tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6021410424439531702024-03-14T00:46:21.217-04:00FictioncentricAll Fiction. Most of the Time.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-38692688501074020172013-09-27T10:22:00.005-04:002013-09-27T10:24:21.101-04:00Last Summer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Lying in a hammock overlooking the Damariscotta River at 5:01 on a Saturday afternoon. Our daughter is at camp; my wife is resting in the bedroom of my parents house up the hill. There is a faint breeze soughing through the trees and the sound of water lapping at the rocks below. The faint rumble of an outboard engine as a teenager in an aluminum skiff motors toward the beach at Dodge Point. Scraps of voices, shouting, daring ... a splash followed by laughter.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There is a feeling that this could be the last summer. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So many reminders of the summers that have gone before ... the shrill whistle of an osprey wheeling above the scrim of black spruces ... the fern-tangled road from the Hunter farm through the woods down to the landing, where chunks of Caribbean coral lay scattered in the marine clay that had been fired in kilns along the river by barefooted men, hardening to become the spines and shoulders of buildings in Portland, Boston, New York .. the fragment of a 17th Century iron pot dug up in my parent's side yard...</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A pale grey cloud spreads toward the sun, but there are slashes of brilliant light in the west. They will come; when we need them, they will come.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-41123748779589711362013-09-08T13:35:00.002-04:002013-09-27T09:59:22.141-04:00The Commerce of Spirituality<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Ojai, California is a place where people, residents and visitors alike are desperate for enlightenment. Flip through the local phone directory or the classified ads at the back of the high-end, regional magazines, whose titles tend to include the words <i>living, style</i> or simply a Zip Code, and you will find an abundance of "caring," "loving," "gentle" practitioners, spirit guides and mediums who will read your aura, tweak your chakras, boost your <i>qi, </i>and even patch in Jesus in for a phone consultation, all credit cards accepted. This amalgam of the spiritual and the commercial would be cause for ridicule in the East, and elicit downright scorn in New England. But here in the Golden West, it is simply part of the "lifestyle," like cucumber water, Bikram yoga and PABA-free sunscreen.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-12343828913859094252013-08-31T12:43:00.002-04:002013-08-31T12:44:23.630-04:00Halloween in Ojai<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A conspiracy of ravens gathers in the trees above the lap pool of the spa, preening their glossy plumage and cocking their heads at the silent passage of the golf carts on the other side of the white-washed stucco wall. Their calls and snapping bills are an affront in this sanctuary where cell phones are prohibited. Several of the birds dare to swoop down to the poolside tables, snatching up remnants of organic fruit and gluten-free crackers. The boldest of them alights on the back of a lounge chair, eyeing the diamond tennis bracelet of the woman who lies motionless with slices of cucumber on her eyes. It is the first day of spring, but the atmosphere feels distinctly autumnal. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-65747888836513668532012-10-27T09:23:00.001-04:002012-10-27T09:24:21.480-04:00Studies in Eccentricity #3<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
She favors cheap ball-point pens that leave explosions of ink and battalions of wounded words.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-80225410033469157502012-10-03T09:11:00.001-04:002012-10-03T09:38:01.692-04:00Observations from the 8:02 to Grand Central<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
The man's hair looked as if it had been cut with a Bowie knife by a firebrand abolitionist.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-37257363809941921592012-09-28T20:59:00.001-04:002012-10-01T14:42:19.573-04:00The Perfect Sermon?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
As the morning traffic streams past, the bearded man in the torn flannel shirt stands at the edge of the traffic island at Park Avenue and 46th Street, howling "Suck on your Bible!"</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-82481329468140298962012-09-14T13:53:00.005-04:002012-09-14T13:54:41.831-04:00Today's Forecast<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<b><br /></b></div>
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Today's forecast: Patchy fog.</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-53649125160898961242012-09-01T10:49:00.001-04:002012-09-01T10:50:07.571-04:00Studies in Eccentricity #2<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
He wondered why the name of every U.S. mattress manufacturer began with the letter "s".<br />
<br />
Sealy.<br />
<br />
Serta.<br />
<br />
Simmons.<br />
<br />
The thought brought to mind dark alliances and blood pacts, secret handshakes and knowing winks, all part of some League of Morpheus.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-35154021548502736352012-08-26T08:44:00.001-04:002012-08-26T08:45:39.716-04:00Studies in Eccentricity #1<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
At Brooks Brothers, he witnessed a man ordering a pair of trousers with custom belt loops made from wire coat hangers.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-66518235078700592232012-08-22T21:51:00.002-04:002012-09-30T09:02:37.442-04:00Shock and Awe!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Between answering phone calls from irate customers <i>(The Demon Slayer Bowie Knife looks different from the one on TV!)</i>, he dreamed of a job that would allow his true aspiration to take root and flourish: naming military operations. Nothing would have given him greater satisfaction than seeing one of his names on a vast wall map in the Pentagon, bristling with colored pins. In fact, he had once sent three single-spaced pages of possibilities to the Secretary of Defense, noting his favorites with a green highlighter.<br />
