My last four stories were set on a beach, the same beach, though I’m not sure anyone noticed. There are links between the four stories and I did try some new styles and elements. I’m ready to move on. I am inspired by the beaches of the Pacific Northwest and have included some of my photographs here. My next series will run more like a chapter book. I understand series stories aren’t very popular, but I’ve only got 30 subscribers, so I’m less interested in popularity, than with the challenge of trying something new. I think you’ll find the plot engaging, and I hope to start publishing the posts soon.
Provenance
He said she couldn’t take his truck, but never imagined it would become his home. He didn’t blame her. He thought there were two types of people in this world, and it had nothing to do with pessimism and optimism. It was all about blame. People either took credit, or blamed someone else when things didn’t go their way. Blame didn’t offer shelter, so he chose to accept responsibility and make the most of it.
He had a good job that provided the court-mandated health insurance for the children. He had prepaid an annual gym membership, which gave him a place to shower for a few months. His primary meal came from the cafeteria at work, and he supplemented with berries from the invasive species along the highway. Child support was automatically deducted from his paycheck, his only means siphoned to his three kids. It could have been four. Should have been.
He didn’t blame her. He lived with her in abundance for years. The children had expectations he wouldn’t deny. He slept in the truck, wandering between beaches each night, escaping authority. In three months, he aged three years. Winter was approaching, and he did not believe in luck. He scoured papers and bulletin boards for opportunity. He used library computers to send applications for more work. He took the children to the park between meal times to hide his shame at being homeless. No one knew. No one asked.
This night he walked the beach in his bare feet seeking abandoned coins, useless until paired or partnered. He held a scrap in his palm, squeezing, wishing he had been taught to pray. The card in the grocery store was barely legible. FREE ROOM/BOARD — P/T CARETAKER — OWNER HOSPICE. All the tabs were torn away, but the number was printed on the card. He copied the scrawl onto an ad for custom checks and walked to the beach.
He stretched his vision to the shore of the distant island and spread his toes into the cool wetness. He felt the familiar resistance of a coin, and squatted, pinching the quarter between his thumb and finger, dusting the sand with the corner of his dirty shirt. He now had enough to wash his clothes, but not enough to make a phone call. He continued to polish the coin, accepting the reality that the room was probably already taken, his discovery too late. He dropped to his knees, and as the crushed shells cut into his flesh, he saw. He was in the dreams of another, a woman in pain, scars that wouldn’t heal, fires inside that would not be extinguished.
He rose and felt the new burden pressing him down, stronger than gravity, compelling him to continue his search. He spent another fruitless hour on the beach, distracted by disturbing visions of things he could not control, decisions that were not his to make. He walked across the street, carrying his load of laundry, the paper stuffed carelessly in his front pocket. As he shook his work pants into the dented washer, a crumpled dollar bill fell from the pocket. He flattened it against his thigh, turning it over and pressing it again. The rinse cycle started. He looked around the room, then walked up to a young man and asked to borrow his phone.
Common Language
My toes refuse to translate the nightmares between them. I dig deeper in sand, leaving cells penetrated by my own visions. My body is carried to distant people. Do they speak the language of my dreams? Can they see my visions if they are blind? Do they hear the crackle of the fires that burned me last night?
Water licks strangers from my heel. I stretch my fingers, dipping them into the surf. one. by. one. What are the chances I will touch the same dreams again? This time, will I see? I pinch my eyes tighter, blood fractals of light. I place one finger on my tongue, tasting salt and hope. I see a stranger, then she’s gone. I feel weight on my toes. Rhythm with the waves. I open to a yellow ball.
I slide my fingers over the curve and around the seam. Imperfection. I slide my fingers over my curves and around the seam. Imperfection. I see a woman, skin escaping petroleum-laced tenting. “Are you sure you want to wear that?” Yes, I’m sure. Do we hold more dreams and visions with more weight? Which cells carry hope? Which embrace despair? Can we choose the dreams we shed, or must we risk loss of faith when we transform flesh?
Soul Meet
Image by Bud Hunt
Intuition.
Instinct.
Trust.
Listen.
Select. Purchase. Read. Abandon.
Experience.
Knowledge.
Open.
Touch.
Reject. Escape. Remember. Return.
Pain.
Fear.
Leap.
Taste.
Reflect. Accept. Release. Inspire.
Note: This poem is in response to Bud Hunt’s poetry prompt 1 for NPM2009.
Zingo
They ran in winter, swam in summer and watched in spring and autumn. Always there was the ball. It wasn’t the rain that kept people inside, he thought, it was the white. On white days he stayed home, shifting lamps and testing new bulbs. Zingo was the companion who pulled him out and away for the last nine years.
From the balcony above the rails, they reigned over a hazel leaf of beach. In spring, when sun first overpowered white, people emerged and crowded the little parking lot. They bustled their flip-flop shod children down to the water, cameras obstructing sail boats and islands. He counted seconds before the children would run, screaming cold wet shock while parents squeezed off a few more shots to push at office-mates and in-laws.
