the market. The booths remained intact, but the whir of business and gossip were long dead.
I came at last upon a temple, the largest of all the structures. It still reigned in this necropolis, a king amongst the dead. I climbed its many stairs, walked its many halls. I arrived at last before the altar. Above stood the effigy of a goddess. It was well crafted, as were all things done by these people. Her features were soft and warm, and her hands stretched out to embrace her people. The goddess seemed to trust, but what trust could be given to subjects who were not there. On the altar, all that remained were seeds, the leftovers of sacrificed flowers, brought too late when the island was already dead.
I could not remain there for very long. To stare at the face of a goddess that had fallen, who’s believers were gone, to stare at her beautiful but sad face was more than I could bear. So I sat, on the stairs of the temple, high above the city, looking out over the ruins in a land of want. Before long I got in my own head and I was joined by the souls of the fallen. I recalled my meager hut, my pitiful axe, and my fruitless labor. To compare them to massive temples, and houses of stone. They had carts drawn by beasts of burden, and I resemble a beast my self. On their walls and in their holy places were the letters of scribes and wise men. In their town squares sat amphitheaters and bath houses. They had culture and power, and I have a clearing in a jungle. The island let them in, gave them quarries and lumber. It told them secrets and gave them essence. The island was their culture, and here I am, a castaway grateful to merely catch a glimpse of what others dwelled in.
What hope did I have, when better men came before me and failed? Men of strength and wisdom. Men of experience who’s knowledge far surpassed my meager education. What do my words compare against that of their best poets? What can my tools make of this island that their architects could not construct with ease? My whistles and songs are like a child's lullaby next to the drums of their musicians. And I hope to survive. I hope to survive where their farmers, who brought crops high from the ground, starved to death?
How could I live? Mere months in this land, and a nation here for millennia crumbled. How could someone so green and new, so inexperienced and naïve hope to out last the elements? They knew secrets I never would, knew the island better than I know myself. And the island embraced them, made them kings and gods. It gave them food and water and life. The island let them in and showed them beauty. The island trusted them and together they built magnificent cities. Better men had tried and failed…
Why had I not floated to a different shore? Or still, no shore at all? Then by gods divine mercy I’d be free. I wouldn’t know beauty or the fear of losing it. I wouldn’t tremble for fear the island would consume me and add me to its list of souls. But what other land would I prefer? I’ve been from land to kingdom, kingdom to nation, nation to empire. Continent after continent, and all the while I was miserable. I found no happiness, not in the exotic or the mundane. I found no joy in anything, save this land. When I walk through its forests and my mind fills with poetry. Or when I swim in its waters and feel life flowing through me. And I don’t think I could go back to what passed for existence before the island.
That night as I sat in my hut, exhausted from the journey back, sleep eluded me. I sat and stared at the stars. So bright and vibrant in the sky. Some nights the island reminded me why I was happy there. But for all the happiness, my mind would fly back to the ruins. To the other part of the island, that prevented me from losing myself in the moment. That wounded desert prevented my happiness, because I wouldn’t allow myself to forget it. Would I have the chance to achieve such great things? Would I have the chance to fail? Or would I remain here, and when my life passed away no trace would be left of me. It is troubling to believe that I was not the greatest of the inhabitants, and possibly not the last. I wanted this to be my island but more still I wanted the island and I to be one in the same. But such a task is difficult when one is insignificant. Greater men had left their mark, in art, in stone, and in words…but also in scars, in wounds, in desolation. I wonder if the two go hand in hand.
The ruins haunted my memory. It made no sense, how such a great people could fall so far. That such a relationship, so symbiotic and pure could be torn asunder. That the ancients betrayed their island and bled it dry, left in nearly unfit for future generations. In time I came to understand that the island I knew, the one of plenty and splendor was such a small part. The island had been ravaged through out, and the drought spread to nearly every corner. It became clear that it was not the island could not sustain life, but that life could not sustain the island. The more I searched of the island the more I found cleared forests, fields devoid of nutrients from over use, and rivers dried from excessive irrigation. And I saw that this society, while powerful, was not perfect. Still they lasted longer than I had been there. They had their existence and their happiness, and in my mind I still could not see how long I would last. Alone, in a strange new world, simple and honest, perhaps I was not cut out for this type of life.
Still though, I’m alive and they exist only in memory. It is likely the forest will consume me, and I’ll remain little more than a skeleton lost in a jungle. I’ll leave no great monuments and they’ll be no trace that I was here. Some days I go into the forest and I come back bloody and bruised and others I come back exhausted with joy. I don’t know if that’s enough, most days it seems like it isn’t. But where else would I belong?
This is what I thought to myself yesterday as I made my way through the cavern to return to the ruins. And when I arrived I stopped to behold the damage which existed deep within the island. And with my meager shovel I dug a whole, and then another and still another. In to each I placed a sapling, much like myself, green and naïve, and alone in a strange new world. Most were not cut out for this type of life. To each I gave a drink, water from the bubbling brook that rejuvenated me every day. To each I gave a prayer, from my heart that gives me hope every day. And I left to find a river, to keep my trees alive in this wounded earth, so that they could one day bear fruit for me and bandage the island.
So to the finder of this, my life on a parchment, sealed in a gourd, I hope my tale reaches you well. It is my hope that one day you stumble upon this island, beauty incarnate, and find it alive. Its body covered in trees and luminescent flowers. Walk its earth and through its mountains, and come upon its ruins choked and cloaked by vines. May you find it with the wounded ground healed, and its rivers clear and sweet. This is my wish, nothing more.
On my self I lay blame, for I sailed far from home, forsaking family and friends. To strange seas I wandered, certain I’d find many treasures denied to me before. A rich life to be found in far off lands, where I’d see the markets of the world stretched before me to the horizon. Long was my labor, and poverty my reward. I amassed no fleet, no wealth but the stench of a pauper, and my coffers sat as dry as the deserts I’d scoured in search of gold.