<br />
Operation Joy Buzzer.<br />
<br />
Operation Green Apple Two-Step.<br />
<br />
Operation Bingo Night.<br />
<br />
Operation Black Eye.<br />
<br />
Operation Candy Land.<br />
<br />
Operation Sucker Punch.<br />
<br />
Operation Crossbones.<br />
<br />
Operation Hoodwink.<br />
<br />
Operation Question Mark.<br />
<br />
Operation Copperhead.<br />
<br />
Operation Rawhide.<br />
<br />
Operation Hell's Belles.<br />
<br />
Operation Rope-A-Dope.<br />
<br />
To his profound disappointment, the Secretary hadn't taken him up on his offer "to shoot the breeze over a couple of beers." No wonder the country was mired in protracted wars in distant lands. The nation's armed forces needed something to rally around, a mouthful of fireworks to inspire heroics. Instead, they listened to pulsing lyrics about <i>gangstas</i> and <i>homies,</i> while the enemy thought up new ways to dismember them. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-80396438757180725202012-08-21T22:06:00.001-04:002012-08-21T22:06:56.958-04:00Portrait of a Dealer<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
He was an antique dealer given to a kind of hyper-anglo dress. His tweeds were somehow tweedier, his club ties a little clubbier. His horn-rimmed glasses were as oversized as his tan brogues were undersized, giving him the appearance of a frightfully intelligent child.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-77031499792979662802012-08-21T21:56:00.000-04:002012-08-21T21:56:45.345-04:00Bird, Watching<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A homeless man is seated at the corner of Park Avenue and 50th Street. Among the bags and grocery carts surrounding him is a paper bag from McDonald's with the alert, irridescent head of a pigeon peering from its twisted opening.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-44921997857754804882012-08-21T18:16:00.002-04:002012-08-22T14:29:02.826-04:00Book Ideas I've Had That I'll Probably Never Write<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A novel about coffee. </div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-71383715171417594862012-08-19T13:01:00.001-04:002012-08-19T13:02:36.723-04:00Creature Comforts<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
A woman approaches a car idling at the intersection of Columbus Avenue and 66th Street. She is holding a sign that says <b>Full-blown AIDS, please help.</b> She wears a dirty nylon parka and carries a backpack over one shoulder. In a mesh side pocket of the pack is a brown, rabbit-shaped Nestlé's Quik bottle.</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-86743357886455389702012-07-29T08:38:00.003-04:002012-07-30T19:13:59.338-04:00Travis Bickle Was Not A Fiction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<i><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">From the Irony Department:</span></span></b></i></div>
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The most combative New York cabbie<br />
I ever met was listening to Brahms.</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><b><i><br /></i></b></span></div>
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-49273347963729495432012-07-28T10:31:00.004-04:002012-07-30T19:13:19.547-04:00Urban Archaeology<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Objects I've seen embedded in the surface of Manhattan streets:<br />
<br />
<ol style="text-align: left;">
<li>Coins</li>
<li>Combs</li>
<li>Audio cassette tapes</li>
<li>Subway tokens</li>
<li>Nuts and bolts</li>
<li>Cutlery</li>
<li>A pair of black eyeglass frames</li>
</ol>
<br />
<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-90262830948623199572012-07-27T20:20:00.004-04:002012-07-27T21:08:53.640-04:00Words to Write By<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Creativity can be described as letting go of certainties.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">—Gail Sheehy</span></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-77314743785407798072012-07-26T21:18:00.001-04:002012-07-27T21:08:30.031-04:00Advice from a Master<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 19px;"></span><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Read. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">If you do not read, you will never be a filmmaker. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Those who watch television or are too much on the internet, they lose the world.</span></div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', HelveticaNeue, Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 19px;"></span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">—Werner Herzog</span></div>
</div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-36763693080913411082012-06-03T12:02:00.002-04:002012-06-03T12:17:49.808-04:00Haiku for a bonsai Japanese Juniper<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3lDHY2UE6Qw/T8uNUHI5fRI/AAAAAAAAAC8/dWYKwhZ0QHc/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="229" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3lDHY2UE6Qw/T8uNUHI5fRI/AAAAAAAAAC8/dWYKwhZ0QHc/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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rising sun people</div>
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keepers of a stunted art</div>
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tiny trees are pets</div>
