David Everson - Plinky Answers

My Favorite Holiday Flick

2010-12-16T17:33:51-06:00

My Favorite Cliché

2010-09-24T14:56:49-06:00

*What's your favorite cliché?*

My friends have called me out regarding one particular expression a few times. And since each time I get called on it I proceed from feeling guilty for uttering a cliché to a bit confused as to why that particular cliché is a bad one, I therefore conclude that it must indeed be, as Plinky would have it, my "favorite cliché."

"It is what it is."

Sometimes I say it from resignation, but much more frequently it is acceptance. I'm talking about the kind of acceptance that most people think they are achieving when they use the word tolerance. Tolerance, of course, implies that you will permit something to be (possibly because you are impotent to change it) despite the fact you loathe the activity. Some confused people will use the word acceptance to describe that feeling; that is not the kind of acceptance I am talking about here.

I am talking about the kind of acceptance that echoes the divine tautology: "I am I." To follow suit, "it is it," and, since our universe exists in dynamic parallax, we extrapolate the grammar to include the verb 'to be,' arriving at the gorgeous (and my critics would say meaningless) truism -

It is what it is.

Which is a much less epiphanic condensation of the Tao Te Ching. From chapter 80, the image of a past before the human animal had abstracted its self-knowledge with layers of history:

"Men return to the knotting of rope in place of writing.
Their food is plain and good, their clothes fine but simple,
their homes secure;
They are happy in their ways.
Though they live within sight of their neighbors,
And crowing cocks and barking dogs are heard across the way,
Yet they leave each other in peace while they grow old and die."

Some might raise objections to a description of this scenario as ideal: what of art! what of progress! what of love passion ambition drive advancement etc! But this isn't apathy; the animals are not apathetic. This is life being life. Something we can barely glimpse, the neurotic descendants of our rope-knitting ancestors.

A Book Character I'd Like to Be

2010-09-16T12:50:05-06:00

Ray Smith, Kerouac's alter-ego, travels from his city environs to a more natural setting. He's chasing some vaguely Buddhist concept of nirvana (the whole novel could be read as a Western Buddhist parable).

Along the way, he attends Ginsberg's legendary first reading of "Howl" - all names are changed in the novel. Surrounded by artists, seekers, thinkers, revelers, Ray enjoys their company despite a desire to find something more permanent than drunken nights and winding conversations. But he never rejects those nights or conversations.

Kerouac is more innocent in Dharma Bums (nevermind the whole orgy scene). He's innocent in the sense that he thinks there is something more permanent. The innocence goes away in later works, turns into a desperate sorrow, even. (The author died due to complications from excessive drinking.) But I admire the combination of craziness and simple hope that pervades this dharma bum.

I jump from bar to bar in Kerouac's own city of St Petersburg, wishing only at times that I was at Walden Pond or Tinker Creek or Desolation Peak. The thing is, I've read Kerouac's other novel, Desolation Angels, again mostly autobiographic, that follows from these desires to get back to nature. It is as terribly sad as it sounds. (My first college English essay was entitled "The Disconsolate Buddhist: Kerouac and the Western Search for Eastern Wisdom".)

Maybe I picked someone too much like me already. I should have picked the Count of Monte Cristo with his clarity of purpose and treasure hunting. But ever the realist, something about Ray Smith's life felt like it should be mine.

Wishing I Was a Kid

2009-10-06T17:43:30-06:00

Name something that makes me wish I was a kid again?

Day 4 - Paying off debt

Debt.

Backing Vocals for Modest Mouse

2009-09-12T09:14:23-06:00

If I could be a member of any band, I would join Modest Mouse. I would have loved to have said The Beatles or Led Zeppelin, but I wouldn't have a place in those groups. Modest Mouse, however, seems to have more band members than they really need already. And I could nail that sound of the drunk guy poorly singing along with the lyrics that fills out the backing vocals in some of their songs. Plus, they just look like they have a good time.

Bury Me in a Yacht

2009-09-12T09:09:12-06:00

ping pong room
To keep me in shape while I travel.

library
For when I need a quiet moment. Being surrounded by books puts me at ease.

football Sunday room
Decked out in Hawaiian blue and silver & red and pewter. Leather sofas, directTV's Sunday ticket, and six 65 inch plasma TVs.

college football Saturday room
Only two colors: blue and orange. One 65 inch plasma for the Gators' game, and one 50 inch to keep tabs on an alternate game.

bar
To complement every other room....