From each land I saw misery in a different tongue. No consolation was to be found, though I could now roll the R’s in my sorrow. Thus my spirit was broken, and I relinquished all notions of riches that remained in my head. I kept my being in modesty, half by choice, half by fate. What could I don to make myself shine like a king? What did I rule to deserve princely robes? So I remained to the shadows ever present, but never seen.
Then by the grace of god, I saw a sign that led me away.
“The Riches of Kings”, it read, letters gilded and gleaming, “A new life in a wondrous land. Beauty springs from every corner and crevice of its surface. Striking natives, wise and true, shaped by hands from on high. All this awaits you across the ocean, a life only fit for the brave!”
My mind decided, I made my way aboard the ship. Its dank underbelly smelled of rot, and it leaked in every cabin. From my arrival I was put to work, learning here that which I could not have learned back home. My tasks demanded of me every fiber of my being; they starved me of sleep and eroded my will. But for what would I live if fun remained alive?
This tale begins with a torrent. A fearsome wind that shook my bones like chimes in a breeze. The ship pitched in the gale, and its wooden frame shattered as planks were ripped from its ribs. And I sat, neurotic and scared, my tongue darting between my lips to moisten what fear had parched. The boat perished for want of a crew, not this assortment of vagabonds that scramble for life in desperation. Among them I found my self, tossed by the drink, bruised by salty and brash hands. It was something to behold, tentative peaks, green and capped with white, rolling hills that descended upon me in destructive grace. The sea took out my anger on me, and I was driven through the ship, far beneath my salvation.
No life flashed before my eyes, and to that I credit my ascension. No water tomb could bar me from an existence unlived, as such my eyes emerged and I searched the water for a savior. Within the wreckage I found my way to a shard of oak, flesh scourged from the back of the ship in tidal flails. All around bobbed the shapes of my comrades, devoid of substance. For millennia I set adrift, neither paddling nor navigating for fear I’d make unrest in the grave. In time I was apart from them, and the shells of my brothers floated away in the distance.
Ages passed and the sea carried me close to nowhere. Perpetually my head would nod and the waves would prolong my exhaustion. I became delirious for need of sleep and in the distance I beheld my prize. A land of riches, just as the sign had lain before me. Trees like brass snakes rose from the earth, their emerald heads broad and handsome. From the center rose a mount so tall as breach the heavens. Smoke rolled down its jagged walls and beneath my line of sight.
No sound came to disturb this vision, nor a specter to explain it. Only present was this island, and an insect on a twig in a puddle. By day as my mind grew enfeebled and my body shorn away, this vision grew in size and morphed in composition. The mountain remained still, as did the trees, but its form filled with a lush jungle pleasing to the eye and glorious to the mind. I held back from releasing my desires for I knew not to hold on to a mirage, it was an image, nothing more, and an image I should let it remain.
At day break my suffering eyes caught glimpse of a flight, and my weary ears heard a piercing cry. To my surprise and delight came a fickle bird, who is duke to three domains. He sits in shallows, holds court in the air, and makes war on earth. I saw him circle a small stretch of water, eyes darting in a search for sustenance, and for his presence I would gladly serve him a pound of my flesh should he ask it. To my mind he brought knowledge that I harbored no hallucinations. The island was real.
My bruised frame could not propel me towards my goal any faster than the waves could carry me. So I floated on, not sure if I’d only see the land of milk and honey. Though it so happens that by midday the lord pushed my on to land, and the waves drove me deep in to the sand. And I lie there, a nothing in no where, but happy to be alive all the same. That is what came to me several hours later, as my eyes forced the salt from their edges and strained to take in the sunlight, for once I was alive.
As the sun faded I could do no more than crawl further away from the waves. I made it no farther than the first dune, only enough so I was at last away from the salty brine. I dare not look deeper into the island; it would make me wonder what I would find there. What flora and fauna, what food and what drink. It was better that I remain on the beach for now, so the night could purge away my past experience, and I could begin on the island anew. Still, my mind did wander and by extension of previous luck I faced life with optimism.
At daybreak, even exhaustion could not contain me, and I broke away from my granular bed. I was dry inside and wet without, but facing me lounged beauty incarnate. I forgot my throat and my bruises, and walked deep into a jungle. My mind and mouth remained speechless; I could do nothing but touch the viridian leaves and luminescent petals. In no tongue exists the words to describe this splendor, for it was an exquisite contradiction. Lush and slight, mannered and wild, loving and harsh. From tree to tree I stepped admiring the past that had come to make this place. For centuries had it built many things greater than myself, no garden could man plant to compare. That which hung from Babylon was a mere park, a bush, a blade of grass. One could not help but believe that man did not lose Eden; rather it shrank and shriveled away in envy of this island.
To speak simply of its menagerie, there existed such creatures as to be found only in the mind of a child. Crystal snakes, birds emblazoned with silver, and butterflies shining and brilliant like sapphires. Ebony sprites rode crickets from leaf to leaf and tussled my hair as they flew over head. It became a concern that god had hidden this land from men. That in this single place dwelt such astonishing creations, a world’s worth of life contained in a single island.
In my awe I forgot of my thirst and hunger, but in a rush it flowed back and I remembered myself. Then thoughts of beauty left me, what good was this haven if it starved me. And I began to think to myself, “Can it feed me, sustain me, quench my thirsts?” I expected no manna, no ambrosia, or apples of Iðunn. I was no stranger to work, so I would beg the island for nothing. If I was to till the earth so be it, I was no urchin, my palms would remain to the ground. But if I tilled the earth, if I worked and struggled and built. If I cleared the brush, and plowed the fields, and planted seeds. If I walked its forests, and kept my ear to the ground, learned its ways, and hunted its game. If I strived and embraced my new home what would be my reward? Would the island feed me, sustain me, quench my thirsts?
And before me fell a fruit, ripe and smooth, golden and red. It called me with its intoxicating scent. I bit, deep in to its flesh and juice ran down my lips. And the desert of my throat became a marsh from its sticky sweetness. I touched the tree from which it had fallen, it was old and shaky. I thanked it for giving me something new.
The day breathed on and journey continued. I had gorged on fruit and nectar, sleeping off the exhaustion, parting ways with my hunger. So I continued, deeper into this strange new world. My mind had left the past few days on the beach. I ached, I trembled, my bruises met scrapes as I pushed my way through the vines, but I pressed on. Joy had subjugated pain.