He used to imagine them scuttling from the beach to the instant processing hut, discovering none of the shots turned out. More recently, he saw glowing faces cropping litter and strangers, emailing surviving images in generic form letters to lists of contacts. Now he knew their lives were online before they even left the beach. Exploring the world through cubicle lenses. They lusted for comments and views, not noticing all the other silhouettes, same poses, same beaches, same freezing children with forced smiles.
This day was autumn, his other favorite watching season. He would run with Zingo before the crowd arrived, juggling their neglected gear, justifying the purchase with this first and last exploitation. Chaircoolercamerafrisbeethermosballbucketkiteraftbasketcorkscrewblanketlighter. He might bring an extra bag to clean up the yesterday they had already captured and forgotten. He might bring his camera, looking down for driftwood, or up for eagles. He would print the outside in color and hang it inside for days of white.
The dog wasn’t always Zingo. For a few days, he was just Dog. Then they went to the desert. Dog huddled in the damp liquor box where he had been found behind the strip-mall. He was scared of the bonfire, and burrowed deeper into the borrowed shirt. There was drinking and smoking and singing. Then running the car off the cliff, waiting for the explosion that never came. They smoked some more, dancing dream stories of all they could have done with the money they pooled to purchase the car. Someone said Dog needed a real name. Someone else said Bingo. They passed the dog around and sang the song until the B became a Z and Zingo had a name-O of his own.
On this morning, the beach was empty. He ran with Zingo, stopping for a game of fetch with the yellow ball. He threw one farther than usual, and toed wet parchment in sand as he waited for Zingo’s return. He picked up the paper, placing it gently, dripping into the bag. The words ran away, but he could read, “let me be.” Let me be what? He picked up more leavings and watched as Zingo returned, slower than before. He gave love to the panting dog, then tossed the ball again. Zingo gracefully sank in the sand, fetching only with his eyes.
Paper Voices
There were names, a story within a story. I sounded out printed letter pairs searching for friends, curious about strangers. I had favorites, books where my name was printed several times, letters shrinking line by line. There was a time when they would stamp each book. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ten times. There was a limit for children. I would take them in my tote, keeping weight from cold linoleum.
Later, they quickly dunked a pre-stamped card, only slightly cracking open the cover at check-out. I wondered how they knew how many cards to stamp each morning, and who had the job of rolling the rubber to the next number. What happened to the unused cards? Their lists grew longer, closer to destruction, yet they remained in the box. Were there some that never left the library? Stamped and stamped again, but never slipped in pockets. At home, I breathed books. Unfamiliar smells. Coffee. Cigarettes. Curry.
I graduated to text books, old volumes, tracked by date, inventoried in ink. Names in responsible cursive. Sometimes I knew them, older brothers and sisters of my friends. I added my name to the bottom of the list, and imagined those who read before and those who would follow. Would they know me? I wrapped them tightly in grocery bags decorated with band names and logos, lyrics and icons of youth culture.
At university, I paged through used books, listening for voices in paper. I don’t write in books. I sought those closest to mint, but wondered why they were never touched. If the previous student didn’t use it, would I? Sometimes I would buy the book and later discover notes, penciled in margins in the first few chapters. What happened to the student before me? Did they drop the class? Did they know enough to pass without opening the text?
My daughter pulled a slip from one of my books and asked why it showed another name. She thought I had taken someone’s reserved book, and kept it for myself. I showed her the date on the receipt with the unfamiliar name. Kate something. December. I explained Kate must have had the book in December and left her receipt in the book to mark her place. Did Kate finish the book? Who is she?
I still smell books, and sometimes return them, repulsed. I miss the mystery. Now we have book clubs. We gather and read and reveal passions and weaknesses in therapeutic circles. Deliberate. Calculated. Organized. Scheduled. Machines keep our secrets, our trails of inquiry and entertainment. But where are the people? I want to know who last touched my book. I want to ask whether they finished, if they cried. I want to know if they read it alone, or in a crowd. Did someone sacrifice for their reading pleasure? And then I want to part, maybe to never cross paths again. A single social object to bind us for a moment.
Coincidental
Yesterday I made the ninety mile journey to Bellingham to meet a friend. I asked her to pull out her magic wand to change the weather, and as I arrived, the big yellow ball emerged. I had time to walk the beach and capture some photos, finally getting some blues. The spots on the camera may just convince me to learn to edit my photos, but I wanted to share them anyway. My friend met me at the coffee shop and we talked for a while, our conversation turning to the value of self-judgment in our lives, and whether or not it was helpful to classify our past actions as bad or good.