Pardon me, but do you have any raisins?

2009-09-11T22:19:33-06:00

Pardon me, but do you have any raisins?
How about a date?

*rimshot*

It is a little known fact that puns haven't actually led directly to romance since the late 1600s.

I Was Haunted for a Few Hours in Florida by The Haunting in Connecticut

2009-09-11T22:12:33-06:00

Surprisingly, it has been a few months since I've rented a movie. I had to really think about this one. At last, I remember that I had rented Haunting in Connecticut, the horror flick, and watched it with friends.

As I remember it, it was forgettable.

The story was cliche, and the ending predictable. There was an interesting human story behind the haunted house template, but those behind the film failed to progress it once it served the purpose of introducing the boogie men. Not as thoroughly uninspired as the 3D version of My Bloody Valentine, it was a serviceable if unoriginal horror flick.

My Painted Hands

2009-09-11T21:59:59-06:00

Henna Hand with Camel in Morocco

If I could get any tattoo for just a week, I might choose a henna-style tattoo on both hands. I love the look of the intricacies on the delicate surface of the hands. It would, however, be socially inappropriate for your average professional.

(It would probably hurt like hell, too.)

Flying from Tampa to Colorado Springs

2009-09-11T21:54:01-06:00

When my family moved from Ohio to Michigan, we drove. When we moved from Michigan to Florida, we drove. I didn't travel on a plane until, I think, I was a teenager. (I seem to recall my mom saying that I had been on a plane when I was two.)

Flying for the first time was exciting. There may have been a momentary realization of the unnatural vulnerability aboard the shaking craft that was rocketing into the air, but it was more akin to awe than fear. Landing in Colorado Springs, where my maternal grandparents always seemed to have lived, was the most breath-taking moment. The plane had to circle around to land, and the move provided a wide view of the Rockies.

Helpful Books

2009-09-11T21:43:53-06:00

Several books have proved helpful over the years. I bought an Idiot's Guide book once. A year before I bought my motorcycle, I decided I ought to know everything there is to know about bikes. I read it cover to cover and used it to help make a purchasing decision. The OED is another extraordinarily helpful book. I inherited the massive, fine print, two volume set from my grandmother. I use the CD-ROM more frequently, since it doesn't require the magnifying glass.

Currently, though, I am making use of Competitive Debate. At the urging of an interested student, I am sponsoring a debate club at my high school this year. I have no background in debate. I have only engaged in one formal debate, which occurred in college. This book by Richard Edwards has, so far, been helpful in giving me a modicum of confidence that I can actually do this, and actually help students succeed in debate! We'll find out just how helpful this book is in a few more months.

Signs of life, not in this lifetime.

2009-09-11T21:09:51-06:00

No. Just playing the odds.

Overcoming Serpents

2009-09-11T21:08:32-06:00

It was a warm autumn evening, and a warm ocean wind came down the stairs from the upper deck. Summer's vibrancy had faded to a dull heaviness that brought perspiration to the seaman's brow. His muscled, tattooed arms slid the massive metal pipe through two hooks in the cage. The marsupial dozed peacefully, tranquil - tranquilized - on its bed of straw. It would be a long voyage to the new world.

As it opened it eyes, the yearling kangaroo felt her head spin and her body rock. She stood, and fell back into the man-made nest. She lay with her head against the floor for several minutes. Gradually, her head stabilized but her body did not. It was no sickness: she was definitely moving. A large metal bowl of water was bolted to the floor inside her cage, and she watched as the water inside of it rolled to one side of the bowl, then back; roll, then back.

Only 100 days out of her mother's pouch, she had nothing but instinct on which to operate, and instinct was mute in these settings. She balanced herself gingerly, then surveyed the perimeter. She saw something ominous in the unbroken circumference of those black bars, the way a sailor sees dark clouds on the horizon to which he is heading. And like the sailor, she knew she must head into that danger.