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</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-47039181979415908082012-04-16T17:43:00.001-04:002012-04-20T11:27:18.822-04:00Haiku for a Favorite Object<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EdmoIwE3mX4/T4yNcx62zPI/AAAAAAAAACw/3QyNkWpLo5Q/s1600/photo.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="297" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EdmoIwE3mX4/T4yNcx62zPI/AAAAAAAAACw/3QyNkWpLo5Q/s320/photo.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>An 18th Century candle box</b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Yesterday, my nine-year-old daughter invited my wife and me to write poetry together in the family room. The simple act of creation (and the sound of pens scratching on paper) versus consumption was a revelation to all of us. As we completed our poems, we recited them for each other.<br />
<br />
Among the handful of poems I completed was a haiku inspired by a favorite object in our humble collection of 18th Century antiques (shown at right): a candle box with a sliding lid that can be opened to reveal the tallow-crusted interior, which is redolent of rendered animal fat and conjures thoughts of a simpler time, when a crackling hearth (not a pixel-pulsing screen) was the heart of the home. For me, it smells of history.<br />
<br />
Here's the haiku...<br />
<br />
<b>The carved candle box</b><br />
<b>contains a bitter lesson</b><br />
<b>history is smoke</b><br />
<b><br /></b><br />
<b><br /></b></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-60839448319592788312012-02-11T15:18:00.001-05:002012-05-02T11:04:02.092-04:00Duck Blind<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"></span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Some
men collect stamps. Others wear engineer’s caps and conduct model trains around
knots of plastic track or slog up and down Civil War battlefields waving metal
detectors.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
Munson carves decoys—ducks mostly. Surprisingly, he has no particular fondness
for ducks or, in fact for birds of any kind. There are no owl bookends to be
found in the Munson home; no Audubon placemats are ever brought out for the
Munson’s dinner guests; and Ed himself is never seen wearing mallard print
trousers on Saturday morning trips to the hardware store or post office.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Despite
their tranquil appearance, Ed has long believed ducks to be a menace to public
health, flocking as they do in parks where young children are apt to play and
littering the ground with their feathers and droppings. They are oily creatures
besides.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Still,
ducks have done a lot for Ed. Ducks have won him a raft of blue ribbons. Ducks
have gotten his flattened grin into the local papers on two occasions. Ducks
have brought him peace of mind.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> For
Ed, there is nothing like burning in the feather splits on a saucy bufflehead
hen or tooling the putty eyelids on a canvasback drake to take him from away
from the homeowner premiums and collision claims that are his livelihood.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
sells insurance at a modest, but by no means unprofitable, agency in town. It
is a dull business, all fine print and numbered clauses, but it has enabled him
to meet the kind of men who can pull into the Lion’s Club or cut him a deal on
a loaded Pontiac. And he is close—not more than half a dozen universal life
policies from making vice president. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Still,
it’s not enough.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> For
the past nine weeks, Ed has been preparing for the Floating Decorative
Life-size Waterfowl Pairs Division of the Bailey World Championship. The Bailey
is the toughest event on the decoy circuit—the Big Pond—and the judging has a
severe simplicity. The merits of each entry are weighed on technical
craftsmanship, anatomical accuracy, and the carver’s ability to capture the
essence of the species, which for this year’s competition is the hooded
merganser.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> What’s
more, the hen and drake are to be scrutinized as they bob in the gin-clear
waters of the floating tank, a rectangular tub roughly the size of a backyard
kiddie pool. It’s serious stuff.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
has entered the Bailey three years in a row, placing higher each time; he
squeaked out a second place ribbon for a plump brace of ruddy ducks his last time
out. This time will be different, he tells himself. This year, he’ll be
prepared.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Night
after night, he helps his wife Bea with the dishes, then says <i>I’ll be in the
basement for a minute or two </i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">or
<i>Think I’ll do a little sanding</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">.
He’s gone for hours.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Bea
Munson was cheered at first when her husband began to turn down fishing trip
invitations and drop Friday night poker games to tinker with his benign new
hobby. After all, he is home all the time now and engaged in a Boy Scoutish
pastime to boot.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Lately,
though, she has caught herself locking her teeth in simmering agitation as she
faces the television with dull eyes and listens to Ed’s power tools screeching
beneath her slippered feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
claps the sawdust from his hands and turns the drake so that it faces its mate
in the bluish-white puddle of light cast by the fluorescent work lamp.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> He
swivels the hen toward him, then studies it in profile, his eyes moving from
the narrow serrated bill to the elegant crest at the back of the head, then
over and down the gentle slope of the scapular and tertial feathers all the way
to the tail.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> He
smirks, touch a dusty finger to his chin. This one has the jizz, all right—the
shot of magic it will take to put the Bailey’s $20,000 Grand Prize check into
his callused hand. Just wood-burn the feathers on her, and every judge will
swear she’s breathing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
drake is another matter altogether. The proportions of the body are fine.