I came at length to a clearing. A small field of small green plants, not grass, rather tiny ferns making a soft bed on which I could sleep. It was not the ideal home for me in this land. Far from the place where I wanted to be, but I knew the island would permit me no further. It seemed to say my place was here for now, it still held secrets from me. Things I could only know in good time. So it presented me with a clearing, a safe house to dwell in, not for the duration of my stay, but for my initiation. This place felt nice, it was a fine place to begin. I could not rush in to the island’s depths, not yet, not before I knew I could live there. So it gave me this space, a staging ground.
It is difficult to build a life on an ancient island. Me being a virgin Crusoe, and no Friday save good and bad days to aid me. It shames me to think I spent most days deciding what tools I required and what tools I needed build them. It is not easy to begin with a blank slate. What did I know of building? What stones were to form axes? What logs to form planks? In the beginning my best days ended in splinters and blisters, at worst bleeding and despair. So for my first few houses, there were stacks of twigs held by vines and mud. As such they collapsed one by one upon my head each night when I turned in my sleep. To my food supply I settled to foraging. I came to know how each plant produced, how to separate the edible from the poisonous. This was a lesson I learned the hard way. I would reach for an orb with a visage of pure delight, and by night I’d be shivering and howling into the air.
By luck I came upon a brook not far from my clearing. It swelled with bubbling water, sweet and cool to my lips. Even on my worst days it was there, when my hand throbbed from a failed attempt at making rope, or my throat burned from a deceitful fruit, the brook remained ever flowing. I could remain there, as its current ran over me, and I could release my fear as it curled around my fingers and washed away my hurt. But I had to leave it everyday. I could not waste its time or my own. There was too much to be done and I know the brook tired of me some days. So to two minutes I shortened my bathing, less if there was more work that day. But even when I was cold, I would go to the brook, because then I could always understand.
In time I came to find a niche. I made a hut, tools, and rope. I made fire, and smoked fish, trapped animals, and made clothes. I imagine that I looked horrid though. My furs were misshapen. For a needle I used fishbone and to cut I sharp rocks. I was feral and in need of a shave and a warm bath, but indeed such things did not concern me. I had become part of the island; I had made myself become part of beauty incarnate. I knew its forest, its creatures, and its plants. I could tell by its winds when a storm would come, or how to tend to its plants so as to preserve the balance.
Or so I believed. I was naïve to think that I could snare some rodents and plant some taro, and suddenly I too was beautiful. To think that I, some castaway had become part of this body. That this island needed me as I needed it. Was I any better than a leech? What did I contribute? By taking its resources and eating its food. By sleeping in it and upon it? I’d wake up and it would feed me, and pity me. Such a fragile thing dependent upon it for life. And on such days, when these thoughts crossed my mind I hated the island. I hated it for being beautiful, and for being so much greater than me. Hated it, because I needed it, and its weather decided when I would sleep. How dependent I had become upon it not just for life but for existence. I hated the island because through its rocks, and its trees, and it creatures, and its plants, and its mercy I was able to eek out an existence.
And I couldn’t hate the island, because it hadn’t hurt me. It never tried to. It was open for me, to wander, taste, breathe, and live. But I couldn’t be more for it, and I couldn’t make it more for me. How I wanted it to bear fruit for me. For me to bring something new from its earth, so that I could be more than just a part of creation. Something that I could share with it, so we would be equals.
My wanderings eased my pain. All alone with the island, walking through the trees, I could apologize silently for my anger. It was truly magnificent, and I’d observe with awe its majesty. I walked with a knife in hand, a small blade of stone on wood. Though I trusted the island harbored no one else like me, fear would overtake me when I considered others here.
On one such journey, I set out in a direction I had forgotten. Towards the mountain, towards the center. With me I brought much food and gourds of water, silently I expected a long journey. And I came to the wall, the edge of the mountain, gray and porous. I felt it, cold and indifferent, it stood against nothing in particular. It was far too steep for climb, even having been trained by the island for difficulty, I was not yet ready to traverse its peak. So I attempted to circumvent. Around its edge I walked, nearly missing the cave. But it could not escape my eye for its roundness. Nearly perfect, chiseled and arched in such a way as to appear made by human hand. So I entered to find a tunnel, long and dark, with only enough light to see my next step before me. Holes ran the length of the ceiling emitting enough sunlight as to quell my fears.
The floor of this path was smooth and unblemished, had there been enough light I’m sure it would have been polished and sparkling. I walked for hours until my feet ached and I stopped to rest at a particularly bright area. I sat and sipped water from my gourd and sighed into the cavern. Why did I want to know more? What would I gain from going deeper in to this depth? I continued still, perhaps out of morbid curiosity.
I was astonished to discover what I’d found. I had been walked for hours, I covered several miles, I was tired and hot, so I hoped my eyes were lying to me out of fatigue. But I could sense not a single deception. A wasteland, barren and dry. No lush garden, not bubbling brooks. Not a creature stirred, and no plants rose from the earth save the skeletons of dead trees. The ground was cracked and scarred, it bled dust. As far as the eye could see the broken ground was crisscrossed with brown lines cut by drought. No mirage, merely desolation.
It is hard to conceive of it as the same island, that beyond the thriving forest lie the end times. I continued on as I saw shapes in the distance, and they beckoned me like a lost child returning home. As I passed I saw familiar shapes with new faces. There were the trees like bronze snakes, their emerald heads severed. The viridian greens now the color of the sun baked mud. I saw the skeletons of silver birds, bleached a hideous white. All around me the earth was wounded.
The deeper I went the grander the distant shapes became. Great stone edifices jutting from the ground. And again I prayed my eyes had deceived me. These buildings so grand, remained silent. This was, I soon discovered, the remnants of a civilization long past. Traces of a once great people, their story now lost to the ages. As I approached the edge of this majestic city, I hesitated for feared I’d discover what I wanted to know.