Her fleeting vision of danger gave way to a lightning flash of panic. She lunged, behind the force of her mighty hind legs, into the impenetrable bars. Two, three, four times she struck them with her right shoulder. She circumambulated the cage again, and again, until the pain in her right shoulder made itself felt, whereupon she walked back to the bed her captors had made her. In despair, she began to attack the bed - the straw was breakable, malleable, yielding. A couple startled rats fled across the room, slipping effortlessly out of the bars of her cage. Caught up in the power of this act, she didn't at first notice the serpent wending its way along the outer wall beyond her cage.

The seven-foot long, burnt umber coastal taipan blended with the dark, water-stained wooden planks of the old ship. Had the young kangaroo her wits about her, she may have noticed it dart for a scurrying rodent and come up just short, as the rat found refuge in a nook in the wall that the serpent had no desire to enter.

She did not notice the taipan, but the taipan noticed her. And this taipan had gastronomical ambitions beyond the average taipan. Finally tired out, the kangaroo crumpled to the now bare floor. The serpent slithered to the rear corner of the stage, slipped between the bars, and sidled up to the kangaroo's tail. In a moment, the taipan would strike rapidly and repeatedly, injecting its venom; in a moment more, the kangaroo would be convulsing in pain; and if the marsupial could last long enough, kidney failure before inevitable death. The initial strike was only a moment away.

Exhausted, but with its senses heightened through agitation, the yearling felt a sudden coldness as a chill coursing through its overheated body. She whipped her tail swiftly and sent the snake hurtling into the bars of the cage. Half of its length hung outside the cage and half inside over the one horizontal bar running through the center of the hundreds of vertical ones. Temporary suspended, immobile but dangerous with fangs dripping venom, the snake took a strike and then two in her direction. But she kept her distance, cocked her head, and watched the hissing serpent. Instinct told her the predator was helpless, and instinct flexed the tendons of her hind legs; instinct lifted her legs off the strange, unsturdy ground; and instinct drop-kicked the snake against the bars.

The snake hung lifeless from the bars, its body split and its blood dripping onto the wooden beams. The boat rocked, but she no longer noticed it. She rested her head on the floor and rested, awaiting the rest of the journey.

A Ghiradelli a Day

2009-09-11T18:27:05-06:00

Ghiradelli Sign

It figures: I finally win something, and it's a lifetime guarantee to stay fat.

With a lifetime supply of candy, I'd have to choose some kind of dark chocolate with almond. Perhaps Hershey's, or Ghiradelli.

Excuse me, great-great-grandpappy Everson...

2009-09-11T18:23:22-06:00

I was born in August of 1978. My parents were born in the 1940s. My grandparents in the 1910s. My great-grandparents, roughly, in the 1880s. And my great-great grandparents in the 1850s.

These relatively (get it? get it?) recent ancestors are complete strangers to me. They were probably Yankees and living in the United States. But I have no idea if they were poor or wealthy; educated or illiterate; engaged citizens or disaffected workers. As such, the prompt would read the same if it said what questions would you ask a random person from the latter half of the 19th century.

What is your favorite part of the day?
OK, so no xbox, tv, music, or industry centered around entertainment. Where did they find joy? In work? Or was work something that just beat them down? From relaxing in nature? Or was there no time for that? Mealtime? Church or prayers? Splitting wood? Some other mundane chore that provided time for contemplation?

Did you hear Abe Lincoln speak?
My family seems to have roots in the North, despite currently living in Florida. I assume a great-great grandfather might have fought in the Union Army. I wonder if he managed to get out of fighting, or if Lincoln's words moved him. Or was the war nothing but a horror, as wars tend to be for the poor who don't give a rot for the warring ideologies?

Is life better for you than it was for your parents?

Are you making a better life for your children?

It's a Long Way Home on This Holy Night for, uh, the Scatman

2009-09-11T18:04:26-06:00

Long Way Home by Tom Waits

You know I love you baby
More than the whole wide world.
You are my woman
You know you are my pearl.
Let's go out past the party lights
Where we can finally be alone.
Come with me and we can take the long way home.

Come with me, together we can take the long way home.
Come with me, together we can take the long way home.

Scatman (Ski Ba Bop Ba Dop Bop) by Scatman

Only one person could have the courage (and, ahem, unique taste) to like this song from 1994 when he was young, be ridiculed mercilessly, and still insist he likes it now that he's older. He will always remind me that no matter what agreements and similarities you have with someone, that someone is still always a very different person.