Shoot, they’re better than anything he’s done before. And the knife-like bill
and turn of the head are right on the money.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> It’s
the neck, or more specifically, a know in the neck that’s the problem. It was
lurking there just below the surface, like a tumor, when Ed ran into it while
using a chunky carbide bit to hog
the basswood down to a manageable size. Damned if the power-carver hadn’t come
close to seizing up on him, its neoprene rubber sleeve turning soft as taffy
from the heat. Ed rubs the knot with his thumb, then taps it with his
fingernail. If he’d hit it just a week earlier, he could have knocked out a new
head for the drake from clear-grained stock. Now, with the competition only
nine days away, he has no more than 40 hours to texture both birds with diamond
drill bits and dental sanding discs, add all the feather detail with a wood-burning
pen, and apply seven washes of acrylic paint. <i>The labors of Hercules,</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> he thinks, killing the work lamp for the
night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Sitting
behind the wheel of his Pontiac, Ed waits for Bea to return to the house for
something she’d forgotten in her rush to get out the door.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> She
comes back with magazines and two packs of chewing gum. <br />
“Okay, now we can go to your little bathtub contest,” she says, a teasing smile
curling on her lips.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “There’s
prize money waiting,” Ed says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> He
eases the car down the driveway, then noses it toward the interstate,
determined not to go over 50.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
trip takes six hours. It is roughly 300 miles, most of it through low country
with an abundance of yard sales and chicken processing plants. Along the way,
Ed pulls over at a roadside stand whose signs Bea has been reading aloud to
amuse herself. <i>Cukes 3 miles, </i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">says
one. <i>Bottomless ice T</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">,
says another. The last one announces <i>Breeze-By Farm </i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">in drippy, painted letters.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
slows the Pontiac, steering around the chuckholes toward the little stand.
Watching Bea get out of the car, he tells himself that he’ll buy her anything
she wants, even if it goes bad in the new car. He’s going to treat her like a
lady this weekend. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Lady
Luck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
farm stand is little more than a garage set back in a tangle of poison ivy, its
shelves stacked with tubs of twisted vegetables, floppy petunias and a lonely
row of bear-shaped honey jars.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> A
man with full sideburns and a cigar in a white plastic holder comes out of a
bathroom behind a pile of empty strawberry crates.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “Hep
you folks?” The man removes the cigar from his teeth when he speaks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Bea
asks him about the three varieties of potatoes for sale.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “Some’s
new, some’s russet and somes used. That’s a joke.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “I
know.” Bea’s eyes are little-girl bright.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> She
pokes around in a bin of tattered corn, while the man turns down the dial on a
transistor radio taped to the cash register. A woman’s voice welcomes listeners
to the Sunshine Hour, then begins reading from the Book of Habukkuk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
faces the highway, jingling the change in his pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “Know
an’thing ‘bout nat’ral phenomena?” The man is speaking to him. <i>“I</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> know ‘bout nat’ral phenomena.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
turns to look at him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “See
there’s a reason for ever’thing. A reason and a purpose. That’s why you’re
tinklin’ them coins. Bet you know somethin’ in your bones.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
pulls his hands from his pockets and asks Bea if she’s ready yet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
man goes on. “Most folks don’t wanna know what’s gonna happen. Like lambs to
the slaughter. Shame when there’s signs ever’where. Plain as a roadmap.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Bea
carries three jars of quince jelly and an RC Cola to the cash register. <br />
“I’ll take these.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “Okey-doke.”
The man rings up the sale, says “Two makes ten,” and hands Bea the change. He
picks his cigar off the register, looking over its smoldering end at Ed. “You
can read a roadmap, can’t you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> They
check into the Sea Foam Motel just after dinner. The place is nicer than the
name would suggest. There are cellophane-wrapped plastic cups in the bathroom
and a soda machine whose hum can be heard through the wall, but there is also a
tiny balcony with a partial view of the beach; it is there that Ed hopes to
serve breakfast to Bea in the orange glow of daybreak.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
pushes the double beds together while Bea is in the bathroom. It seems to him
that she is brush her teeth longer than usual—a good sign. He strips away the
green bedspreads and turns bath both sets of sheets, whistling faintly. He
walks to the window, listening as Bea rinses and spits into the sink before
pulling the blinds open to get a look at the Pontiac in the parking lot, three
stories below. It’s still there, angled by the swimming pool in a purplish
blotch of light. The car looks safe enough, but then they always do. Some of
those hot-wire artists could be out racking up mileage on your radials while
you were still waiting for the motel elevator. He’ll definitely have to get the
pair of carved mergansers out of the trunk.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “All
yours,” Bea says, suddenly behind him. Her hair is loose, and she’s tightly
wrapped in the pink bathroom he got her for Valentine’s Day. The one two years
ago.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
tries to make eye contact as he passes her, but she’s looking hard at the beds.