We later walked into a bookstore, my goal to find a strange book, something that would jump out at me. We wandered the unfamiliar shop until we found the philosophy section, where I could have settled in for a while, if there had been a better selection. I handed my friend Marcus Aurelius, Meditations and asked her to open to any page and read one. She opened the book and invited a distant guest into our earlier conversation:
If you suppose anything over which you have no control to be either good or bad for you, then the accident of missing the one or encountering the other is certain to make you aggrieved with the gods, and bitter against the men whom you know or expect to be responsible for your misfortune. We do, in fact, commit many injustices through attaching importance to things of this class. But when we limit our notions of good and evil strictly to what is within our own power, there remains no reason either to bring accusations against God or to set ourselves at variance with men.
We traveled the store and I searched for my lonely book. A full wall display was almost overwhelming, until I was drawn to the yellow cover. Yellow, like the paint I’ve been waiting to brush on the walls of our play area. I didn’t see the title, but opened the book and began to read. I was instantly drawn to the lyrical language and clutched the book to my chest. My friend came around the corner and I told her a book jumped out at me. She said, “Leaped out at you,” and I looked at the title, Leap. We moved on and I found a seat as she browsed poetry. I opened the book to the beginning and began to read the memoir of a woman raised in the same religion I observed for the first seventeen years of my life. Her descriptions of events and feelings mirror mine. Her questions and quirks are my own and I can’t wait to find out what she’s discovered about herself, and whether her early questions have been resolved.
After we made our purchases, we walked down the street and entered one of those pottery painting tea shops designed just for such meetings. We almost sat down to paint. I walked through the shop, touching the pots, trying to find one to represent my day. I suddenly remembered a time in my childhood where I attended a mother/daughter church event where I had to paint a ceramic jewelry box. It was actually quite pretty, in a heart-shaped, Victorian way, something I would never have in my own home now. I believe it rests now in my mother’s basement bathroom. Still plain, solid pink, a reminder of my lack of creativity, or interest. We did not invest in the experience yesterday, but may return again with our daughters. But first, I have another book to read.
A Secret
Yesterday was absolutely gorgeous and I took my son for a walk. The sentence sounds so simple, but the action is not. I left my job five months ago to be a stay-at-home-mom and have spent those months inside and in pajamas. Just the thought of leaving the house and potentially having to relate to another person face-to-face is enough to keep me trapped inside with a stir-crazy toddler for another season. I am fine with activities where I can hide behind errands or headphones. I can do the coffee shop, grocery store or library. I can talk to people in passing. It’s the leisure places that scare me. To me, the thought of sitting at a park talking to another mother, is stifling.
It isn’t that I’m scared of people. I’m scared of words, or lack of words. Online I don’t have to have those awkward first meetings. Online I socialize with people in spaces where we’re already talking about things that interest us. It doesn’t matter what I do for a living, where I live, or how my children perform. Online, I can read all about a person before I start talking to them. I can find out if they’re mean or gossipy. I can choose my friends. Maybe I am not afraid after all. Maybe I am spoiled.
Carousel Gate 19
Damp sand speckled blank parchment as the horse galloped past her silent retreat. She had never been one of those girls to request a pony for Christmas. Well, she did ask for one when she was nine, the year all her friends did the same, but she never really wanted one. That was around the time she tried to conjure an imaginary friend, and realized she didn’t know what to do with one, once she had invented it.
He told her she had to find a way to let go, maybe write down her fears and toss them into the water to float away. No longer capable of decision, she trusted him. She sat in the sand, shiny new pen, crisp parchment, empty head. Until the riderless horse. Then she remembered, and wrote. She filled the page and carried the scrawl to the other side before folding it up into a boat. Like riding a bicycle. Cliché. More loss of meaning in her search for meaning.
She walked to the creeping cold surf and closed her eyes, wondering if she should pray, or chant or sing. She tossed the boat as far as she could, instantly wishing she had folded an airplane instead. The boat graced the water only a few meters away, and she stood on tiptoes, waiting for release. The first wave sent the boat flying into the seaweed at her feet. Inky paper unfolded, rejecting her single decision. Her fear spread before her, slowly tangling with the slimy green. She raised her head and scanned the horizon to see the horse, posed and uncertain at the end of the jetty, and she began to walk.
Finding Inspiration
I am fortunate to live in a beautiful place, so I am always inspired. The last four stories were inspired by the town of Snohomish, a few miles from my home. It is a small city along the river, and the stories take place in a fictitious coffee shop on 2nd Avenue. The town is full of antique shops and small local businesses and recently suffered from the severe winter flooding we had in this area. Despite the damage, the spirits of the locals remain high. Every time I visit, I’m greeted kindly.
One of my favorite antique shops has incredible lighting for photography. I bring my camera and ask permission to take photos. I’m not a professional and have no training, but I get pleasure and inspiration from composing the shots and seeing something that may inspire me later. I never edit the photos, as I feel some kind of attachment to them in their original form. This morning I created a set from my Snohomish photos, to give you a better idea of the location where the last four stories were set. The photos feature Creative Commons – Noncommercial – Attribution – ShareAlike licensing, so you may reuse them according to the license.
My next set of stories will take place on the beaches of the Pacific Northwest and I will share my beach photos as well.