O Holy Night by various artists

Seriously. Christmas songs year round. Christmas CDs in the car in March, May, July? I guess if you keep the kindness and generosity of the season with you, too, then you can be forgiven this faux pas.

Cat Poop & Biometric Neurochips

2009-09-11T17:44:49-06:00

clean the litterbox
Because it is litter. With poo and urine.

Wash, Dry, Fold, and Iron Laundry
Cloth is far too enigmatic a substance for me. It is chaotic, and difficult to fold and straighten. Ironing clothes is like trying to smooth a river; the fabric resists by its uncontrollable nature the homogenizing oppression of the iron.

I assume a 2109 model robot will not be able to develop such neuroses yet, and thus could handle this chore more effectively than me.

Charge My Biometric Neurochip
She (my robot will be of the female gender because of my orientation and the one task that it is not fit to list here) will charge my BNC every night while I sleep. Those things are great during the day, when you can search the internet from behind your eyes and make phone calls with the appropriate neural spark. But they create the most dreadful dreams when your sleeping mind unwittingly triggers one of their functions.

Metaphysics and Morality

2009-09-11T17:30:16-06:00

Professor New was aware of and sensitive to the politics of exclusion and elitism, but nevertheless championed brilliance, genius, and individual accomplishments. He had that about him which I would feign call master. It was the one time I most felt like a true pupil, an apprentice, learning at his feet.

Prof introduced me to Mann, Proust, and Woolf, and gave me a more thorough introduction to Joyce, Kafka, and Faulkner. Alongside these literary giants, he taught me what I really needed to know of theory. It was my second theory class, and unlike the first, in which we sampled every literary theorist of the past 200 years, his class focused on three. Two of those still heavily influence my thinking: the moral philosopher Emmanuel Levinas and the writer (there's no better word to describe him) Walter Benjamin. I am still trying to wend my way through Benjamin's Arcades.

Prof was hard, demanding voracious reading habits. He both expected us to remember minute details and how those led to the universal themes. He challenged us to move from the esoteric, metaphysical nuances in A la Recherche du Temps Perdu to the practical, compassionate realities stemming from such nuances. If Marcel's disorientation is emblematic of the perpetual state of human existence and the source of our desperate outpouring of communication, maybe, also, this understanding could increase empathy and combat the hatred, warfare, and subjugation that humans do in the desire to form some fixed identity.

Eject, Flip, & on to Side B!

2009-09-11T17:09:13-06:00

My Slippery When Wet cassette tape wore down until it would no longer play.

Now that we have CDs and mp3s, the sound quality has become too good. The art has become too perfectly reproducible. Like any good American dilettante, I now feeling a burning desire to go back and spend hundreds on archaic technologies like records and record players so that I can snobbishly listen to the same music I already own with more 'authenticity.'

But unlike records, I don't think the cassette is going to make a come back except as a print on some hip Target t-shirt.

From Killing Mummies to Cleaning a Full House

2009-09-11T17:00:39-06:00

Bye Brendan!

I have been told that I look like two different celebrities. One is, more or less, a compliment; the other makes me a little bit resentful.

When I was in my twenties, I was told by family members, students, once even a stranger, that I looked like Brendan Fraser.

Now?

I have heard that I look like Bob Saget. To be more specific, Saget's character Danny Tanner.

Can you guess which one pleases me less?

Blade Runner Was No Alien, Ridley

2009-09-11T16:40:45-06:00

I tend to enjoy science fiction films. With a few notable exceptions, I like most science fictions films I've seen, from the corny Galaxy Quest to the mediocre Battleship Troopers, from brilliantly esoteric films like 2001: A Space Odyssey and Dark City to the sleeker Hollywood productions like Gattaca and the Riddick trilogy. Serenity, T2, Soylent Green, Minority Report...the list is a long one.

Blade Runner, however, was just boring. (Already I see the disapproving glances from across the web.) I watched it once when I was young, or at least started it, and was bored to tears. I am pretty sure the boredom was born from a confusion with the subtly told story.