He keeps his smile all the way to the bathroom, where he gargles with mouthwash
and runs a soapy washcloth under his arms, thinking all the while about Lady
Luck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
lights are off when he comes out in his boxer shorts with his gut sucked in.
another good sign. He whistles a show tune, from what show he’s not sure. He
puts out both hands and feels his way across the room. That’s the chair…and
that’s the dresser…and that’s the television…and that’s that.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Bea
has moved the beds apart in his absence.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> He
spends the night with the boxed mergansers roosting at his feet.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
rises before dawn, dressing quietly before going down to the car. He wants to
get another look at the competition entry forms in his briefcase. He’s heard of
men blowing a year’s work by missing the official check-in time.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Three
ducks splash down in the motel swimming pool while he riffles through the
paperwork. Mallards. Two hens and a drake. He’s never seen such a thing,
thought it’s obviously a possibility—a swimming pool being a body of water and
ducks being waterfowl. Still, it’s curious. Is this the kind of sign spoke of
by the man at the farm stand? Ed tries to spot some clue in the drake’s
iridescent plumage. He strains to hear some message in the hens’ scolding
quacks. He even takes a stab at reading the four feathers left on the surface
of the pool like tea leaves. There isn’t time to seek an answer. Check-in for
the Pairs Division is in less than an hour.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
marches toward the convention hall with a bird packed under each arm. Bea
trails behind him, humming something he’s heard recently. It’s the show tune he
whistled last night. When he turns to give her a look, she squints back at him,
popping a pink cube of bubble gum into her mouth. Glancing at the Bailey banner
flapping above the entrance, he feels none of the nausea he’s had before his
previous two showings.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> He
smiles and jokes his way through the formalities of the check-in process, even
letting Bea pat the birds on the rump for good luck before handing them over to
a man in a camouflage Ducks Unlimited cap.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “Got
the heft of winners,” the man says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
nods. This is the hard part, turning your babies over to some stranger in a
funny hat.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> He
finds Bea sitting in the stands, talking to two short-haired women, probably
wives of men who have entered the competition. She winks at him, then waves him
off, her jaws working steadily on the gum.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> There
is still plenty of time before the Pairs judging, so Ed wanders among the
vendor booths in the hallway off the main floor. Some of the biggest names in
carving are there—Bud McCloy, W.W.. Krebs, Tiny Milfoil—all of them hawking
their how-to books and aviary videotapes and patented tools right next to local
merchants trying to unload <i>duck burgers</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> and <i>feather fries</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">. Anything for a buck.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
buys a sterling silver pendant of a lesser scaup from a skinny girl who has
driven all night from Piggott, Arkansas. He tucks it into his pocket, planning
to surprise Bea with it later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> He
runs into Zeke Dawkins by a display table crowded with novice and intermediate
songbird entries. “Pretty little things,” he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “Sure,
if you like working with tweezers all ding-dong day. You in the pairs, Munson?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “What
do you think?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “Figured.
You did the hen with the heads-up pose?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “Could
be.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “She
looks good. But that drake—can’t put my finger on what’s wrong with that fella.
Guess that’s what the judges are for.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “Always
a pleasure, Zeke.” <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
checks his watch and cuts back toward the stands. Bea is still with the women,
still gabbing. Those gals can sure go on. He catches Bea’s eye, gesturing that
he’s going to stay on the floor. Not that she’ll care.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> He
has just staked out a spot with a clear view of the floating tanks when someone
taps him on the shoulder. It’s Jimmy LeBecque, the Carvin’ Cajun, a champion
several times over and one of the field’s elder statesmen, known for his way
with marsh ducks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “You
feel good ‘bout dis one, you?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “Sure,”
Ed says. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> LeBecque
looks keyed up as they watch the tournament’s volunteer staff begin to wheel
the decoys in on dollies. <i>“Bonne chance,”</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> he says.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> “You,
too.” Ed puts out his hand, but the Louisiana Legend has moved off to watch the
event with his bayou buddies, men who seem to go in for elaborate facial hair
and matching belt-and-boot ensembles. He would have liked to ask LeBecque what
he thought of the drake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
decoys are now being gingerly doled out to the head judge like slices of cake.