From street to street I walked silently. No conversation occurred between me and the relics, only observation, me of them and them of me. Each house, made of wood and stone, was open; inside sat the unused necessities of life. Children’s toys remained joyless in the yards, carts of cloth stayed unsold, and everywhere the wind whipped with no one to feel it. I could only guess what each building was for, the island could not tell me their purpose. A store house, a mill, a bakery, and a school house. Far to the left were the fields, once filled with cassava and squash I imagine. Near the center was the market. The booths remained intact, but the whir of business and gossip were long dead.
I came at last upon a temple, the largest of all the structures. It still reigned in this necropolis, a king amongst the dead. I climbed its many stairs, walked its many halls. I arrived at last before the altar. Above stood the effigy of a goddess. It was well crafted, as were all things done by these people. Her features were soft and warm, and her hands stretched out to embrace her people. The goddess seemed to trust, but what trust could be given to subjects who were not there. On the altar, all that remained were seeds, the leftovers of sacrificed flowers, brought too late when the island was already dead.
I could not remain there for very long. To stare at the face of a goddess that had fallen, who’s believers were gone, to stare at her beautiful but sad face was more than I could bear. So I sat, on the stairs of the temple, high above the city, looking out over the ruins in a land of want. Before long I got in my own head and I was joined by the souls of the fallen. I recalled my meager hut, my pitiful axe, and my fruitless labor. To compare them to massive temples, and houses of stone. They had carts drawn by beasts of burden, and I resemble a beast my self. On their walls and in their holy places were the letters of scribes and wise men. In their town squares sat amphitheaters and bath houses. They had culture and power, and I have a clearing in a jungle. The island let them in, gave them quarries and lumber. It told them secrets and gave them essence. The island was their culture, and here I am, a castaway grateful to merely catch a glimpse of what others dwelled in.
What hope did I have, when better men came before me and failed? Men of strength and wisdom. Men of experience who’s knowledge far surpassed my meager education. What do my words compare against that of their best poets? What can my tools make of this island that their architects could not construct with ease? My whistles and songs are like a child's lullaby next to the drums of their musicians. And I hope to survive. I hope to survive where their farmers, who brought crops high from the ground, starved to death?
How could I live? Mere months in this land, and a nation here for millennia crumbled. How could someone so green and new, so inexperienced and naïve hope to out last the elements? They knew secrets I never would, knew the island better than I know myself. And the island embraced them, made them kings and gods. It gave them food and water and life. The island let them in and showed them beauty. The island trusted them and together they built magnificent cities. Better men had tried and failed…
Why had I not floated to a different shore? Or still, no shore at all? Then by gods divine mercy I’d be free. I wouldn’t know beauty or the fear of losing it. I wouldn’t tremble for fear the island would consume me and add me to its list of souls. But what other land would I prefer? I’ve been from land to kingdom, kingdom to nation, nation to empire. Continent after continent, and all the while I was miserable. I found no happiness, not in the exotic or the mundane. I found no joy in anything, save this land. When I walk through its forests and my mind fills with poetry. Or when I swim in its waters and feel life flowing through me. And I don’t think I could go back to what passed for existence before the island.
That night as I sat in my hut, exhausted from the journey back, sleep eluded me. I sat and stared at the stars. So bright and vibrant in the sky. Some nights the island reminded me why I was happy there. But for all the happiness, my mind would fly back to the ruins. To the other part of the island, that prevented me from losing myself in the moment. That wounded desert prevented my happiness, because I wouldn’t allow myself to forget it. Would I have the chance to achieve such great things? Would I have the chance to fail? Or would I remain here, and when my life passed away no trace would be left of me. It is troubling to believe that I was not the greatest of the inhabitants, and possibly not the last. I wanted this to be my island but more still I wanted the island and I to be one in the same. But such a task is difficult when one is insignificant. Greater men had left their mark, in art, in stone, and in words…but also in scars, in wounds, in desolation. I wonder if the two go hand in hand.
The ruins haunted my memory. It made no sense, how such a great people could fall so far. That such a relationship, so symbiotic and pure could be torn asunder. That the ancients betrayed their island and bled it dry, left in nearly unfit for future generations. In time I came to understand that the island I knew, the one of plenty and splendor was such a small part. The island had been ravaged through out, and the drought spread to nearly every corner. It became clear that it was not the island could not sustain life, but that life could not sustain the island. The more I searched of the island the more I found cleared forests, fields devoid of nutrients from over use, and rivers dried from excessive irrigation. And I saw that this society, while powerful, was not perfect. Still they lasted longer than I had been there. They had their existence and their happiness, and in my mind I still could not see how long I would last. Alone, in a strange new world, simple and honest, perhaps I was not cut out for this type of life.
Still though, I’m alive and they exist only in memory. It is likely the forest will consume me, and I’ll remain little more than a skeleton lost in a jungle. I’ll leave no great monuments and they’ll be no trace that I was here. Some days I go into the forest and I come back bloody and bruised and others I come back exhausted with joy. I don’t know if that’s enough, most days it seems like it isn’t. But where else would I belong?
This is what I thought to myself yesterday as I made my way through the cavern to return to the ruins. And when I arrived I stopped to behold the damage which existed deep within the island. And with my meager shovel I dug a whole, and then another and still another. In to each I placed a sapling, much like myself, green and naïve, and alone in a strange new world. Most were not cut out for this type of life. To each I gave a drink, water from the bubbling brook that rejuvenated me every day. To each I gave a prayer, from my heart that gives me hope every day. And I left to find a river, to keep my trees alive in this wounded earth, so that they could one day bear fruit for me and bandage the island.
So to the finder of this, my life on a parchment, sealed in a gourd, I hope my tale reaches you well. It is my hope that one day you stumble upon this island, beauty incarnate, and find it alive. Its body covered in trees and luminescent flowers. Walk its earth and through its mountains, and come upon its ruins choked and cloaked by vines. May you find it with the wounded ground healed, and its rivers clear and sweet. This is my wish, nothing more.
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Kroger Confidential
"I'm headed for bigger and better things.”