Needless to say, after experiencing the paralyzing social awkwardness that comes with telling a group of scifi dorks that you didn't like Blade Runner, I rewatched the film. OK, so it's pretty good. And maybe I was a stupid kid the first time (I remember thinking, "I thought this was a sequel to that AWESOME movie Rollerball!").

If Only Weston Would Cut the Cheese Closer to Me

2009-09-11T16:38:25-06:00

With all due love for my quotidian lunch - peanut butter sandwich on whole grain with one of several accoutrement (honey, jam, or sweet Colorado raspberry honey - one of my favorite sandwiches was from a cheese shop I visited in Weston, Florida while on vacation.

My wife, sister, and brother-in-law and I stayed at a resort in Weston, near Fort Lauderdale. For lunch, we went to this nearby cafe called The Cheese Course. Their sandwiches were loaded with fresh mozzarella, goat cheese, provolone, gruyere, and other flavorful and unique cheeses. Along with heavenly salads blanketed in cheese and fresh produce, this restaurant had all the options a vegetarian diner could want.

honorable mentions: Panera for their consistency; Reitz Gourmet in Tampa for their generosity; and Subway for their economy.

O! To Have Watched Bogart in the Theater

2009-06-16T15:49:42-06:00

From 1943, Casablanca is a nearly perfect movie. Bogey & Bergman, the man who played the womanizing French police captain Renault, and the creepy Peter Lorre.

It is the story of a bitter, sardonic man living in an unbearable situation, forced to reexamine the story that he thought was his life. A love story, war story, and brilliantly witty story. Every line of the sharp dialogue is classic.

Do you know who I am?
I do. You're lucky the bar's open to you.

Ugarte to Rick: "I have many a friend in Casablanca, but somehow, just because you despise me, you are the only one I trust."

Ilsa: Play it once, Sam. For old time's sake.

Rick: I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray, you wore blue.

Rick: The wild finish. A guy standing on a station platform in the rain with a comical look in his face because his insides have been kicked out.

Laszlo: You know how you sound, Mr. Blaine? Like a man who's trying to convince himself of something he doesn't believe in his heart.

Renault: We mustn't underestimate "American blundering". I was with them when they "blundered" into Berlin in 1918.

Rick: Here's looking at you, kid.

It would take a miracle to get you out of Casablanca, and the Germans have outlawed miracles.

Rick: Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine.

Rick: If that plane leaves the ground and you're not with him, you'll regret it. Maybe not today. Maybe not tomorrow, but soon and for the rest of your life.

We'll always have Paris. We didn't have, we, we lost it until you came to Casablanca. We got it back last night.

Rick: Ilsa, I'm no good at being noble, but it doesn't take much to see that the problems of three little people don't amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.

Rick: Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

* Source: IMDB and my own incomplete memory.

Three Items for My Time Capsule

2009-06-16T13:01:31-06:00

Forty years ago: 1969. Some well-meaning hippie might have scooped a handful of soil from the ground at Woodstock, a few spare marijuana leaves, and a hit of LSD into a time capsule. By 2009, and after a lengthy and futile War on Drugs, the objects would have all been instantly recognizable by today's youth (perhaps there would be a question or two about the acid). The intended significance, however, would probably be lost. Would the kids understand that the soil represented the individual's belief that his generation was moving closer to the earth, living naturally, and rejecting the mechanization of human life? Would they understand that the pot leaf was a declaration of peace, a denial of war-mongering governments? That the acid was a return to a spiritual existence that modernity had stifled?

Here are three items that I would put in a time capsule to be opened in forty years.

these partially burned pages
Edges of these notes and letters, photos,
singed
to remind people that flames took most of the past
and what survives is a gift.

The youth of the future will remember that love existed,
that it nearly ended,
and that it survived the destruction.

The youth of the future will realize that some things never change.

a brick, an empty journal, and a ballpoint pen
To remind the future generation that thinking does not require either being online or a monitor, software, or a keyboard.

black coffee
A well-brewed coffee, black and bitter, is all the human race has needed since the Age of Enlightenment. It is the drink of rationality, contributing to clarity of thought. Never trust a non-coffee drinker, even if you keep their enjoyable though temperamental company. Besides, with all the newfangled coffee creations, true coffee (and true espresso) are coming to an end. (I'm a hypocrite: In the summertime, I love the Starbucks venti nonfat, sugar-free 1-pump classic iced green tea latte. But that's ok. Anybody over the age of 17 is a hypocrite. The world is a paradoxical place.)