So that’s the man, Ed thinks: a bald guy with tinted glasses and a towel slung
around his neck. He looks like a boxing trainer, the kind of man who’d give you
a pep talk while you spat blood into a bucket, your eyes tight as the slot in a
piggy bank. Ed overhears someone say that the judge is a tenured professor of
ornithology at a small women’s college in Massachusetts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> He
watches the professor carry the ducks two-by-two to the floating tank, then
plunk them upside down into the water. This is the first and most rudimentary
test, a sort of baptismal rite in which the decoys are required to right
themselves from any position.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Of
the 18 birds in the tank, only two loll on their sides, dead in the water. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
feels a vague prickling up the back of his neck as the birds and their mates
are removed from the tub; his dread flickers into satisfaction when he hears
Zeke Dawkins curse out loud.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
professor marches twelve paces away from the tank, then wheels around sharply.
He motions for one of the assistants to move the birds, arranging them in some
pattern known only to himself. He squats low on his haunches, takes off his
glasses, cleans them while he blinks at the stands, then replaces them with a
shove of his thumb. He orders six more decoys out of the little pool as coolly
as a lifeguard. The survivors now total twelve. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
panics for a moment, sweat beading above his lip until he spots his birds—first
the hen, then the drake—bobbing in the middle of the little flock.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
professor hikes up his pants and makes another run at the tank, dismissing four
more decoys.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> A
sharp crack breaks the hush of the auditorium. Ed see Jimmy LeBecque turn away
from the tank, the broken halves of a ballpoint pen in his hand.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> But
the professor hasn’t heard a thing. His bare arms are wet to the elbows now as
he handles the birds himself—lifting this one, turning that one, nudging the
rejects into a corner. They don’t stay there long.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Three
pairs remain in the pool. A one-in-three shot, Ed thinks. Your basic shell
game. He tries to get Bea’s attention up there in the stands. She is smiling at
something one of the women has said, just grinning and chewing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Suddenly
the professor picks up a hen—Ed’s hen—to study the delicate transitional
feathers between the neck and side pockets; the bird is sent to the front. Go
to the head of the class. The professor fishes another hen from the tank,
frowning at the bill detail. He is vetting the females all at once. Ladies
first. The second hen is quickly banished to the corner; the third is pushed up
next to Ed’s. seeing them side-by-side like that, his hen nodding like a queen,
Ed imagines fingering the $20,000 Grand Prize; in his mind, it’s as crisp as
Melba Toast.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
first drake picked up by the professor is a preener, carved with its bill
nuzzling its primary feathers. It’s a mistake, Ed thinks, tricking out a drake
that way. Too damned precious. A male duck is supposed to look like…like a real
drake’s drake.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
professor seems to agree, dismissing the prissy bird with a snap of his
handkerchief before blowing his nose.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
is one duck closer; he’s doing better than he ever would have guessed during
all those nights spent hunched over rough blocks of wood—linden, jeleutong,
tupelo gum—with his fingers bleeding from 200-grit sandpaper and curls of wood
putty caked under his nails. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
remaining two drakes are placed wing-to-wing in the tank. Of the two, Ed things
his bird has the edge; it rides slightly higher in the water, its bill cocked
upwards with a bit more authority. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
processor looks hard at both decoys, his lips moving slightly. What the hell is
he up to now? Arguing with himself? Cursing? Saying a prayer?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
makes it as far as the daily bread portion of the Lord’s Prayer, before the
professor scoops up his rival’s decoy. The man gives the bird a real
going-over, peering into each seven millimeter glass eye, tweaking the slender
bill, running a scholarly finger along the crest of the head. He sets the drake
bobbing in the center of the tank, no hint of approval or scorn on his face.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
knows his fate rests in the hands of others now—both God’s and the professor’s;
he would like to believe that he has at least some pull with one of them at
least. He takes up the Lord’s Prayer where he left off, tearing right through
to the end.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
professor handles Ed’s drake like it’s a bust unearthed from Pompeii or the
latest installment of the Dead Sea Scrolls. He’s all fingertips and slow motion
as his eyes strobe behind the tinted glasses.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> Ed
hears the ebb and flow of blood in his temples; it sounds like a passing
rainstorm. He bounces up on his toes when he hears the professor clear his
throat, as if about to make an announcement. None comes. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
professor is now surveying the right—and, in Ed’s view, wrong—side of the
drake’s neck. He has the pinched, active nostrils of someone who can sniff out
a not hidden under seven washes of burnt umber acrylic paint like a hog rooting
for truffles. A moment later, he nods slightly, attending to some internal
checklist before focusing his attention on the duck’s rump. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> A
smile plays over Ed’s face. He’s home free. He’ll hear his name echo choppily
over the PA system, have his back pounded by well-wishers, blink at flashbulbs,
read his name in <i>Wildlife Today</i></span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">.
And the prize money? He’ll have to think about that. Maybe put it toward a used
RV—a Konestoga he can customize with a salt marsh scene, a ragged V of black
ducks silhouetted against an orange sunset.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
professor taps a microphone and speaks, his voice fading in and out.