A phrase I repeated ad nauseam to myself every time a customer yelled at me because the grapes were priced wrong. Soon enough I'll be off to college, discussing Marx and Du Bois, well beyond the scent of old fruit and industrial cleaners. No cleaning schedules to make, no white washed renditions of Marvin Gaye songs blaring over the loud speakers, most importantly no Kroger.
These thoughts swam around my brain whenever I was face down in a crumpled newspaper, eagerly awaiting the beep of the microwave in the break room. The spastic air conditioner would hack and cough, drowning my exhausted body in a swell of mechanical desperation. I could identify with that machine, it kept going, but lord how it needed a break.
"Are you aware that Kroger makes products to compete with most national brands? You owe it to yourself to try Kroger brand items..."
The loudspeaker would wake me from my dozing; you'd think you would become used to the announcements after a while. As if they'd become white noise, like crickets or late night traffic, but what good would they be if you could ignore them? That voice, a sickly sweet mixture of genuine interest and concern. Somewhere there existed a woman truly excited that Kroger brand Pasta Sauce had real Italian flavor, just like the national brand. This woman was so proud of her discovery that she took it upon herself to inform every customer in the store over the loud speaker. I always wondered if these advertisements ever convinced anyone to put down their jar of Ragu in order to grab Kroger brand Tomato flavored Sauce (now with mushrooms!!!).
30 minutes. Enough time for the numbness in your feet to wear off so you can feel pain again. I only got a lunch those days. There was never anyone to give supervisors breaks, so I had to wait for a lull in the waves of customers, shove my keys into the hand of the least incompetent cashier and run off before someone could stop me with a problem. There was no guarantee I wasn't going to be called back to scan alcohol for someone, or to make a money exchange, but at least if I made it to the back of the store before that happened I could vocalize my indignation with some justification.
There was a process to taking a break at this store. You learn it when you’re a bagger, usually within your first week after you've shaken off the horrific memories of company training videos. First you head to the front end time clock and press a bunch of buttons. Just make it look like you’re clocking out, no point in giving your self less time if you don't have to. If a manager comes by, your shit outta luck, but the managers wouldn't dare come down to the front end unless they had a good reason, like a regional manager showed up, or they were about to take an obscenely long lunch. The second step is to scramble around the store to find something to eat. It's kind of painful to give money back to the store that is working you to death, but it's just so damn convenient. Finally you head back to the break room, clock out, sit down, and entertain fantasies about the wonderful jobs at Foot Locker or Applebee's you'll get once you finally work up the nerve to quit.
I often made the mistake of trying to take book into the break room with me. I'd
finish eating my over priced Kroger Cheese filled Hot Pouch and try desperately to make it through the same two pages of East of Eden for 20 minutes.
"What you readin?"
"East of Eden"
"Oh, is it good?"
"I don't know yet"
"Who's it by?"
".......Steinbeck"
"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt"
"It's cool; I'm just trying to finish this chapter before I have to go back...."
"Oh ok"
.................
"You know...."
At this point I'd insert a book mark to hold my place and hope for the best later that day.
"What?"
"I like to read to..."
"You don't say...."
"You ever read anything by Zane"
"I can't say that I have"
"You should, it's good"
"....."
"Oh, well I've got to go back now, see you in a bit".
I used to try and resume reading after these conversations ended, but what was the point. Before I even resumed my place someone else would suggest I read Eric Jerome Dickey, or ask me what I thought about the Titans, or any number of things I found only slightly more interesting than going back to work.
I don't blame them though, they weren't trying to bother me, they were trying to hold on to the last strains of humanity that Kroger afforded them. I just wish they could have found a way to do so that didn't involve me. Before I knew it, my time would be whittled down to a meager 2 minutes, the point at which the overwhelming sense of dread and doom consumed the average worker. It was this terror that could only be felt in the pit of the stomach, twisting and knotting its self around the soul, obliterating all memories of joy and self worth. It was time to resume life amongst the horde; it was time to face the locusts.
"Yes mam, you can make exchanges at customer service.....No sir rain checks can not be used on multiple orders....Kalisha the code is 4011....I apologize miss I'll have someone help you out to your car immediately...Well sir we are having a sale, most items on sale will be running low by this time of day...Sir, I don't control what they do at other Krogers, at this one rain checks are void after their first use....I'll have someone check in the back....Why isn't Jeremy getting carts? Well who is getting carts? Why is she getting carts? She has carts at 8 not 7. You can't just switch cart times without telling me No, don't leave I'll get Jeremy.....Sir, I can get you a manger if you want, but he'll tell you what I'm telling you, the rain check issue isn't negotiable....Why isn't Dana at her register? You don't think that's something you should have told me?....No you can't take your break, you've were outside for ten minutes talking instead of getting carts, I'm pushing your break back until 7:45. The hell I can't. Ok, go ahead and quit it isn't like you do a whole lot of work anyway....WHERE IS DANA DAMN IT?"
9 hours most days (up to 15 some days), over 40 hours a week of bickering and pettiness, and swollen feet, and bloodshot eyes. For Under 300 dollars a week. I know I worked harder than 300 dollars a week. I know because I wasn't really a supervisor...I was a janitor, a baby sitter, a secretary, a customer service rep, a mediator and a counselor, and an accountant.
But every week I'd rip open my check and feel a flood of mixed emotions. Happy I wasn't making minimum wage anymore, upset I received such ridiculous compensation for smiling at customers while they spewed flecks of spit on my face as they complained about having to wait 2 extra minutes for a propane exchange. My only consolation was that I was somewhat lucky; some of my fellow employees had to raise a family on less.
By 10 it would be quiet, only a few customers remained walking down the bare aisles picked clean like a carcass. The store usually played better music at night, because god forbid the daytime customers be exposed to the hyper sexualized and offensive lyrics of Earth Wind and Fire and Bobby Caldwell. Usually by this time I'd set about my task of counting down the registers, filling the change machines up and preparing the store for the night shift. It was always a relief when I could lock myself in the safe room, blast Illmatic at concert level decibels, and count money in piece.