A great side at any barbecue!

2009-06-10T20:05:06-06:00

summer pasta salad

Cold pasta salad: a great addition to any grill out. Penne pasta, preferably whole wheat; feta cheese or buffalo mozzarella; cherry tomatoes; black olives; fresh basil; celery; olive oil; black pepper.

Perhaps pine nuts and spinach would be tasty, too.

Oh, and cilantro! The ultimate summer herb. Cilantro somehow manages to refresh even in the oppressive Florida summer heat.

The Idea of Iowa City, IA v. Iowa City Itself

2009-06-10T19:50:35-06:00

After graduating with a Bachelor's degree in English and Religion from the University of Florida, I applied to around nine universities for graduate school. Only a third of those accepted me, and only one offered to pay my tuition, give me a job as a teaching assistant, and pay me a stipend.

I thought the city, and the state, might be boring, but I was there for an education, and UI offered a good one. I had never been to Iowa, and my impression was of a flat land with corn fields and pigs. What I found was a vibrant community (which still had its fair share of corn and swine).

I moved to Iowa City in 2002 and lived there for two years. I went through a semester and a half before leaving school, eventually changing majors to education and beginning my teaching career. Despite the fact that I no longer had a reason to be in Iowa City, the city still had much to offer. It had a large community of writers and poets, as well as traveling art and music events, from the art fair alongside the Iowa River to Jazzfest. Downtown was designed for easy ambulation, and although there were not many great restaurants, a few Indian and Thai places did the trick.

Add another layer to this palimpsest: Defenestrate your old life, and eloign yourself to Gibraltar.

2009-06-04T15:59:04-06:00

eloign
Purloin means to take away, usually with a negative connotation like stealing. Eloign is an archaic word meaning either to take oneself away, or to take something or someone away in order to conceal them. Eloign sounds protective to me. And it sounds sensual. (Probably the homophonic loin in there.) I envision two lovers eloping, or one lover rescuing another from a terrible situation.

defenestration
When I first encountered this word, I knew enough French to see window in the root, enough about context clues, and enough about English affixes to put together a definition: the act of throwing something/someone out of a window. Still, I was shocked that a word so exact could exist! Now, instead of having to say the wordy, “I threw my mother’s painting of Elvis out of the window,” I can simply say, “I defenestrated my mother’s painting of Elvis.” Oh, the time saved!

palimpsest
A palimpsest is a document, canvas, or even a place which has been reused and now carries both the newest level and remnants, possibly unnoticeable to the naked senses. The easiest way to think about this is to imagine a poor painter. She cannot afford to buy a new canvas, so she takes an old painting about which she does not particularly care. She paints over this painting. Maybe the old paint alters the texture of the new work; maybe traces of the colors come through; maybe the old work’s influence was only in its inspiration during the process; or maybe the old is forever buried until some art historian comes around to investigate decades later. Similarly, places are built upon ruins. Places carry rich histories that make way for a city’s or country’s modern needs.

We make palimpsests of our lives. The past is never erased, but it is constantly being painted over.

Gibraltar
Gibraltar.

Adventure, Romance, Warfare, and Pathetic Fallacies Galore: Wolverine v. Tasmanian Devil

2009-06-03T16:54:43-06:00

Tasmanian devil v. Wolverine

Purloined from the Canadian wilderness by an ill-tempered Aussie with a thick scar running down his left cheek onto his neck, the wolverine was far from home. His owner did not appreciate either memento from Canada. Late one evening he took the wolverine out on Bass Strait in his yacht. He had intended to get to the deepest part of the strait and dump the entire cage and fell creature overboard. As he lifted the cage and set it on the railing, the wolverine hissed and clawed at its bars, unable to reach its captor. The odor from the cage made the Aussie gag, and he almost shoved it just to be rid of the malodorous beast. He paused, though, as a cruel smirk crept onto his corrupted countenance. The Aussie was an avid fisherman. The yacht was fully stocked with every type of angling equipment. Including a pole and line that just might be big enough to hold the weight of a certain ill-tempered weasel.