“Attention…bear with me…sound trouble…we have…a winner…default…”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> The
winning drake is snatched up by the scholarly fingers, raised above the balding
head. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> It’s
not Ed’s bird.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> When
the crowd thins out, Ed stands at the corner of the floating tank, his drake
nesting in his palm. His eyes trace the familiar lines: the proud breast, the
tucked wings, the jaunty crest, the sassy tail. There on one side of the rump,
pink as a wound, is a wad of gum. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';">Bea waves a pinkie at him from the stands, then blows an enormous bubble. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman';"> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-40568228093624845832012-01-02T12:29:00.000-05:002012-01-03T18:05:30.493-05:00Ramshackle<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>I wrote the following poem over 30 years ago. It was inspired by an Andrew Wyeth painting titled "Tenant Farmer," which depicts a farmhouse in Chadd's Ford, Pennsylvania. The muted colors and stark landscape in the painting capture perfectly the light and chill of an autumn afternoon during hunting season. As is the case with so much of Wyeth's work, the details of the house are suggestive of the lives within.</i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
A stark willow displays its gem,</div>
<div>
a stiff deer hanging</div>
<div>
like some machined gadget in a drafter's kit.</div>
<div>
Or like the house,</div>
<div>
indifferent.</div>
<div>
The house, smoky-bricked and shattered,</div>
<div>
straining to remain complete.</div>
<div>
A dwelling jigsaw-puzzled.</div>
<div>
Windows seek each other in crazed masonry,</div>
<div>
but one, uppermost, yawns open</div>
<div>
to inhale the storm's grey cold.</div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-76065733586894227892011-11-19T16:32:00.001-05:002011-11-19T17:00:54.256-05:00Embellishment<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>Here is another story from long ago (30+ years). I recall being energized by the range of authors I was reading, beyond those assigned in English class. Barth, Barthelme, Pynchon--these were my heroes at the time. Now, years later, I still get a tremendous kick from their work.</i><br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Frank looked up at the red plastic sword stuck through the olive on his plate. it was a green olive, and it was stuffed with pimento. he did not like green olives. he did not like green olives stuffed with pimento, either. He was rather fond of black olives, though.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Goodbye, he said," he said to the cashier, as he paid the bill. It was from something he had read.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
When he arrived at his apartment, it was dark. Frank took off his jacket and went into the kitchen. He was quite hungry. On the way to the refrigerator, he tripped on something. Switching on the headlights, he saw that it was one of Mrs. Fitzpatrick's shoes. He had forgotten to repair them, and she was supposed to recharge them that night.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Damn it, son, what's gotten into you?" asked the chunk of Camembert on the table.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Shut up, you!" Frank said, as he pinned the bit of cheese to the table with a steak knife. The Camembert screamed. Justifiably.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Frank went to Mrs. Fitzpatrick's apartment. It is on another floor, Frank thought, as he stood at the door with her shoes. He rang the doorbell, and she answered.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Here are your shoes. I am sorry I did not fix them."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Never mind," she said. "I picked up some enamel on the way home so I could fix them myself."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Ah!" noted Frank, realizing her intelligence. "It seems to transcend granite," he added.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Verily," she replied. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The door shut.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Frank walked back to his apartment. He decided to take the elevator. He pressed a white button. It lit up. There was a plastic palm tree in a yellow vase beside the elevator. There was dust on the artificial plant. The elevator answered. Frank said nothing. Justifiably. What was there to say?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Frank went into his apartment and turned on the fog-lights, in addition to the standard headlights.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
What was that? Frank listened intensely. It was the water-floss in the bathroom, chattering away to itself. Frank resolved to put a quick stop to it. This he did quite effectively by tying a knot in the rubber hose running from its base to the transparent tube at its tip. It had been determined to put up a fight, writhing about. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In agony, no less. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Frank knew it was finished when the the rubber hose burst.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He went into the living room and decided to think on the sofa. He thought (about it) and slept.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
On the lawn, the ceramic donkey brayed loudly, while the sea horse with pink scales swam convincingly about the blue-mirrored ball on its concrete stand. Don Pedro's sombrero was peeling, but no matter. There was much work to be done. Tractor tires could always be painted white and buried (halfway) on either side of the mailbox. There was always room for another weathervane. (Perhaps the one at Henning's Garden City...Yes, that one...No, no, no, not that one...Not the one with the carved sailor harpooning Moby Dick, either...the one with the little milkmaid in the yellow frock and the cow...It's quite a handsome cow, actually...Tan and white...It would add a kind of domestic dignity, don't you think?...Yes...Yes...Yes?...Yes, it does portray the clean way of life...Universal husbandry!...I know that...Tomorrow...Tomorrow, I'll take Santa's rocket ship off the roof...Because the wiring's tricky!...Whatever happened to those space helmets we had for the reindeer?...What?...Just tell her that if her pooch tries to rust our cast-iron geese again, I'll have it stuffed...I know they're close to the property line...Because that's where I want them...They look fine there...I don't feel like explaining it any further...I just want them there, so it looks as thought they're thirsty and going for a drink, which not only explains the goldfish pond, but that Rumplestiltskin with the watering can...Rumplestiltskin certainly did have a white beard!...The hell he did!...I'm leaving!...You've got another thing coming if you think all elves wore cute little slippers with bells at the toes!