Thousands would sit before me, all neatly packaged in bundles of large and small denominations. The store took in more money in one day than I'd make all year. And it all went to paying for the red and ash gray shirts I had to wear, the spill magic cleaner that resembled blue asbestos, and mostly in to the pocket of some big wig executive that I'd never meet unless he needed a photo op with a Black employee.
If I focused I could get out before midnight, usually minutes before my ride called it quits and left without me. As I walked out the night shift walked in, fresh and ready to make the store ready for customers in the morning.
"Hey Manuel..."
"Hey Aaron...u look tired man"
"Yeah, I'm so sick of this place...today was a bitch. The Customers were
relentless; it was like a zombie movie."
"If there were no customers we'd both be unemployed."
"Been reading the employee info posters again?"
"When do you leave?"
"September, my last day is the 3rd."
"Good luck man, study hard."
"Yeah, I don't plan on coming back here."
"It aint so bad, I mean it’s helping to pay for my tuition."
"You started school again?"
"Of course man, I'm moving on to bigger and better things."
A phrase I repeated ad nauseam to myself every time a customer yelled at me because the grapes were priced wrong. Soon enough I'll be off to college, discussing Marx and Du Bois, well beyond the scent of old fruit and industrial cleaners. No cleaning schedules to make, no white washed renditions of Marvin Gaye songs blaring over the loud speakers, most importantly no Kroger.
These thoughts swam around my brain whenever I was face down in a crumpled newspaper, eagerly awaiting the beep of the microwave in the break room. The spastic air conditioner would hack and cough, drowning my exhausted body in a swell of mechanical desperation. I could identify with that machine, it kept going, but lord how it needed a break.
"Are you aware that Kroger makes products to compete with most national brands? You owe it to yourself to try Kroger brand items..."
The loudspeaker would wake me from my dozing; you'd think you would become used to the announcements after a while. As if they'd become white noise, like crickets or late night traffic, but what good would they be if you could ignore them? That voice, a sickly sweet mixture of genuine interest and concern. Somewhere there existed a woman truly excited that Kroger brand Pasta Sauce had real Italian flavor, just like the national brand. This woman was so proud of her discovery that she took it upon herself to inform every customer in the store over the loud speaker. I always wondered if these advertisements ever convinced anyone to put down their jar of Ragu in order to grab Kroger brand Tomato flavored Sauce (now with mushrooms!!!).
30 minutes. Enough time for the numbness in your feet to wear off so you can feel pain again. I only got a lunch those days. There was never anyone to give supervisors breaks, so I had to wait for a lull in the waves of customers, shove my keys into the hand of the least incompetent cashier and run off before someone could stop me with a problem. There was no guarantee I wasn't going to be called back to scan alcohol for someone, or to make a money exchange, but at least if I made it to the back of the store before that happened I could vocalize my indignation with some justification.
There was a process to taking a break at this store. You learn it when you’re a bagger, usually within your first week after you've shaken off the horrific memories of company training videos. First you head to the front end time clock and press a bunch of buttons. Just make it look like you’re clocking out, no point in giving your self less time if you don't have to. If a manager comes by, your shit outta luck, but the managers wouldn't dare come down to the front end unless they had a good reason, like a regional manager showed up, or they were about to take an obscenely long lunch. The second step is to scramble around the store to find something to eat. It's kind of painful to give money back to the store that is working you to death, but it's just so damn convenient. Finally you head back to the break room, clock out, sit down, and entertain fantasies about the wonderful jobs at Foot Locker or Applebee's you'll get once you finally work up the nerve to quit.
I often made the mistake of trying to take book into the break room with me. I'd
finish eating my over priced Kroger Cheese filled Hot Pouch and try desperately to make it through the same two pages of East of Eden for 20 minutes.
"What you readin?"
"East of Eden"
"Oh, is it good?"
"I don't know yet"
"Who's it by?"
".......Steinbeck"
"Oh I'm sorry, I didn't mean to interrupt"
"It's cool; I'm just trying to finish this chapter before I have to go back...."
"Oh ok"
.................
"You know...."
At this point I'd insert a book mark to hold my place and hope for the best later that day.
"What?"
"I like to read to..."
"You don't say...."
"You ever read anything by Zane"
"I can't say that I have"
"You should, it's good"
"....."
"Oh, well I've got to go back now, see you in a bit".
I used to try and resume reading after these conversations ended, but what was the point. Before I even resumed my place someone else would suggest I read Eric Jerome Dickey, or ask me what I thought about the Titans, or any number of things I found only slightly more interesting than going back to work.
I don't blame them though, they weren't trying to bother me, they were trying to hold on to the last strains of humanity that Kroger afforded them. I just wish they could have found a way to do so that didn't involve me. Before I knew it, my time would be whittled down to a meager 2 minutes, the point at which the overwhelming sense of dread and doom consumed the average worker. It was this terror that could only be felt in the pit of the stomach, twisting and knotting its self around the soul, obliterating all memories of joy and self worth. It was time to resume life amongst the horde; it was time to face the locusts.
"Yes mam, you can make exchanges at customer service.....No sir rain checks can not be used on multiple orders....Kalisha the code is 4011....I apologize miss I'll have someone help you out to your car immediately...Well sir we are having a sale, most items on sale will be running low by this time of day...Sir, I don't control what they do at other Krogers, at this one rain checks are void after their first use....I'll have someone check in the back....Why isn't Jeremy getting carts? Well who is getting carts? Why is she getting carts? She has carts at 8 not 7. You can't just switch cart times without telling me No, don't leave I'll get Jeremy.....Sir, I can get you a manger if you want, but he'll tell you what I'm telling you, the rain check issue isn't negotiable....Why isn't Dana at her register? You don't think that's something you should have told me?....No you can't take your break, you've were outside for ten minutes talking instead of getting carts, I'm pushing your break back until 7:45. The hell I can't. Ok, go ahead and quit it isn't like you do a whole lot of work anyway....WHERE IS DANA DAMN IT?"
9 hours most days (up to 15 some days), over 40 hours a week of bickering and pettiness, and swollen feet, and bloodshot eyes. For Under 300 dollars a week. I know I worked harder than 300 dollars a week. I know because I wasn't really a supervisor...I was a janitor, a baby sitter, a secretary, a customer service rep, a mediator and a counselor, and an accountant.