He brought the equipment to the deck and leaned it up near the cage. He slipped on his handler's gloves, thick enough to resist the furious claws and teeth of the wild creature. He had a hook the size of his petite ex-wife's hand, which, he thought, should nicely hook inside of its mouth. As the blood of the wolverine drained in the water, sharks might be attracted. Even if he did not have the strength to pull up a shark with the equipment he had, it would be well worth all the effort to watch this foul creature which had left its permanent mark on his face devoured by the sea and its denizens.

With hook ready and gloves on, he opened the cage. He reached for the wolverine's head, hoping to get a tight grip around its throat. From there he would squeeze its mouth open and shove the hook through the inside of its cheek. He never, however, was able to get a grip on the animal. It shrank from his bulky gloves, then darted under them. Instead of attacking the intruding object, it darted out of its prison and onto its captor's denim-clad leg. The Tommy jeans were no match for those razors. As a parting gift, the wolverine chomped down on his upper thigh. Using its upper molar which rotates 90 degrees, from vertical to horizontal, it tore a chunk of denim and flesh clean off the leg, leaving bone and blood. In terror, the Aussie kicked and finally grabbed the beast. Instinctively, to eliminate the immediate threat and horror of being eaten alive, he tossed the wolverine with all his might into the dark waters of the strait.

The wolverine hit the water with barely a splash, like an Olympic athlete. It sank quickly. Its legs, however, began kicking, and it managed to overcome the hysteria which flashed over it the second it realized it was in a strange dark substance. It was used to water, of course; but never before had it been submerged and surrounded like this. A moment ago it was in a fury, but somehow this simple weasel rose to the surface, pointed in one direction, and began to paddle.

It swam the rest of the night and most of the next day. Occasionally, it would rest and float, letting the current take it; but it would quickly return to paddling. An energy was concentrated in that small form which was mightier than the energy any larger creature could muster.

It calmly paddled all day until it found itself nearly overcome by the surf. The waves picked it up and toppled it, submerged and nearly drowned it, but always it fought on. Rather than claiming the Tasmanian beach with victory, the wolverine was washed ashore as a dead thing the ocean gave up. The tide deposited it, and it lay motionless except for the slightest sign of breath in the rise and fall of its small body.

Many hours passed before he could move himself out of the tide's reach and onto dry ground. His fur shed the water quickly, but the dampness still hung on his heart. A rustling came from somewhere behind him. He saw, with weary eyes, a mysterious creature which he had no way of knowing was called a wombat, since he had neither been to this hemisphere before nor could speak any language whatsoever. But it was small and meaty. He sprung and had his first taste of Tasmanian cuisine.

Over the next several days, the wolverine recovered his strength. During his convalescence, he ate wombats and even the native flora. On the fourth day, he came across a strange creature that lay in the underbrush. Here, down below, far from home, he came across his first devil. It barely moved, but occasionally whimpered. It searched the wolverine with one eye; the other eye was blinded by a tumor. The wolverine, sensing no threat, feasted on devil that fourth night.

By the fifth day, the kidnapped and then abandoned wolverine had settled into a new life on the island of Tasmania. It felt renewed. Here was a land where food was available. He could make a home here.

He went about the difficult task of building a home and making a routine. On the seventh day, however, he returned home to a disturbance. Something was burrowing in the very spot where he slept. It was smaller and darker. It moved with a ferocious energy. It looked similar to the dying beast he had seen days earlier. The wolverine approached stealthily, but not stealthily enough. The devil turned and faced him. They stared deep into each other's eyes. Then she lay in his bed; he joined her.

Though rarely seeing each other, the next several weeks were peaceful. The wolverine and the devil lived happily with occasional energetic meetings. They scratched and bit each other with claws and fangs that struck fear into every other animal in the woods. For them, though, it was pleasure. They both emitted a smell that would turn the stomach of any human walking by, but which they wrapped each other in like a blanket.

Then one day things changed. The wolverine, in the midst of their play, bit the devil on its hindquarters too aggressively. She lept aside and stood several feet off. She was bleeding. She snarled. The wolverine cowered. She fled.