</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Click goes a tape recorder (somewhere).</div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-50802998720057849672011-11-12T14:14:00.001-05:002011-11-12T14:35:57.701-05:00Shots<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<i>I wrote the following story many years ago. 33 years ago, in fact. I was in high school and had discovered the metafiction pastiches of Donald Barthelme. I can see his influence—and Beckett's—in this particular piece, but I like to think there is something of the off-center slant that continues in my current work. </i><div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"For Godsakes, grow up, Wulfhund."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Easier said than done. Easier to articulate than activate."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
They argue as to whether Hitler had charisma or not."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"He could gesticulate. But arbitrate? I think not."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Some can, some can't. Some will, some won't."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Some do, some don't?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"---- ---."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"And what do we do? Who are we?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Who aren't we?" replied Wulfhund, marking the trousers with quick, deft strokes of the tailor's chalk. "We don't make money, and we don't spit teeth."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Wulfhund and Jeremy have acquired a reputation and all of its trappings: identity crises, misplaced change, dust.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Sometimes they rifle through cigarette machines, seeking slug coins. They no longer mark trousers, adjust hems; instead, they drive on the turnpike in Jeremy's Rambler, trying to "...consolidate..." things.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Themselves. They stay in Holiday Inns, thinking about who they aren't, about owning a hunting lodge on Baffin Island. A place where they "...could hunt polar bears with machine-guns..."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Now they watch television at a Quality Motor Inn. But, as Wulfhund has seen <i>Death of a Salesman</i>, they know that "...failure's waitin' 'round the bend..."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"But what will we fail at?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"What won't we fail at?"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Pessimist!"</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
" ; , , ."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The television is still on and the sink and bathtub have overflowed and are running onto the orange-and-ochre shag rug and</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Wulfhund brushes lint from his beret on a PanAm flight to Dublin.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Taking pictures in profusion. Kodak Brownie, dated Leica, assorted lenses.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Shot of cobblestones. Shot of cat. Shot of newspaper vendor. Shot of newspaper. Shot of newspaper against sky. Shot of Jeremy gesticulating obscenely.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Wulfhund and Jeremy bum a lift to Londonderry. Purpose: "...to take artsie shots..." This they do without hesitation.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Shot of rusting Mini Morris. Shot of shoe reflected in hubcap. Cheap shot of Jeremy sprawled on street, doused with ketchup. Shot of doorstep.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
They seek bombings, wishing "...to portray the guts and steel..."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Jeremy books them a room in the Hotel Viscount.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
The television is on, and Jeremy puts an edge on his scimitar; Wulfhund mounts a flashlight on his .22 with black electrician's tape. An <i>I Love Lucy</i> rerun comes on the television, and they look at the set and then at each other.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Jeremy: Do you remember the time little Ricky played the drums and sang "Babaloo"?</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Wulfhund: No.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-602141042443953170.post-15054864567881312772011-10-02T16:31:00.002-04:002011-10-02T16:41:12.929-04:00Homogenized Blogging: Why Google Scribe scares me<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
While updating this blog earlier, I noticed a promotion announcing the launch of Google Scribe. The announcement asked "Do you ever find yourself writing slowly, staring at a blinking cursor or looking for words to express yourself?"<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Well, yes. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
For most of us, that's what writing is all about--the careful selection of words and the thoughtful assembly of those words into sentences, paragraphs, whole narratives. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Apparently the folks at Google Labs believe such endeavors to be a problem worthy of a solution. So Google Scribe promises to offer text suggestions and an auto-complete feature--all to help us write "more efficiently."</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I don't know about you, but when I'm writing, I'm striving for eloquence, rather than efficiency. My goal is to say things in a way that could only come from me--not a lab. I'll go out on a limb and posit that hearing the voice of the individual is the reason that I--or any of us--read and follow blogs in the first place.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
If every blogger were to embrace Google Scribe, we might as well simply create one <i>über</i>-blog and take turns posting. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Who wants to go first?</div>
</div>
Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11767171840288803866noreply@blogger.com1