Artists Among Us

I remember once, a long time ago, my youngest uncle (still in college or maybe even high school at the time) speculated that his perfect job would be to work as a hired observer. What you would do is follow one of these high-powered, too-busy-to-notice-life executive types around throughout their day, and at the end of the day report to them the little things they didn't notice: the sparrow building a nest in the big letter "A" of a merchandise store; or the little child walking down the street holding its mother's hand, a three-scoop ice cream cone leaning precariously toward disaster; or the missing button on a secretary's jacket; or the reflection of a crowd in the window of an idling taxi.

This occupation does exist, but it doesn't pay well.

Quick Look

I forgot it could be blue up there,
that when clouds
move aside, even in winter
it's electric blue.

Those crows
still holstered in the trees
now appear
conspicuous black
instead of blending like shadows.

The dosed year
shows signs of icy petals slipping
apart, barely
in the afternoon sunlight.

Sunlight in winter strikes,
an alluring stranger
who knows she is out afterhours
and cares.

Ink On Snow

A murder of crows took up residence outside our building for the day. From the corner of my eye I've caught their black shapes swooping up high to the rooftop or down from the vine-wound trees. We worked until late night last night, Sunday night. We were at it again this morning, numbers and data, data, data. Eventually I felt I had earned a few minutes of nothingness, so I went to refill my water cup and stood at the wide metal blinds, looking out at the crows. They walk, did you ever notice that? Robins hop and grackles stalk but crows just sort of saunter. They were looking for food. I started remembering every time I needed to draw an illustration of a crow, and the pieces of them I could not recall well--shape of the head, shape of the tail, proportions... It's not a good life they have, exactly. How bleak and desperate frigid these last few days have been, and imagine no shelter, anywhere, and only scraps and bits of carrion to keep you warm. Then again, nobody imposes a structure upon their lives--or more precisely, they impose no structure upon themselves other than the daily cycle of surviving. If they have politics then it's something immediate, brash, and quickly resolved. If they have order then it's without a mission statement or employee handbook. They meet no greater quotas than the needs of their bodies. The only repetitive thing they do is caw, caw, caw. And I would rather listen to that free, coarse music than hear their fingers rattling tiny keys.

Wind Chills and Wax Museums

I escaped a cube only to be caught in a bubble. The bubble, at least, has a door. It is still somewhat cube-shaped, however. The predominant color is gray, which may or not technically be a color. At least it's warm. In another universe, a somewhat damaged version of myself is toiling outdoors in this subzero madness, coming home chapped in the evenings to a solitary domicile wherein he makes art, more art, and after that, art. In another universe, a somewhat pitiful version of myself is driving back from a retail job and still writing incessantly about a high school dreamscape. In another universe, things are better than they are now, but it's the sheer "how" of it that escapes me. Escapes all of us, I think.

The next several days are going to be arduous in the extreme. Not back-breaking, which I could respect, or emotionally draining, which (in the words of one fictional lawyer) "could be understood, if not condoned." Simply numbing, frustrating, and drawn-out. The rumor among the prisoners is: there's a light at the end of the tunnel, and we're digging for that light right now. The rumor among the prisoners is also: that tunnel is gonna collapse, just before we reach it. Nobody knows. They're all walking in those alternate universes, down those myriad optional roads, under optional suns and moons. Yet somehow everyone comes crashing down square into the center of the present, and they land together, grudgingly or happily. I am simply waiting for the bubble to pop. If my life is one of numbers now, then hear this--the number of things more important than a society-sanctioned occupation are limitless. The rules of existence are ours to follow or flaunt, and mostly we good-naturedly carry on for the sake of a peaceful chance at the end.

But sometimes, sometimes... don't you just want to dash it all to pieces, strike the set, raid the costume closet again? Maybe that's only me. Maybe it's the work of jesters.

Trite

I sat downstairs eating kisses all evening watching Stephen Fry's Q.I. and letting the day's weights slip off my shoulders, and now I've come upstairs and checked out ninetynights.com and my email for signs of life, and thinking about the fast-writes that Julie Frayer assigned to us that great semester of creative writing, when it was Eli and Paul and me and Mayor McCheese, and times were different, for one thing I didn't say things like "times were different", because I knew perfectly well that people have always, always been people. So here I am trying the fast-write thing again, non-stop tappety-tap-tap on the keys, dragging in whatever stimulus presents itself, not deleting if at all possible, the jars of sand on the computer desk brought to me from Hawaii, the empty Pepsi bottle, the Feathers McGraw keychain, and what this makes me remember is, yeah, that class again—I was so thick into my fantasy worlds then, building societies and wildernesses, lifting up characters I wanted to watch on screen, if only someone would make my movie—and I could never write a script, really, the one time I tried was at IUSB and they roped in a couple drama students to read it aloud (not just me, everyone else's too) and I must have been firetruck red, and now my concentration is being interrupted by some loud woman erupting from my wife's computer's speakers—some little piece of "news" that's circulating today, apparently—and anyway where did I leave off? Right, right, the play, the play's the thing and boy, hasn't—


—back, had to bring the dog inside from our wonderful arctic wonderland, ever seen an abominable snowman flip out when three dozen balloons of cocaine burst inside him? Okay, if you haven't seen that episode of Robot Chicken you're severely worried about me, but that's alright, fortunately my bro has the same sense of humor and we laugh when nobody in their right mind probably would. Yeah, that's him working his tail off in the warehouse where they only promote family members and screw the rest every chance they get, but enough biography let's talk about your chances in the cosmic race where you've slipped on your diamond running shoes and found you've got a soul, a rather nice one shining and looking for a reason, any reason really not to fly the coop at the first opportunity, and lucky for you you ol' boondoggle horny toad there are oodles of reasons around every bend, not the least of which is spring who even now turns restless in her bed, ready to rise and tie on the green dress one more time again, but until then, better keep your shirt on, Peggy. It's cold. Real cold.