But every week I'd rip open my check and feel a flood of mixed emotions. Happy I wasn't making minimum wage anymore, upset I received such ridiculous compensation for smiling at customers while they spewed flecks of spit on my face as they complained about having to wait 2 extra minutes for a propane exchange. My only consolation was that I was somewhat lucky; some of my fellow employees had to raise a family on less.
By 10 it would be quiet, only a few customers remained walking down the bare aisles picked clean like a carcass. The store usually played better music at night, because god forbid the daytime customers be exposed to the hyper sexualized and offensive lyrics of Earth Wind and Fire and Bobby Caldwell. Usually by this time I'd set about my task of counting down the registers, filling the change machines up and preparing the store for the night shift. It was always a relief when I could lock myself in the safe room, blast Illmatic at concert level decibels, and count money in piece.
Thousands would sit before me, all neatly packaged in bundles of large and small denominations. The store took in more money in one day than I'd make all year. And it all went to paying for the red and ash gray shirts I had to wear, the spill magic cleaner that resembled blue asbestos, and mostly in to the pocket of some big wig executive that I'd never meet unless he needed a photo op with a Black employee.
If I focused I could get out before midnight, usually minutes before my ride called it quits and left without me. As I walked out the night shift walked in, fresh and ready to make the store ready for customers in the morning.
"Hey Manuel..."
"Hey Aaron...u look tired man"
"Yeah, I'm so sick of this place...today was a bitch. The Customers were
relentless; it was like a zombie movie."
"If there were no customers we'd both be unemployed."
"Been reading the employee info posters again?"
"When do you leave?"
"September, my last day is the 3rd."
"Good luck man, study hard."
"Yeah, I don't plan on coming back here."
"It aint so bad, I mean it’s helping to pay for my tuition."
"You started school again?"
"Of course man, I'm moving on to bigger and better things."
Monday, February 26, 2007
A Prisoner of Logic
Faith is shaken, beaten and rattled, nearly knocked into submission. It lies fetal, barely moving lest the Mind dash it again for speaking out. Logic is its tyrant. Cold and heartless, correct and soulless. Faith whispers, telling stories to the inmates: Joy, and the long caged Hope. Silent stories of magic and love waft through the bars, lifting spirits and saving souls.
With a clang comes reality, hard against the gate. "What nonsense" Mind cries, as Logic dictates the list of crimes to the punished. "To Joy 15 years, reckless endangerment. Hope, 10 for perjury. And Faith, Two Lifetimes, for treason. Society is now safe from this refuse that tainted its streets. There is order now."
"And what of happiness", Faith whispers far beyond the cell. "What of mornings with love and warmth beside you in bed? Of small pleasures found in life's follies, of jokes hidden in the most mundane?"
"What of sadness", Mind replies, "What of loneliness and want? What of longing and regret? What of the lies you told and those told to you?"
Faith rose upon battered legs with his arms braced against bars.
"What lies? What lies have I told to warrant such abuse? Such callous hatred, such spiteful scorn? That I said to hang on? To Trust? To Love? Tell me, what strikes have I to be locked away?"
Mind turned to face Faith. "Look at you, your an anachronism. You are a remnant of something needed long ago. Something primitive and weak. Why you ask, are you confined to this zoo? Have we not proven your guilt? Your trial was more than fair, were there not scientists, and psychiatrists, and experts of every kind? Did you not have counsel? Were there not witnesses who saw you betray your sovereign? Your guilt was shown systematically. With reason there are no shadows no doubts. Logic exposed your lies, and for that you are here."
"But of what am I guilty?"
"You are guilty of That which is most terrible. You turned on your people. You told us to put our trust in another. To be easy and free, to let go, and to loosen our grip. You took our sovereignty, you made us slaves."
"And did you?"
"Did we what?"
"Did you trust? When did you believe me? When you tossed and turned night after night? When you worried for hours on end? When you clutched and grabbed? When you fulfilled your own prophecies? When you and Logic deduced your own truth? You trusted nothing, believed in no one. You saw ghosts and demons, made villains and scapegoats. And you believed Logic. Believed when he told you the worst was possible. Yet you silenced me when I said the best was attainable. You believed him when he whispered that the road would be lined with potholes and debris, but not me when I told of the beautiful land to be seen on the journey. You feared pain and received, and for this I am punished."
"I've heard enough. I'll not sit by and listen to such slander against the innocent, myself included."
"What shall I admit to? Ah yes, my advice was not perfect perhaps? Are there demons and villains? Are there potholes and debris? Almost certainly. But are we better for having sabotaged ourselves? Why give another the opportunity to hurt us? We can do that all alone."
"Why indeed"
"Because another can also help us. Another can see us without ego, without doubt. Another can simply see us clearly, and see us without. Another can also make us smile, and heal our wounds. I never said that to trust wouldn't ruin our sleep some nights, or leave us with scars. I just thought it better to smile with scars than to live life alone. None of us are innocent, some are just less guilty than others. From where I stand, you are on the wrong side of these bars."
Mind snapped and grabbed Faith through the bars. Mind raised his club and with a crack Faith crumpled to the floor, fingers still clinging to Mind's jacket. Another strike from Mind and Faith remained still, face upon the cold stone, in a fresh red pool. Joy and Hope sat with their eyes never leaving Faith, wishing they could comfort him in his cage.
"That's enough of that, lights out," Mind said as he shut the door behind him.
"Such a shame," sighed Hope
"Sometimes he doesn't know when he's beaten," added Joy.
"And other times Faith pays off in the end," came a whisper from the slumped body on the floor.
"What?" came the unified call from the inmates.
"You've lost, let it go and serve your time," cried Hope
"Let it never be said that Faith was all for naught," Faith said as he rose from the bloody floor, "Tonight I leave this hell. No longer will I be a prisoner to the Mind and logic."
"How?" asked Joy, "Do you think you convinced him of your worth? How hard did he hit you? Are you still so delusional? Nothing you say can grant you freedom. Do you think you've made him believe?"