A day later, as though by habit, she returned. When she saw her companion in his bed, she snarled. This time, the wolverine snarled back. This was his home. It was the last home he had left. He would not be exiled from it. He jumped out of his bed and stood. He had at least fifteen pounds on her. She did not flee, but circled around him, without lifting her eyes. Seen from above, the devil seemed to orbit the wolverine, circling and circling ever closer, as though pulled toward it by gravity.

She had circumambulated his fixed point nearly 270 degrees when the wolverine struck. Like the lightning bolt which has the thunder announce its explosive appearance but is still sudden and unexpected, the wolverine lunged at the devil. He struck her in the shoulder and they rolled together for a last time. Off balance from his own attack, the wolverine staggered back to his feet, while the devil dug her jaws deep into his rear leg. With the powerful bite that only a Tasmanian devil could deliver, it instantly crippled the wolverine. In these close quarters, however, crippling didn't much matter. He turned and caught her tail in his maw. He clenched his jaw and sharply turned his head, ripping the majority of her fat tail clear off. She released her hold on his leg, and jumped a few feet backwards in shock. Her mangled and mutilated tail behind her, she lunged back into the fray. She landed on the wolverine with jaws open, but he used his weight advantage to topple her. From above her, he sank his teeth deep into her throat. His predatory instincts turned his molar horizontal, and with a back and forth thrashing of the head, he ripped the final breath from his defeated foe.

He stood over her body. Blood dripped from his fur as easily as the strait's water. This carcass would not be a meal. This carcass would be a warning: Tasmania has a new devil.

Epiphanic Woo Hoo

2009-06-03T11:49:11-06:00

The last time I felt the impulse to verbally proclaim my joy (while not inebriated) was probably when I was offered my current teaching position the previous autumn. The next time will probably be this Friday, when high school goes on hiatus for the summer. Both the past and anticipated proclamations, however, were/will be heavily mixed with relief. Can relief really be said to be the same thing as joy?

Joy. Oh my. Relief has this relation to joy: it opens the heart to it. Once that which troubles your mind is removed, your mind is opened to the rest of life. (Of course, my mind's tendency is to eventually find something new to trouble it. Like JD, I am a worrier.) Despite this proclivity, I also have a knack for just the opposite. I find pleasure in all manner of mundane things. Sometimes they elicit an exhalation, a hushed woo hoo which escapes trembling lips. I once wrote a poem entitled "Epiphany 1," which had a few lines something like

Poetry writes itself,
not in the sky,
but amid the worms and seedlings and fruits beneath.

Bad poetry? Yes. But nonetheless true. And hold on, hold on . . . here's to finding joy in small things:

Epiphany 1

Bereft,
he bends towards
the Earth
and clasps at soil,
held damp in his smooth feminine hands.

An elemental gesture, this.

Poetry writes itself,
not in the sky,
but amid the worms and seedlings and fruits beneath.
There is more holiness in the banausic tragedies of daily living,
more hallowed atoms and grains in the composition of the longing, misguided stare,
than resides in the stared upon objects,
gods, saints, celebrities, & shadowy ideas (redundancy, that).

Better not to look up. But, if we must, look up while looking in.

The sacrosanct space simulates the absence sewn into our skin.

The black Florida soil, wet after an autumn’s evening rain, contrasts with the whiteness of dogwood petals sprinkled over it like so many reminders of this absence.

He holds that handful of dirt now, with
a single white petal
like a sacrament surrounded by soft black soil.

Closed eyes, knees dug soundly into the malleable earth,
he places the dogwood into his mouth, onto his tongue,
the mud mixing with saliva.

He cries,
and remembers the source of his flesh.

Woo hoo.

My Secret Talent: Madden

2009-05-31T12:56:44-06:00

What little I can do well, I am quick to show anybody who is available. (I am a modest show-off.) There is one thing, though, which I have not heretofore made a matter of common knowledge....

Alt Madden Cover

I played Madden 09 with the Lions and beat the Patriots on All-Madden (highest difficulty) with all AI sliders in the computer's favor. My kicker couldn't kick past 14 yards out, and even missed a couple of extra points, but I won 29-24. With AI sliders at neutral, I can win consistently by 30-40 point margins. If I actually play with a good team, I can get in striking distance to 100 points, but have never actually made 100 points (on the highest difficulty).

I don't regularly brag about this for obvious reasons. (I haven't played in nearly a year, I swear.)