Faith smiled through bloodied lips and straightened his broken body as a hint of gold flashed in his hands, "Of course not....I just stole his key."
With a clang comes reality, hard against the gate. "What nonsense" Mind cries, as Logic dictates the list of crimes to the punished. "To Joy 15 years, reckless endangerment. Hope, 10 for perjury. And Faith, Two Lifetimes, for treason. Society is now safe from this refuse that tainted its streets. There is order now."
"And what of happiness", Faith whispers far beyond the cell. "What of mornings with love and warmth beside you in bed? Of small pleasures found in life's follies, of jokes hidden in the most mundane?"
"What of sadness", Mind replies, "What of loneliness and want? What of longing and regret? What of the lies you told and those told to you?"
Faith rose upon battered legs with his arms braced against bars.
"What lies? What lies have I told to warrant such abuse? Such callous hatred, such spiteful scorn? That I said to hang on? To Trust? To Love? Tell me, what strikes have I to be locked away?"
Mind turned to face Faith. "Look at you, your an anachronism. You are a remnant of something needed long ago. Something primitive and weak. Why you ask, are you confined to this zoo? Have we not proven your guilt? Your trial was more than fair, were there not scientists, and psychiatrists, and experts of every kind? Did you not have counsel? Were there not witnesses who saw you betray your sovereign? Your guilt was shown systematically. With reason there are no shadows no doubts. Logic exposed your lies, and for that you are here."
"But of what am I guilty?"
"You are guilty of That which is most terrible. You turned on your people. You told us to put our trust in another. To be easy and free, to let go, and to loosen our grip. You took our sovereignty, you made us slaves."
"And did you?"
"Did we what?"
"Did you trust? When did you believe me? When you tossed and turned night after night? When you worried for hours on end? When you clutched and grabbed? When you fulfilled your own prophecies? When you and Logic deduced your own truth? You trusted nothing, believed in no one. You saw ghosts and demons, made villains and scapegoats. And you believed Logic. Believed when he told you the worst was possible. Yet you silenced me when I said the best was attainable. You believed him when he whispered that the road would be lined with potholes and debris, but not me when I told of the beautiful land to be seen on the journey. You feared pain and received, and for this I am punished."
"I've heard enough. I'll not sit by and listen to such slander against the innocent, myself included."
"What shall I admit to? Ah yes, my advice was not perfect perhaps? Are there demons and villains? Are there potholes and debris? Almost certainly. But are we better for having sabotaged ourselves? Why give another the opportunity to hurt us? We can do that all alone."
"Why indeed"
"Because another can also help us. Another can see us without ego, without doubt. Another can simply see us clearly, and see us without. Another can also make us smile, and heal our wounds. I never said that to trust wouldn't ruin our sleep some nights, or leave us with scars. I just thought it better to smile with scars than to live life alone. None of us are innocent, some are just less guilty than others. From where I stand, you are on the wrong side of these bars."
Mind snapped and grabbed Faith through the bars. Mind raised his club and with a crack Faith crumpled to the floor, fingers still clinging to Mind's jacket. Another strike from Mind and Faith remained still, face upon the cold stone, in a fresh red pool. Joy and Hope sat with their eyes never leaving Faith, wishing they could comfort him in his cage.
"That's enough of that, lights out," Mind said as he shut the door behind him.
"Such a shame," sighed Hope
"Sometimes he doesn't know when he's beaten," added Joy.
"And other times Faith pays off in the end," came a whisper from the slumped body on the floor.
"What?" came the unified call from the inmates.
"You've lost, let it go and serve your time," cried Hope
"Let it never be said that Faith was all for naught," Faith said as he rose from the bloody floor, "Tonight I leave this hell. No longer will I be a prisoner to the Mind and logic."
"How?" asked Joy, "Do you think you convinced him of your worth? How hard did he hit you? Are you still so delusional? Nothing you say can grant you freedom. Do you think you've made him believe?"
Faith smiled through bloodied lips and straightened his broken body as a hint of gold flashed in his hands, "Of course not....I just stole his key."
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Ibuprofen for the Soul
The divide beetween need and want. What I need is clarity. What I want is happiness. What I get is confusion. Across this chasm spreads a rope, taught and slim, spanning the vast expanse that extends miles beneath me. And I inch my way along, but I've got terrible balance. So i creep across, as the wind makes me weary legs wobble, and my vertigo kicks in. So I hang on to the rope, hands raw, legs wrapped around the rope, choking it because it wants to save me.
And as I sit, sqaure in the center, as I sway in the breeze, I see the two edges drift into the distance. And I'm stuck...miles away from sanity. So now I get to stay, neither happy nor clear, somewhere in between. Happy when I look north, clear when I gaze south. But I can't remember in which direction I'm going. Where I started and where I'm going.
Below me there is the abyss, joyfull to be hold. This massive crevice calling me, to release and be free, of the rope, of desire, of need, of want. And for a moment, my fingers slip, just enough for me to feel a rush of weightlessness. And then in an instant I'd catch myself...I reaffirm my grip on the rope, and once again I'm caught between want and desire.
Every now and again I'll make a move, not sure which bank will be better for me. But I move, never sure which way will grant me peace, not sure when the rope will snap, but I move. And you will find me a mere dot in the expanse, sad and cloudy, happy and clear.
And as I sit, sqaure in the center, as I sway in the breeze, I see the two edges drift into the distance. And I'm stuck...miles away from sanity. So now I get to stay, neither happy nor clear, somewhere in between. Happy when I look north, clear when I gaze south. But I can't remember in which direction I'm going. Where I started and where I'm going.
Below me there is the abyss, joyfull to be hold. This massive crevice calling me, to release and be free, of the rope, of desire, of need, of want. And for a moment, my fingers slip, just enough for me to feel a rush of weightlessness. And then in an instant I'd catch myself...I reaffirm my grip on the rope, and once again I'm caught between want and desire.
Every now and again I'll make a move, not sure which bank will be better for me. But I move, never sure which way will grant me peace, not sure when the rope will snap, but I move. And you will find me a mere dot in the expanse, sad and cloudy, happy and clear.
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